Page 9 of Kitty Season
Send more? Sure thing, Skip. I’ll send you a fresh shot after we kick your team’s ass tonight. Maybe even a few. You might be lucky and get 3 for 1. I feel a hat-trick baby brewing in my nutsack.
The next reply is a photo, that has me expelling a slow, throaty groan. Brady’s sitting on the edge of his bed raising his middle finger into the mirror. The phone is covering his face, but framing his arm is a perfect view of a thick barrel chest, bulging biceps and just a hint of a sandy happy trail.
It’s all I’m going to think of each time I face him tonight.
“Fuck.” I drop my phone, flip onto my stomach and slam my head into the mattress, pulling my pillow tight around my ears. It’s not comfortable in the slightest, ‘cause thanks to a lethal combination of Skip’s fuzzy belly and Quinn’s lingering perfume, I’m sporting a chub harder than a puck.
Why must I always want what I can’t have?
I remain that way until I can no longer ignore the rumbling of my gut. Rolling from bed I slide into some pajama pants, conceal my semi and head downstairs. Apart from the gentle hum of the heating, the house is silent. Most of my frat bros partied at Alpha Delta Pi last night. Those that made it home and don’t have metal blades, cleats or running shoes to slip on aren’t likely to venture outside before noon. Those that do are either gone or will join me in the kitchen any minute.
Taking advantage of the little time I do have, I dump a fresh bag of beans into the coffee machine and start her up, enjoyingthe heavenly smell while walking through the dining room and lounge, opening all the blinds.
Mom says I must be part reptilian because I need the sun to function. Like, need it-need it. I’m a grumpy-ass, winter hater. Something that’s pretty inconvenient for a New England hockey player. When the lower half of the house is bathed in as much light as possible for this time of year, I head back to the kitchen, stretching my arms above my head as I go, before pulling my double helping of overnight oats from the fridge and adding more berries.
“You’re going to turn into a bowl of porridge one day.”
“Not porridge.”
Dan, frat bro, teammate pain in my ass, pauses, his hand hovering in mid air between his body and the now full coffee pot. “Dude. It’s oats and milk and whatever else crap you put in there. Oats and milk equal porridge.”
“Hot oats and milk make porridge, numb nuts. Does this look hot to you?” I shove my bowl into Dan’s face and he responds by swiping a handful of plump blueberries from the top.
“Are you two arguing about oats again? I swear to God, you are the oldest twenty-one year olds I know.” That’s Chris, second teammate/frat bro. The good one. “I heard Quinn sneak out of here in the middle of the night. You know, I don’t get you, Becks. When she was dating Foxman you swooped in like Superman rescuing Lois Fucking Lane, now you're dodging her calls, ignoring her while you play GTA, and tossing her out like trash. Why don’t you just break up with her?”
Just hearing Jordan Foxman’s name has me burning with rage, the heat from my body could turn my breakfast into Dan’s precious porridge after all. Jordan was Quinn’s freaking psycho stalker boyfriend when she was a student here at BU. Me and a few of the other boys on the team did what we could to intervene, but he was such a twat, she ended up transferring toBC to escape him. I try to ignoreChris, the former good one, but he stands in my way, blocking me from exiting the small space holding too many hockey boys that have yet to shower.
“For the same reason I beat Foxman to a pulp and tried to get him kicked off the team. ‘Cause I like her,” I eventually grumble, eyes glued to my bowl.
“Wait. So you’re being a total dick, treating her like shit, but you won’t break up with her ‘cause you like her?”
“Exactly.” I nod. “I know it makes no sense, but … I can’t handle the idea of telling her it’s over. Just picturing her face when I break things off literally makes me sick. So, I figured if I act like a prick, she’ll leave me, and I won’t have to be the one to hurt her.”
“So, by being a bad guy, you’ll avoid being …thebad guy?”
“Right. She leaves and I don’t hurt her.”
“That’s some messed up Wreck-it-Ralph level shit, Bro,” Dan adds with a scoff. “Even I’m not that much of an asshole, and I’m a real dick.”
Resting the small of my back against the counter, I take a mouthful of my breakfast, nudging him with my elbow as I do. “Pick an end, Daniel. Are you a dick or an ass?”
“What, like you don’t love both?”
Dan and I snort with laughter, but Chris has yet to surrender the moral compass. “You’re hurting her right now, you do know that, don’t you.”
“I do know that.” And I hate myself for it. “But that’s her choice and not my problem.”
Fuck. I really am a piece of shit.
“Please. Lotte. Please. Please. Please come with me.”
“Nope.”
I huff, shimmy closer and duck to rest my head on Lotte’s shoulder. “But you have too. I’ve made this jersey.” I proudly display a photo of the Frankenstein jersey that took me hours to make. “See, it’s half Bears, half Bulldogs, so I need backup if I’m going to walk out of there alive wearing it. I’ll bake you some cookies too. M&M ones.” Sweet treats being her true weakness … Well, other than Noah—Lotte’s hands pause for a split second before she shakes her head and resumes spraying whipped cream onto the frappe she’s preparing. Lotte is the best barista at Beanz and Bookz, the best on campus cafe. I really shouldn’t bother her while she’s working with a potentially appearance-altering steam machine, but she’s also easily embarrassed which makes her easy prey in public.
“Nice jersey, but nope.”
“A double batch. Extra chocolate.” This time, her teeth sink into her lip. I’ve got her.
