Page 11 of Kitty Season
No.
Does my Daddy, as Troye loves to taunt, to this day call me his little princess?
Yes. Yes he does. Or did.
But again, that’s not my faultandalso no longer my reality.
Nope. As of devil’s ass crack o’clock tomorrow, this little princess is a working girl … as in a coffee shop. Not a hooker.
“Who’s a hooker?” Questions a thick, syrupy voice I would recognize underwater the second my feet hit the pavement.
Shit. Of course, it’s the last bit that I said out loud. Wincing, I turn to find Brady kitted out in his game day suit, bag tossed casually over his shoulder, and looking like an absolute snack. “Me. Well, not me. But me.”
I’m treated to Brady’s wonky smile and blush before he replies, “Righty-then. Makes perfect sense.”
Thoughtlessly, we move in the same direction at the same time, and once social formalities—how’s school, crappy weather, great last game—are concluded, we fall into a companionable silence. One where I don’t once sneak a sideways glance at his freckles or thick neck. Walking so close our fingers brush together, I’m so at ease beside the gentle giant, that more than a block or two pass before I realize he’s heading the opposite direction of Conte Forum.
“I’m not heading to the arena. Some of my things—” Troye’s jersey, I don’t say—“are still at Lotte’s old apartment.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I figured as much, but thought I’d walk with you anyway. The boys already call me a kiss-ass, so showing up hours before another game won’t help.”
“You’re not a kiss-ass, but, why are you going in so early? It’s barely three.”
It takes some time for him to reply, his free hand busily fidgeting with something in his pocket as he mulls over what to say. “Honestly, I have nothing better to do, so I thought I’d work in some extra ice and stretching time. Might try get a rub downwith one of the trainers if they’re free. My hammy’s been a bit tight.” Grimacing, he clutches the back of the left leg, confirming a hammy is what I think before I can ask.
Once again, I do not notice any of his physical aspects—the neighboring pert ass, for example. Instead I continue today’s theme and say something stupid. “I can help, if you like. With the rub down, I mean. We can pop you on my bed and?—”
“Nope.” Brady’s head shakes so violently as he backtracks, I get motion sickness. “Nope. That is a bad. Bad. Bad … Nope. We are not popping any one or anything.”
“C’mon, mate,” I tease, my Aussie accent appalling. “I’ve been around sportsmen my whole life. I’m practically a pro … in massage … Sports massage. Again, not a hooker.”
“Yeah, well I’m not so, thanks but.” Nothing follows that but, and Brady is now not following me. Instead, I watch as he runs, not walks away, noting that like his ass, his hammy seems just fine and dandy.
“Hey,you’re smart and are studying psych.” Is the first thing I say to Lotte as we take our seats at the game, hands full of popcorn, drinks and candy. We’re directly behind the player’s bench, meaning one sheet of Plexiglas is all that stands between me, a perfect view of Brady, and if I lean forward and stretch my neck, Troye. Oh, and Dad, too. Hence the question.
Lotte shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and as she so often does, mumbles under her breath. “Good Lord, questions that start like this never end well.”
“I’m sure this one will, Lot. Now, could clueless-ness be hereditary?”
Skewing her lips to the side, she ponders. “Hmm. What type of clueless-ness are we talking? Common sense. Book smarts, street smarts, affairs of the heart smarts?”
“Definitely the last two … and wait. Was book smarts first or second?”
“Second,” she replies around a Twizzler.
“Oh, okay, so the last two and the first one. Any book smarts come from Mom. It’s the other stuff, the heart and everyday duh-stuff I’m talking about.” I point to my father who’s awkwardly erasing plays he’s drawn on a mini whiteboard with the cuff of his sleeve, and not the fluffy eraser he has in his other hand. “Look at Dad. Sure he’s successful and wise and lecture-ry now, but when he was my age all he cared about was chasing bunnies and partying. If he hadn’t met Mom and settled down, he wouldn’t have made it to the end of his second college season, let alone the NHL.”
“And that relates to your question, how?”
“Well, I am super good at school, right? Top of my class, circling valedictorian territory. Yet despite the obvious high IQ, I make stupid, stupid decisions when it comes to … " I let my voice fade and my index finger do the talking, pointing between Troye and Brady.
“Ahh. I see. We’re talking hockey boys again.”
“Hockey boys,” I confirm. “Now, I don’t know if you know this. But, Brady wanted to date me.”
Lotte gasps and clutches her chest. “No.”
Once again ignoring her sarcasm, I continue, “Yes, and even though I really wanted to, I turned him down because I promised my folks I’d go clean turkey on the bros with flows.”
