Page 20 of Kitty Season
I don’t want to go. I want to stay and put Brady to bed and make him tea and … just be whatever he needs me to be. My fingertips itch with the compulsion to hold him. But Troye needs me too, andheis mykind ofboyfriend, not Brady.
Besides, Brady has Plum, and she has her hand on his forearm, rhythmically sweeping up and down as she steers him back to bed.
“Call me if you need anything, Brades,” I mutter.
Leaving part of my heart behind, I exit through the door Troye has slung open with such a force, it almost hits me as it bounces off the wall.
“He won’t need anything,” Plum replies after shushing her patient. “He has me.”
“So, golden boy Brady is banging a professor. Who would have thought ?” With my arm draped over Quinn’s shoulder, I lead her into the waiting elevator. “Not me, that’s for fucking sure. How long has it been going on, you think? All year?”
“What was Brady talking about? What note?” Shit. “What photos?”
Shit.
Is my endgame to be such a dick that Quinn will ditch me and move on to greener pastures?
Bet your sweet ass.
Does that mean I want her to know about my little snap shot game?
Absolutely fucking not.
I can’t say why. I just don’t, and from learned experience comes the knowledge of not delving too deep into my inner psyche. It’s best for everyone.
That reason I rode Brady into the boards is something else I was keen to keep quiet. Sure, Daddy Dear can blow my cover at any minute, but the communication between them is so hit and miss, and his dislike of me so strong, that I hoped it would never come up. Besides, like Skip himself, there’s no way in hell Harris would have believed me.
Brady’s just proved my reputation precedes itself, which makes my deniability even easier. So yeah, as far as everyone knows, he was taken off the ice because of the concussion. My snitching and misguided attempt to do the right thing had nothing to do with it. I just need to throw Quinn off the scent.
Before I can reply, Quinn moves on to her favorite subject. Brady. “And also, eww. Plum and Brady are not banging. That’s disgusting. She’s old enough to be his mother.”
Now, that I can work with. Casually leaning forward, I press the ground button and watch the doors slide closed, trying not to snicker at the look of disgust on Quinn’s face.
“Yeah. If she popped him out when she was ten. Age doesn’t count, anyway. Not when you’re Plum level hot.”
“She’s notthathot.”
“Dunno, babe. I wouldn’t mind taking a few extra credit subjects like Ol’ Skippy is. Bet she’s real knowledgeable. Hands on, too.” The plethora of puns my brain has lined up go on pause when my phone rings in my pocket. It’ll be one of my moms for sure, and missing a post-game check-in with them isnotan option.
“Hey Mom,” I answer, not bothering to check the screen. “Yes we won. Yes I got binned and yes it won’t?—”
“It’s not your damn mommy, Becker. It’s Coach Pollard. I need you here in ten minutes. No excuses.”
“Ten minutes? Coach, I’m on the other side of town. There’s no way I can?—”
“No excuses. Ten minutes.”
This is not good. This is bad. Really bad. After such a massive build up to the Battle of Boston, today was a rare scheduled Sunday off. Even physio time with Coach White was voluntary.
He knows.
I’d like to say I’m not scared of anyone, but a pissed off NCAA coach has even me quaking in my boots. My trepidation mustbe obvious, as Quinn squeezes my hand and rises to her toes to place a quick kiss on my cheek.
“Pollard sounded pissed.”
“Pissed he is, Kitty. Pissed he is.”
Sometimes being a loser boyfriend,with bare minimum expectations comes in real handy.
