Page 26 of Kitty Season
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yuck, boo Troye.” Claire leaps from the couch and literally bounds to my side. “So what time was this? And what does this Faith look like? Oh, and who was here first? Quinn and Troye or this Faith?”
“Ahh, why do you keep calling herthisFaith?“
“Just curious, big fella. Now come on. Indulge me.”
Sensing trouble, my hand dives into my pocket to work Poppy’s hair. Only she’s not there ‘cause I’m a knob. “Like eight or nine, maybe. I can’t remember. Oh, and Faith was here first, and she’s tallish I guess. Hot for an old chick. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Really, really, really nice legs.” Gasping, my very excited guest slaps her hand over her mouth, and I’m very confused. “What’s with the face? You look like Quinn did but less pissed. I don’t get why this is so interesting?”
“Dude!” Claire’s palms slap against my tiny bench, the Cornflakes box still sitting out from breakfast falling to its side and adding to the mess. “What don’t you get? Why is a hot teacher in your room at eight a.m., while you’re showering is interesting? Why the girl you fancy, and her boyfriend that you quote, ‘freaking hate’ were here not long after, or why that girl with the boyfriend was so freaked out and pissed looking. You’re honestly telling me you don’t get why any of that is interesting?”
I rub the back of my neck with my free hand. The other is working overtime in my pocket, searching for what I know isn’t there. “Not really, no.”
A burst of laughter propels Claire forward, till she’s practically lying in filth, crushing stray but innocent bits of cereal. “Oh, Brady. My poor sweet, naive, Brady.” It’s muffled by laminate, but the condescension is deafening. “You’ve had enough for one day, but soon, we need to have a little chat.”
This place smells weird. Like fresh paint and new furniture. Clean but weird. Un-hockey like.
I’ve been waiting outside Coach Harris’s fancy office, my legs jiggling relentlessly, for what feels like a month. If the guy wasn’t Quinn’s old man, I would have left fifty-five minutes ago. But he is. So here I sit.
Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.
At my bouncing feet sits the same bag of comics I’ve had since I was a kid, and a solitary case containing the remaining pitiful extracts of my woeful life. As I packed it, Chris and Dan tried everything they could to make me stay and fight Coach Pollard’s bullshit decision, but there’s no point. The whole fucking system is designed to keep kids like me down. I’m just a loser living up to expectations.
Even if sanity prevailed and I won my place on the team and in school, my pride wouldn’t allow me to play for that asshole, or walk those grandiose halls.
Nope. My college career, and time as a Bulldog is over.
As is my NHL dream.
How I’m going to tell Moms haunts me. I’ve practiced saying the actual words,I’ve lost my scholarship,at least a hundred times. On each, the thought of breaking the news, as well as their hearts, crushes mine. The worst part is, I know they willtell me I can stay. That they’ll sell the house, the car, the farm, and Kenny our three-legged diabetic dog if they have to. ‘We will do anything for you,’ they’ll say. And then I’ll break their hearts again by refusing to let them.
Rolling around in my hands is my phone. I’ve had it on silent since Quinn, the other woman I’m actively avoiding, began calling. Gossip travels faster in the hockey world than it does a beauty salon, so she’s no doubt heard my loser status has been doubly confirmed.
Quinn loves hockey boys as much as I do. Now that I’m not one, her interest will wane.
That’s a good thing,I repeat for the hundredth time, a sharp pang piercing my chest. It has nothing to do with Quinn leaving me, though.
Quinn gone is what I want. That’s been my end game for weeks.
So why are you still hanging around, waiting to impress Daddy Dear?
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Becker,” says the same voice that called me trash the last time I was here. “Dean Mankato and I were working on something. Please, come in.” He waves his hand between me and the door like that fancy French Candle-thing does in that movie Quinn loves. What’s it called? Beauty and the Beast or some shit? The image of a hot, cartoon book girl riding the ladder should not be what I’m focusing on now. Though a mansion full of magical household items seems more realistic than the fairy tale Harris spins as soon as I’ve finished shaking the fancy pants dean’s hand and flop my ass in a seat.
“I’m going to cut to the chase, Becker. I don’t like you, or that thing you’ve got shoved in your nostrils.”
“Thanks,” I scoff. “So glad I came all this way to hear that I suck. Is that all, or would you like me to lay on the ground so you can kick me while I’m fucking down, too?”
“Sounds like fun, but now’s not the time,” he replies dryly, earning a scolding look from the dean. “You may have noticed we’ve struggled to get wins on the board since we lost our captain?—”
“Nice way of saying your team blows.”
“Thanks. Now are you going to shut the hell up and let me get this out before I come to my senses?”
Rolling my eyesisthe safest answer I can give, because hey. I’m a firm believer in fucking with the patriarchy and all, but Harris is huge and I’m not as stupid as I look. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, as I was saying, we’re down offensively. We have a handful of games left before finals and if we lose more we are done. You’re a skilled offensive player. One who doesn’t have a team, a school, and some may say a future. Surprisingly, I do think you have integrity, though. More than I would have imagined. Hence why the dean and I think that maybe …” He pauses, I think to swallow the vomit tickling his tonsils after the backhanders. “I think maybe we each are the solution to the others’ problems.”
It takes a second for the fancy speech to sink in. Then … “No. Oh no fucking way.”
I cannot believe it.
Cannot.
