Page 16 of Kitty Season
Even if Ihate my coach, and a majority of my teammates—which I do—what I’m doing is a betrayal of every Bulldogs practice, every game, every tradition. I know that, but after the longest 300 seconds of my life, I exit the box, knowing I’m about to get the living shit beat out of me, and part of me welcomes it.
With a sweat-stained note clutched in my glove, I skate by the Bears’ bench, causally tossing it over the boards as I’m sprayed with water, spit and insults.
“Keep your trash to yourself, Becker,” A defender I can’t remember the name of, grunts. For one hot minute, I fear he’s going to throw it right back at me. But the player next to him is curious, and nudges his arm till he yields. Brows pinched, he hunches over and finally, finally un-crinkles the post-it, studies it like I’ve handed him the meaning of life, then stares at me and mouths. “Are you fucking kidding me, Becker?”
“Bro, I know I’ve played like a dog’s brekky for two periods, but I’m seeing the puck like it’s a basketball. I’m in the zone. I’m?—”
“Doing what you’re damn well told because it’s for your own good.”
Enraged, I think some really mean things, then drop and sit like the good little boy I am. “What do you mean, my own good? Not playing is never good. It’s bad. Really bad. Besides, it’s too early to leave the goals open. I hate this. It’s not fair.” I’m whingeing like a little bitch, but I can’t help it. I’m pissed. Sore. And confused. And my head and neck … feel weird.
I feel like I might chuck, too.
When that tit Troye Fucking Becker rode my chest into the boards, my melon head bore the brunt of the impact. I‘m pretty sure I blacked out for a second, and when I came to … Well, let’s just say a concussion is the only explanation for what ever the hell my mind thinks went on.
I’m not sure if Coach is even listening. That groove between his brows is far beyond anything Botox could smooth out as studies a scrap of paper in his hand. “Thanks for questioning my judgment—” he eventually replies, eyes still on the paper—“but it’s not too early. With the way the offense is clicking, an open goal might give us the W.” Finally he looks up and I almost wishhe didn’t. “Plus you need a concussion test and …” He pauses again, then drops a bomb. “We’ve got word that you’re being targeted.”
I swallow the chunks in my throat. “Targeted? What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, the Bulldogs have entered their Mafia era.” The note is passed to me. Blinking, I read it through blurred vision, my stomach making a rapid descent, pooling somewhere around my ankles.
Pollard wants me to take Basse out, and I don’t mean for dinner and drinks. Get him off the ice.
Snatched from my hands before I can read it again, Harris passes it to Assistant Coach White. “When Becker came out of the bin he?—”
“Becker?” Pressing off the bench, I wobble my way to standing, but a giant palm crashes into my forehead, pushing me back onto my ass.
“Yes, Brady. Becker dropped the note over the boards as he passed. A metal-faced, tattooed, daughter-corrupting punk, is not a preferred or a reliable source of intel. This could be nothing more than his sick idea of a joke, but I have no way of proving or disproving that. Even if the doc’s okay it, I could never forgive myself if I let you out there and something happened?—”
“But.”
“No buts. The team needs you, Brady.” He points to the number emblazoned on my jersey. “You’re number one for a reason.”
For a beat or two, his usually intense eyes soften, and the slightest pink colors his stubble-covered cheeks like he’s embarrassed for showing human emotion. “Besides, if you gothurt, Quinn would never let me hear the end of it.” How can I argue with that?
Another beat passes and the dead, blank stare is back. “Go see the doc then hit the showers, kid. Your night is over.”
It’s midnight.I’m exhausted, mentally and physically, and I have a mild concussion. As you’d expect, my head is pounding, and wave after wave of room spinning nausea has my post-game whole chicken and rice, abandoned fork and all, on the coffee table.
Sleep is what I need, but my brain is serving up every random, weird ass thing it can to prevent it. If it’s not the throbbing skull, it’s a cramp in my calf, an itch at the very bottom of my fucking ear, or a repetitive twitch in my right eyelid. I also dropped Poppy under my bed, and almost puked when I bent down to retrieve her. It was worth it.
Then there’s the anxiety. That may be the worst, because again, it’s midnight. On a game night. And I don’t have a message from Becker.
There’s no point and wink at the camera. Not a single glimpse of flexing pecs, or washboard stomach. No white-boy Travis Kelce style dancing has been eye rolled.
Troye scored, I know he did. Christian let one slip between his pads seconds after Coach Harris sent me to the locker room, the ground vibrating beneath my feet as the Bulldog’s fans celebrated the metaphorical nail in the Bear’s coffin.
So why no photo?
My thumb caresses Poppy’s hair, flicking out a troll sized dust bunny she picked up from the floor. This reaction is so me.So … confusing. I should be stoked. For months I have dreaded the traitorousPINGand the lighting of my phone’s screen after each of his games, but in its absence I find my self a little … lost.
Closing my eyes, I roll to my side, fingers sliding over sheets well past needing a wash, snatch my phone and check it’s not on silent.
Thirtieth time’s the charm, right?
I’ve barely touched the screen when the thing begins to vibrate, then ring, the shrill generic tone, a defibrillator supplied shock to the heart.
I know it’s him. I can feel the arrogance. Why is he calling? He doesn’t usually call. I shouldn’t answer. Don’t answer.
