Page 12 of Kitty Season
“Obliviously. No one wants to be a bro-flow-ho.”
“Right? And I had caused them so much grief with Jordan, I didn’t want to put them through that again. But then I met upwith Troye, and—” Lotte drops her snacks and grips my arm so tightly, I can feel her nails through my puffer jacket.
“You didn’t cause them grief, Quinn, Jordan did. You broke things off and he stalked you till you were forced to move out of your dorm and change schools. None of that was your fault.”
“I know, but?—”
“Do you know? I’ve heard you blame yourself so many times, I’m not sure I believe you.”
Honestly, I’m not sure either, but after the money my parents have spent on therapy, I feel like Ishouldbe. “Perhaps that’s true, but it’s also irrelevant. The point is, I said no to Brady. Began seeing Troye, have reached the point where I could possibly be in the L-word with him even though he wants nothing serious and actively pushes me away. Meanwhile.” I pause again because I know how this will sound. But then I remember this is Lotte. My best friend. And I truly believe I can tell her anything. “I might still have feelings for Brady.”
When all Lotte does is nod, I sigh in relief and trust that I can keep going. “But even if things with me and Troye ended, and I was with Brady, I’d still be forced to lie to my parents, ‘cause they wouldn’t approve of him anymore than they do Troye, ‘cause again, hockey—” I take a massive breath and sip from my diet soda. “See. Not so smart.”
Lotte is silent for a moment, then clears her throat and slips her hand from my forearm to my palm, twisting her fingers into mine and smiling so purely my heart squeezes.
I close my eyes. Inhale deeply, and wait for her healing words of wisdom.
“Quinny. I’m confused.”
Understandable, but not what I was hoping for.
“Me too, Lot. Me too.”
“This is humiliating. I’m not doing it.” Why I’m even bothering to argue with Becca, the BC Bears social media manager, I don’t know. She gets me to make a dick of myself at almost every game and I know before she has even replied, this one will be no different.
“Brady Basse. How many times must we go over this? Stretches are not only vital to long-term healthy career and post-game recovery, they’re hot as hell. Now, drop and dry hump that ice.”
“I have already stretched. If I stretch any more I will be so loose I can’t hold my stick, Becca.”
“Don’t Becca me. Noah leaving has left a massive hole in the thirst trap department. This team needs some PR and hockey porn for Booktok and you and those blond-locks are going to provide it. Drop and hump. Oh, and toss some of those weird goalie eyes in too. People love that shit.”
Snickering behind me, my teammates offer no help. Instead they start beat boxing and singing Sexy Back. “Bloody hell. Fine.” Resigned, I waddle out the player’s gate and step onto the ice.
A small round of applause breaks out when I drop to my knees, the sound intensifying as I lean forward, place my palms on the ice. On all fours, I slide my right leg out and begin withside stretches. Once both sides are done I pull my knees together then slide my legs back till I’m in a half plank position. After years of training, my hips move automatically, rolling, grinding, bobbing to stretch the glutes, adductors and hamstrings. Yes, it looks like thrusting, ‘cause I guess it is. But still.
On cue the hoots and whistles start. This time though, it’s not coming from the thirsty fans behind the boards. It’s coming from Troye Fucking Becker, snowing me as he slides to a halt. His damn crotch right in my face.
“Looking good, Skip. Your little fan club approves, and so do I.”
“Get stuffed, Becker.”
He smirks, and leans down till his face is hovering over mine. The angle exposes a tiny fraction of sharp clavicle and the very tip of the tattoos snaking up his neck. Suddenly parched, I swallow heavily. “Will you be doing the stuffing, Skip? ‘Cause …” Troye flicks his tongue across his lips and winks, causing my face to light up like Rudolf. Only one thing is more embarrassing than the rate it’s occurred and that’s the knowledge that the entire interaction is being filmed. Any one watching online will see my blush.
Everyone will know who put it there.
“Screw you,” I snap.
“Enough already with the invitations, Basse. You’re going to have me?—”
“Becker!” Shane, Noah’s replacement as captain and one of the few guys on the team I can actually spend time with, saves the day, applying a love-tap cross check to Troye’s chest while pushing him out of my face and back towards the blue line. “Enough shit talking. Fuck off and join your team. And for your own sake, you better not touch my goalie.”
Gliding backward, Troye ducks his head around Shane’s shoulder and winks again. “He wishes.” The flutter is barelyvisible with game lights now reflecting in his visor, but for some reason I can picture those long, dark eyelashes fanning over tanned cheeks perfectly. Even when I close my own eyes.
“You okay, Brades?” My captain asks the moment Troye is out of earshot. “I swear to God, I’m going to smash that prick’s head in one day.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you could make that day today. I need him not to score on me.”
Amusement mixes with lingering agitation to lighten Shane’s face. “He’s still sending you the photos, then?”
