Page 5 of Kitty Season
“Sorry Coach. I was stuck in a meeting with Professor Plum and lost track of time.”
“Plum!” shouts Shane, our right winger and number one scorer now Noah’s gone. He skates up beside me, skillfully snowing me without a crystal touching Coach. “That is one seriously hot piece of?—”
“Faculty that you treat with respect, just like all the other women in your life.” Coach, a man who insists on us becoming good citizens not just great hockey players, finishes, arms crossed firmly over chest.
“Couldn’t have said it better. Exactly what I was about to say.” Shane gives my pads a tap, and skates away chuckling. Coach does not.
“You having trouble with your classes, kid?” he asks, voice dropping as he shifts closer. “You more than anyone need to keep that GPA up. Bad grades equal no scholarship, no hockey, no USA.”
“I know Coach, and no I’m not struggling with classes. It’s just …” Collecting my thoughts, I pause. Telling Coach I’m homesick and a little lonely is one thing. Being heart sick over his daughter is likely to garner less sympathy. “Not sure if you know, but Professor Plum is from Australia too. She was just checking in on me cause I’ve been kinda quiet.” Coach, who is a good four inches shorter than me, straightens and if I’m not mistaken, stands on the tips of his toes so he can meet my gaze.
“And you’re sure that’s it? Nothing concerning grades?”
“Nothing.”
Looking reassured he nods and cracks the faintest of grins. “Good. I’m glad Faith is looking out for you, but don’t forget that my door is always open, too.” Shorter he may be, but he’s about three times stronger than me and almost knocks me from my feet when he slaps me on the back, before bellowing, “Okay forwards, zone one shots on goal. And for fuck’s sake give Basse some respect and take your time on those shots. Let him follow the puck to the wall. We want to teach him, not kill him.”
I love that about Coach. Unlike those back home, he looks after his goalies, setting up drills we’re more likely to see in real game time, and not wrecking our bodies with line rush after line rush. Sure it may be fun and great shooting practice for the boys, but it kills us tenders. He leaves me to it then, giving me time to greet Netty—my precious net—with a loving tap on each post three times, before launching into my superstition foiled warm up.
Thirty minutes into practice, I’ve shed the weight of the world and am in the zone, drenched in sweat and loving life, when I hear the singsong voice I would hear even if my ears were to be ripped off by stinging slapshots. “Oh Daddy, can I steal you away from your boys for a second?”
I raise my helmet and spot her immediately. Leaning over the boards, lips stained ruby red, her chocolate hair swept up intoa messy bun is Quinn Harris. The prettiest, coolest, most off-limits girl in the universe.
Eyes as wide as ever, my best friend Lotte rises from her seat only enough to tuck her legs in a neat little cross beneath her bum, then plops back down. It’s a move me and my gangly limbs could never pull off. Supportive as always, she’s helping make sure what I plan to do today is the right thing after all. “Tell me about it. How did things get like this?”
“Dermot McCain,” I reply, “Total dork. Beholder of buck teeth, one of which was missing the last time I saw him. Favorite band was something or someone called Def Leopard which he listened to ALL. THE. TIME.”
“Ooh! I love Def Leopard.”
My eyes roll of their own accord, because of course she does. Lotte may be cute as a button, but she’s also twenty-one going on fifty-one. “Well, apart from his teeth and questionable musical taste, he was also the worst forward on my under 12’s hockey team. Yet, I can clearly remember falling irrevocably in love at first sight. No matter his many deficiencies, the way Dermot strutted into that rink, skates tied to the stick slung casually over his shoulder. The lingo. The flow. The … everything.” I longingly sigh, and Lotte leans forward, closing the gap between us to soothingly rub my legs.
“You never stood a chance,” she deadpans.
“Nope. I was a goner, Lot. I only shared a few games with the love of my life before fate played its hand. A game fell on a rare occasion where Dad was home for more than a day or two at a time mid-season. He’d been playing through a strained rotator cuff, but that bad boy snapped as he slapped a booming one timer into the nets in Dallas. All this meant he was coming to one of my games; the first since pee-wee league. The last I would ever play.”
“I feel like I need some popcorn.”
Me being the bigger person, literally, ignored the distinct hint of sarcasm and continued. “With my heart-eyes glued to Dermot the entire time I played like absolute shit, but that wasn’t the real reason I never laced up again. It was more the attention from kids who ignored me on the regular, suddenly wanting to be my bestie. The post-game chatter among the apparent grownups was worse. Most of it centered on how disappointed Dad must have been to have a girl for an only child, and curiosity over how that child, girl or not, could spring from the loins of one so talented and be so … not.
“Anyway, hockey itself aside, that day marked a cosmic shift in our household. Overnight, Dad’s little Tomboy was replaced with a boy-mad girlie-girl who would rather dine on her newly acquired lip gloss, than chew the fat over the greatest game in the world. My love for hockey turned to hate, and his over the top pride morphed into over-protectiveness.”
It’s Lotte’s turn to sigh contemplatively. “If I’m totally honest, I can’t blame him. Especially after everything with Jordan.” Jordan, my ex, was a dud. One who stalked me till I was forced to leave BU and transfer to BC.
“I know. I’ve made terrible, terrible choices when it comes to boys. I know this. Yet I can’t seem to stop.”
“Possibly, but I think you’re right about this Troye kid. Despite what he keeps telling you, Noah says he has a goodheart, and we both agree that he really cares about you. Why else would he have gone to see your dad to ask permission to date you? Bad guys don’t do that.”
“Right! See!” I wiggle my pointed finger in the air between us. “But all Dad saw, or sees, is the nose ring, tats and radiating waves of attitude. He doesn’t see what I do. He doesn’t hear him calling me Kitty. Looking at me so adoringly. Holding so tight the heavy thump of his heart changes the timing of my own, then pushing me away five seconds later.
“And yes, yes, he’s so hot and cold, in and out, I’m beginning to suspect that Katy Perry was staring into a crystal ball when she wrote the song.
“Andyes, he did seem quite keen to be rid of me last night.
“Andthe night before that.
“Andthat.
“Andthat.”
