Page 86 of Kitty Season
We’re halfwaythrough the final period, it’s 2-2 and I’m on the bench, waiting for my line to be switched back in. Damn Mahomes is chirping me from the penalty box, his third visit. “You took a dive, you fucker.” I hear for the fiftieth time.
What a dick. Everyone loses it and draws a penalty at some point, but to cost your team three power plays in a final? That’s unforgivable. And we make them pay for it when Cory sneaks another goal. Game one is so fucking ours, I can taste it. I don’t say it of course, I’m notthatstupid, but I definitely feel it as Iskate down the bench, fists tapping furiously while my eyes scan the crowd.
Quinn is here somewhere, so are my moms, but I’ve yet to spot them and it’s kind of killing me. Now that I’ve embraced how I feel about her, the feeling has intensified. I need her.
Normally, they’d be right behind the goals, or in the reserved family and friends section. But for the first time ever there were no seats available when Quinn tried to book them. Daddy Dear claimed he had nothing to do with it. Yeah, Sure. He’s the freaking coach. He could have got her a fucking stand if he wanted to. This was about me, and it takes all my strength not to grease him off when I take a seat alongside my linemates.
It feels like the shift has just ended, my lungs and legs still burning when Coach calls for the change and Cory, Shane and I jump the boards and are in play immediately. Big D man, Sean passes it to Shane, who has a wall of red before him. Thinking quickly and with the footwork to back it up, he taps it backwards between his legs straight onto my stick. I tap it to Cory, who fakes a shot then slaps it back to me. There’s moments in hockey where you can feel the goal as it leaves the puck and this is one of them. A one-timer leaves my blade like a bullet, snapping my stick in half, slamming into the net. Above the thousands of voices in the crowd, I swear I can hear my moms and Quinn, and Brady.
He’s the only one I can see though, as I skate back to the center. Even with his concentration and weird-ass twitchy goalie eyes, I see the loving smile. The second one I’ve earned today. Never take it for granted, I think to myself, as I bend, readying for the face-off. I never thought I would have not one, but two people look at me the way Kitty and Brades do, and I’m still not sure I’m worthy. But I am greedy and I’m going to cherish it while it lasts.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Riko Kenji, my opposing center grumps, face inches from mine.
“Just thinking of the dick pic your Daddy sent me.” The ref snorts a laugh and drops the puck. Riko, either shocked or disgusted by my chirp, is slow to react and I steal it, tapping it straight onto Cory’s waiting stick. Mahomes, who’s got a good few inches on Cory, the shortest on our team is on him though, slamming him into the boards with a bruising, but legal, tackle. Cory bounces back quickly, but loses the puck to Riko. He zips into their zone, weaving through Shane, then Sean but looking around for someone to pass off too. He’s got a clear shot, only Paul and Brady standing between him and the net. He doesn’t take it, rather he slaps it to fucking Mahomes and my heart stops.
“Don’t touch my fucking goalie!” I’m not sure if I think it, say it, scream it, or yell it, but I do see and feel what’s going to happen seconds before it does. With no attempt made at a shot, Mahomes drops his shoulder and slams into Brady at full speed. I’m a fair distance away but hear the crack as their heads collide and watch helplessly as Brady, Mahomes and the net spin haphazardly along the ice, slamming into the boards.
Mahomes is up in a heartbeat, but not of his own accord, by Paul, yanking him by the back of his jersey. The refs are everywhere, the players losing their God damn minds, and Brady is lifeless beneath it all.
“Whatever the hellis going on between you, my daughter, and my goalie, is not my priority right now. What is, is this game.”
Coach is ducking down in front of me, his shark-like gaze locked onto mine. Like I can feel the swollen welts scarring my hands beneath my gloves, I can feel myself shaking. I don’t care about this fucking game. I want to scream,I care about Brady and Quinn.
“We need you, Becker. We need your head back in the game for ten more minutes then I will drive you to the hospital myself.”
I nod. “Where’s Quinn?”
“As far as I know, she went with Basse to the hospital.” That eases my panic. Wait. No it doesn’t. Not one bit. Sure Quinn is with Brady, but who is with Quinn? It should be me. I should be there.
“You can do this,” adds Shane. He’s sitting beside me, as scraped and bruised as I am. “Brady would want you to.”
“He would. You’re right. I can. I can do this,” I say to myself more than any of the other bodies crowded around me. “For them.”
“They won’t let me see him. Why won’t they let me see him?”
The poor nurse who happened by me floating in a stark white hospital corridor, eyes me with professional empathy. “They won’t let you see who? Who are you waiting for, Miss?”
“Brady. Brady Basse. He is a goalie for—” Her expression turns warm, and she grips my shaking hand.
“Boston College.” She nods. “My brother Cory plays for Boston. Let me go find out what I can.” She nods again, then adds, “I will be as quick as I can. I promise.”
Wiping my red raw cheeks of tears, I slump into the plastic chair closest to me and fold forward, seeking refuge from prying eyes and too bright lights. In my bag, my phone rings again and once again I ignore it. The game would be done now, it could be Troye, but the thought of speaking to him and telling him I still know nothing is almost as debilitating as not knowing anything in the first place. But it rings again, and again, and on the fifth ring, I can’t take it anymore.
Reaching down, I pull the phone from my bag and am surprised to see an unknown number flashing on the screen. Thinking Troye may have someone else’s phone, I answer.
“Troye, is that you?”
“No, no it’s not Troye,” An unfamiliar voice says. “Is that you Quinn?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“S, S, Sofia,” she stammers. “I’m Sofia Basse, Brady’s mum.” A new wave of tears is unleashed.
“Brady told you about me?”
“Of course he did darling. He’s mentioned you on almost every call he’s made home.” As if it’s not nauseous enough, my stomach does a slow roll.
I begin to ask her how she has my number, or how she knows what’s going on, but what comes out is a trembled, “They won’t let me see him.”
