Page 8 of Kitty Season
“Yeah, about bogus vegetarianism. You went there to ease your conscious and chickened—sorry—tofu-ed out. No Dad. No stay. Them’s the rules.”
Quinn huffs and it’s so freaking cute I wanna die. “Since when do you care about rules?”
“Since I started fucking the good girl, princess of a hockey legend that could end any hope I have of an NHL career in a heartbeat.” That is partially true. As the Frozen Four winning coach of enemy team Boston College, Quinn’s dad holds a lot of sway in the industry. I could give two shits about my reputation, and I shouldn’t about hers either. But for some reason, the thought of her becoming further estranged from her family over me curdles my blood.
Quinn huffs again and pushes off my chest, a thin lipped scowl darkening her face. Mentioning the fame of her dad is the equivalent of a red flag to a moody bull. That’s why I did it. And why I set the-no dad, no us-rule. He’s never going to approve of me. This game will get old. She will move on. And I will be nothing more than a memory.
Still. I can have some fun in the mean time. Particularly with that bottom lip. It’s slightly swollen from where she keeps biting it. It’s a good look on her.
“Don’t look at me like that, Kitty,” I say, running my thumb over the lump.
“Don’t say things like that, then call me Kitty.”
“Then don’t snore like a cute little kitten and I won’t.” The scowl is gone, replaced by a pout so sexy I want to sink my own teeth in and suck like fucking Le stat. “We both know you’re so far out of my league it’s a different sport. Your rich daddy dearthinks the same, and there’s nothing you can do to change his mind, which means we’re either done or it’s bang and go.”
The tiniest wince and a flicker of pain cross her face and I hate myself a little more. “Maybe you could talk to him again?” she whispers, voice meek.
“Nope. No way. Been there. Done that. Not that guy.”
I tried to be, once. Not so long ago, in a moment of either weakness or pussy drunkenness, I marched on over to Conte Forum, home of the Boston Bears and sought out Mr. Boss Man’s approval to see his girl. In reply I was handed a master class in thoughtfully selecting synonyms for get the fuck out of my office, you tattooed piece of carny shit.
I’d never such shame, or self hatred, and that’s really saying something. To make matters worse, Quinn moved out of her family mansion and into her friend Lotte’s tiny apartment after choosing me over her dad.
Me.
Apart from my moms, no one has ever done anything like that for me, and I decided at that moment, even if I was maybe a little in love, Quinn can never know it.
Short of ending things now, something I’m just not strong enough to do, I’ve done everything I can to push her away.
But here she stays.
Exactly where I want, but shouldn’t want her to be.
Cold sheetsagainst my skin wake me before the first cracks of morning sun can sneak through my blinds. Chasing warmth, I groan and roll back to my usual side, but it too has chilled in my short absence.
Fuck I hate sleeping alone.
For a moment in time, when she first left home but before she’d resewn the fragile stitches of her relationship with her parents, Quinn spent almost every night at mine. I’ll never admit it out loud, but those short few weeks were the happiest of my pitiful college existence. I’d never slept as good as I did with her tucked up against me. Or on top, depending on her mood.
Pretending to be asleep, I watched through my lashes as Quinny left my bed, dressed then blew me a kiss. That was around one am, and I have a morning skate at seven and a game tonight.
And not just any game. It’s this season’s second Battle of Boston and we are not walking away losers again.
Fuck I need some sleep.
Attempting just that, I close my eyes and snuggle into my quilt, inhaling deeply on a patch still carrying Quinn’s scent. I must drift off at some point, because my phone, tucked beneath my pillow, chimes, scaring the absolute shit out of me. Scowling I pull it out, but the frown quickly turns upside down.
Skippy
What the hell is wrong with you, Becker? This little game of yours is doing my head in. KNOCK IT OFF.
After Googlingdoing my head in,I reply.
Morning Skip. Did my little buddy get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning? Maybe you should take another look at the last pic I sent you. The wink was just for you.
SKIPPY
No one wants to see your nasty pics. DO NOT send more.
