Page 27 of Kitty Season
Believe.
It.
A Bear.
A fucking Bear.
I am a BC fucking Bear.
One with a full scholarship that shits all over the basics my BU one covered. That means I’ll be able to graduate and not break my mom’s hearts.
But it’s the, grrrrr, the Bears part of this that’s all I can think of as I trail behind Quinn’s dad—my new coach.
He’s giving me the grand tour of Conte Forum, my new home arena. I’ve been here before, of course. But only into the zones opposition players are granted access to. So far I’ve been read the riot act—No more heroics. No more mind games. Just good, clean hockey.Yawned my way through piles of paperwork and a mini tour of the admin section. Swiped an apple and a piece of pie from the player kitchen/dining hall, pretended not to be impressed by the fucking Olympic-sized pool, massive locker and weights rooms, and sauna, and oh, I found something very pink, veryinterestingthat may come in handy at some point on the ground. I’m now on my way to see my room options. Or option, it would seem.
Walking in stride, I can’t help but notice the mannerisms my new coach passed down to his daughter. One especially. There’s a lot of lip licking. I always thought that was just Quinn being flirty, but unless Coach wants to get a little handsy in the library stacks, it’s not.
“We have no housing available in the dorm the majority of the team are in, but we can offer you a room across campus with our most recent starter. He’s a quiet kid. A bit weird like most goalies are, but?—”
I come to a screeching half, squawking, “What?” Like a chicken laying a massive fucking egg. “Your goalie? No fucking way?”
“Is that your favorite expression, or just the one that comes to mind when you’ve been handed a lifeline?”
“Bit of both, I think. Honestly, though. You can’t be serious. Brady Basse. You want me to room with Brady Basse?”
Harris stops, propping his hands on his hips, head dropping to study an interesting spot on his shoe. “Look, I know there is history between you two, but unless you have a spare few thousand to cover the last few months rent and other items like food, electricity and bull rings, you don’t have much choice. Besides. You lost your place at BU because you warned us Basse was in danger. That’s not an act of hate.”
I think of the last photo Brady sent me before our little text exchange was put on hiatus. Him on his bed. That chest. That hair.
Oh Mr. Harris. I yearn to say,hate has nothing to do with it. Hate would be easy.
Hand poisedto knock on Basse’s door. Harris pauses, squeezing his eyes together in what looks like a silent prayer before he speaks. “Do me a favor, kid. Lose that shoulder chip wider than the Rio Grande and smile. My assistant has been trying to get a hold of Brady all day, but he’s not picking up, which means this is as much of a surprise to him as it was to you.”
With Brady’s good luck trinket rolling in my pocket, I force a grin a Disney hero would be proud of and wink. “Super.”
“Lovely,” Daddy Coach, I think I can now call him, grunts and is about to knock when I hear female laughter on the other side. I really, really hope it belongs to that hot professor Quinn blew a gasket over.Thatwould be interesting. That would turn this whole bizarro-ass day even more on its head. I’m practically drooling, but Harris either doesn’t hear, or doesn’t care and pounds on the door while I move to my left, out of view of the peephole. All is quiet once it stops shaking, then I hearfootsteps and hear a muffled, “Coach?” float through the cheap ass chipboard.
“Yeah. Hey, Brady. Sorry to interrupt, but we need to have a little chat.” Deadbolts unlock. A chain slides. The door swings open and there he is, Skippy, in all his rumpled sweats glory. Those perpetually rosy cheeks are glowing, overgrown blonde locks hiding sea-blue eyes and unfairly long lashes.
“Of course, come in.” He politely waves Coach in, turning to follow when he spots me. “What the fuck?”
To this, some pink-haired woman who is definitelynotthe hot professor raises her brows, and Coach huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, you two are a match made in heaven.” Once he releases his grip, he forces a smile. “Good to see you, Claire.”
They continue talking, but whatever is taking place between the two adults in the room is of little to no concern to me. I have some chaos to create.
“Hey, Skip. Glad … no, disappointed to see you’re wearing some clothes this time. And who’s the babe?” I nod towards Pinkie who, come to think of it, looks really familiar.
“She’s not a babe, she’s Noah’s sister, and as I said, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Actually, you said what the fuck, which is a different thing entirely and quite rude, if you ask me. Now. Aren’t you going to invite your new roomie in?”
I’ve jinxed myself. Why the hell did I toss that troll?
“Troye Becker. I swear every time I see you, you’re even more handsome than the last. How are you doing? How are Fifi and Delphi?”
It’s like a bloody weird-ass high school reunion in here. Coach. Claire. Troye. The popular kids are reunited. The dork, alone looking on from the corner with his juice box. I try to insert myself into the conversations. Try to get their attention by huffing and sighing to the point of hyperventilation, but it’s not till I pick up then drop my sports science textbook back onto my school issued coffee table, that anyone takes notice.
“Oh, hi. So I’m not invisible? Great. Maybe someone can tell me what the hell is going on?”
