Page 37 of Kitty Season
“Not really, no. But I promise I’ll try to try.”
“Oh. Well okay then. Thanks for being honest. Troye … I guess.” After a heavy sigh, Cory lays it all out. “I love superheroes. Old school ones in comic form mainly, but movie and T.V. adaptations too.”
“And,” Quinn adds, mirth shining brightly in her eyes as she leans to poke her face between the seats. “Lotte told me that Noah told her that Cubby likes to wear Superhero underwear. I believe Marvel ones like Superman and Spider-Man are his favorites”
“DC,” Troye quips with his usual cockiness. “Superman is DC, not Marvel.”
Cory and he exchange nods, then move on to which of Superman’s deaths was least believable. Bored as fuck, my brain simultaneously tunes out, and kicks in, supplying me with a montage of random memories. The day Troye moved in. The arrogant smirk on his face. The bag of magazines he was so protective of … HOLY SHIT. It wasn’t porn as I suspected. It was much worse … no, much better.
Comics.
TROYE BECKER. HOCKEY BAD BOY IS IN FACT, A MASSIVE DORK.
Judging by her gasp and excited wriggle, Quinn’s come to the same conclusion … or she needs to pee. “Holy Connor McJesus,” she squeals. “Troye Harold Becker, are you a superhero nerd?”
He stiffens, inhales, and scoffs so intensely, he breaks into a rattling cough. “No. Nope. No way.”
Oh, oh, this is oh so glorious. Could I, the eternal joke, have finally, finally, found a chink in this fuck-wit’s armor?
Drunk on power, I’m on the verge of exposing him to long overdue and deserved ridicule, when my mind’s eye highlights Troye’s face as he clung to that bag. The signature scowl and the smart-ass smirk were absent, meaning all that’s left is a kid—a scared one who clearly harbors an emotional attachment to the contents of that faded, manky tote.
Unease burns in my belly. I shouldn’t care about his feelings. This guy feeds off my embarrassment as much as a dung beetle does shit. Should our positions be reversed, there’s no doubt he would take me down in a heartbeat.
But I’m not him.
And I never want to be.
“I dunno much about superheroes, but my brother Dale loves anime. You ever read or watch any of that?”
“Brady, yes. I love anime,” Cory enthuses. “Bleach and Naruto are my favorites. Did your bro watch them?”
“Naruto, for sure. He was a big fan of the original Sailor Moon, and my little sister Sam loves it, too.”
“Sailor Moon is awesome. Too many guys dismiss female led stuff and think it’s stupid. Those girls kick ass.”
Quinn agrees, and the comic book revelations are forgotten, replaced by hot takes of the movie Spirited Away. While her and Cory argue its morality, Troye’s disarming dark eyes fixate on me via the passenger side mirror.
For some reason, I find myself unable—perhaps unwilling—to look away.
“You’re under an hour away from your first game with your new team, and this is how you’re spending the pregame. Calling me for sex advice?”
“That’s right, numb nuts. Now are you going to help me, or just give me shit?”
“Can’t I do both?”
“Chris!” Several people look my way, which is not surprising since I’m standing outside the locker room, looking dodgy as fuck, cap pulled low over my face, hand cupped over my mouth. “Seriously dude, I need help. Time is running out. I need to lock this thing down. Quinn’s birthday is tomorrow. I have to get Skip on board tonight, but I can’t make myself do it and I don’t know why.”
“Pfft.” Chris scoffs. “I can tell you why. Sneaking around with Quinn, pretending what you have isn’t what it is was easy when you were at different schools, and her dad wasn’t your coach. But now that you are, and he is, and you’re spending more time with her, liking her more too, it’s not.”
Shifting on my feet, I try really, really hard to process that, but … “Wait. What?”
“It’s obvious, Bro. You told me you planned to lose Quinn by being a jerk, but could never quite do it ‘cause, hello! You like her too much. Then you concoct this dumb threesome thing to shifther off to Brady, but you can’t bring yourself to do that either, ‘cause you like her.And, you like Brady, too. So, young Becker. What’s the common denominator here?”
“You,” I scoff, thoughtfully stroking my chin. “You are the link. I need to stop tellingyoueverything. Also, I don’t like Skip. Not one bit. So yeah, maybe the guy has grown on me like fungus on a locker room shower floor. I mean, I knew he was hot, but now … I see he’s … nice. Like the bigger asshole I become, the kinder, more considerate and caring—while actively ignoring me—he becomes. My comics are a perfect example. I know he knows, and he knows I know, and we both know my absolute annihilation was handed to him on a silver platter, with Quinn, the girl he wants, right there. But he hasn’t spilled. Not one word.”
“Maybe ‘cause he likes you, too.”
I do my best goal buzzer sound, and wave off more odd looks. “Wrong again, Chrissy. He hates me, like I hate him, and I can prove it. Get this, he cooks dinner for me all the time, but everything is loaded with gross vegetables. Vegetables! Why does he do that? ‘Cause I hate vegetables, and like I said, he hates me.”
