Page 13 of Kitty Season
“Yup. Every damn time. I swear I’m going to find the asshole he’s paying to take them and crush their camera with my skates.”
“I tell you what, Brades. Hand him and the rest of the Bulldogs a shut-out, and I’ll find and crush them for you.”
If I still want to capture oldsnappy Tom in the act, I’m going to have to do it alone.
It’s 0-3 halfway through the second period, and if I keep leaking like this, I’ll be pulled and spend the remaining game time on the bench. Any goals scored are not a goalie’s fault alone, but it sure feels that way right now.
The one positive? Troye has scored a big fat zero. You wouldn’t know it though. Not by the way he’s showboating, and practicing his poses for when he does each time he’s near me. What makes it all worse is Quinn is here cheering him on.
I spotted her right before puck drop. The littlethingthey’ve got going on may be a secret from her dad, but it won’t remain that way for long, not with the way she screams, jumps, and bangs on the Plexiglas each time he skates by. Which is a lot.Troye’s a winger, almost exclusively playing on the right. And that’s exactly where Quinn is sitting next to Lotte.
Front row.
Watching her man in her half-Bulldogs, half-Bears jersey.
Torturing me.
But really? There’s two freaking sides to a rink. Must the puck find its way to his every fucking play?
By the end of the second, Coach has left me on the ice, and the score remains the same. Obviously we still have one period remaining. Miracles happen and the game is not out of reach, but mentally, I am done. Rage and contempt have consumed me to the point I feel fifty pounds heavier. Each movement is laborious, my pads, designed to protect me, feel like an iron cage.
“I fucking hate that guy,” I mutter more to myself than anyone as we hit the locker room and toss my stick.
“Yeah. So you’ve said fifty times,” comes a dispassionate groan from Paul Osam, first line defender. Total dick.
Embarrassed that every one here seemingly knows who I mean, I reply with maturity, “Yeah, well … shut up.”
“Ya know, there’s a fine line between love and hate, Skip.” Inserts Shane as he slides up beside me and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t you start with the Skip. Also, you freaking stink.”
“What can I say?” He shrugs. “The name suits you, and the odor suits me.” Clearly he doesn’t believe his own rubbish, as he veers to the left, heading for the showers. Glum as can be, I slump into my stall and do as I always do; peel off the outer layer of leg pads, untie and remove my skates—always right leg first—and collapse against the wall, letting my body breath and rest. Beside me, Cory Malkovich has his feet in a homemade ice bath. It’s literally a bucket with some random mutant Marvel bearsticker on the side. Apparently his grandpa bought it into the rooms one day when he had blisters from new skates. The team went on to win their first game in weeks, and the ritual was born. He got a second nickname out of it too. Due to his preference for Spider-Man undies, he had been dubbed Spidey. Now, half the team call him Cubby ‘cause he’s too little and cute to be a bear.
Never let it be said us hockey players aren’t a bunch of superstitious gits.
Princess Poppy, my own little slice of superstition, is snug in my hand. My thumb tracing the same worn path through its fluorescent pink hair as I close my eyes and zone out.
In general I try not to go over the previous periods too much, I know what I did wrong. I know how to fix it. I just need to focus.
Easier said than done when Coach Harris is pacing the length of the room, berating us for every mistake, and instead of visualizing the adjustments I need to make, my brain is tossing up screenshots of chocolate waves, deep brown eyes, and a smile that makes my insides go all goopy.
Quinny really does look amazing tonight. What I would give to see her wearing my jersey. Calling my name.
It’s her birthday this month. Twenty-one on the twenty-first. Excluding myself, she’s the last of our little gang to reach the milestone, and her parents have ditched their planned intimate family dinner for a no-expense-spared party. One where I will once again, spend the night fawning over Quinn, playing the fifth wheel, and resisting the urge to plunge any—and all—available inanimate objects into my eyes.
Man, I need to stop this shit. “Focus, God dammit.”
“Having trouble finding your happy place, Big D?” Hearing my groan, Shane delivers a sharp slap to the top of my head. “Why so … grunty? You usually look and sound like a yoda by this point.”
Allowing one eye to pop open, I scowl. “I presume you mean a Yogi, and I’m not thinking about anyone. My hammy’s just tight.”
That’s actually true. I really should have got that extra massage I mentioned when walking Quinn home, instead of running back to my dorm to smash one out in the shower.
“I didn’t say you were thinking about someone.” Shane smirks. “But five bucks says I know who it was.” He laughs, and rustles my hair, so I decide it’s time to pad back up. There’s still five minutes before my regular time to do so, but if Shane keeps talking shit, this way, I can pretend I can’t hear him.
Besides, what harm could a lousy few minutes make?
Shoulder to shoulder with my teammates, we hunched over whiteboards on our final time out for the night. As planned, I’ve been kicking BC Bear’s ass, but I’m beginning to think Brady slipped on the soap and cracked his head in that last break.
