Page 21 of Kitty Season
Not without protest, I drop Quinn off at BC’s Green Line stop, and absolutely floor it to BU … in the top of the line Mercedes she got when she turned eighteen. Even then, cross-town traffic means it takes double the usual fifteen minutes to make it to the administrative wing of Agganis Arena.
In general, most of my teammates dread an office call-up, but I lap up the opportunity to flirt with the office ladies … and a few of the guys, too. None of that is happening today, though. I may as well be Casper the fucking Ghost for all the heads that rise as I pass by doling out my usual banter.
Yeah. This is not good.
Though no one acknowledges my presence, someone must alert Coach to it. His office door swings open as I approach, and happiness is not what I see on his swollen, rosacea scarred face.
“Did I, or did I not say ten minutes?”
“You did, Coach. But the traffic?—”
“The traffic from Chestnut Hill is a nightmare this time of day. Is that what you were about to say? Because I know you were there. I have eyes all over this city, and I want to know why, Becker. Did you have some more intel to share? Some more betrayal to commit?”
Shit.
“Not sure what you’re talking about, Coach,” I reply, fighting to control my temper. “I mean I was at BC visiting my girlfriend, but?—”
“Quinn Harris. That’s your girlfriend, right? Coach Harris’s daughter”
“Yes, but?—”
“How lovely. How … cozy.” Interrupting me again, he turns to look over his shoulder. “Isn’t that cozy, Jordan.”
Fucking Foxman. Of course.
“Hey, Coach, why don’t we talk in your office?” I’m still standing in the foyer, Pollard’s PA Denise is doing her best chameleon impersonation, attempting to camouflage herself into the background. But there is no escape from this dose of secondhand embarrassment.
“I don’t think so. We have nothing to talk about. Besides, I want every person in this organization to know what a no good, lying, cheating, piece of trash you are. You lied to Harris. Told him I was targeting his goalie when it was you, yourself, that was after him, in pursuit of your own homosexual vendetta.”
“What?”
“I know all about your little photo exchange, Becker. Jordan here has proof of payment to one of our PR team’s photographers. That in combination with the lies and attempted smearing of my name gives me all I need. You’re off the team, Becker. Your scholarship is hereby null and void. Go to the locker room. Pack your things and leave.”
“Not necessary, Coach.” Jordan’s pre-ball drop, high pitch sneers as the buck-tooth dick appears. “I’ve taken the liberty of cleaning out Troye’s stall.” My kit bag is handed to Coach who tosses it at my feet, spilling half its contents to the floor.
“Excellent. I expect you have some cotton candy to spin. Off you trot, Becker. Back to the carnival you go.”
Addiction is a medical condition.A disease that ruins families and takes lives. But when you’re seven, and your parents chose a pipe, Vegas, and their loser friends over you, knowing that and believing it, are two very different things.
Memories of my last night in our trailer have my heart thudding louder than the door just slammed in my face. Scared, bleeding and alone, I knocked on the first door I found. Inside the freshly painted trailer were Delphine and Fifi, the two women I now refer to collectively as Moms. Without a shadow of doubt, they saved me that night. After all, prospects for an underweight, almost illiterate child of two meth-addicts are not great. But here I am. Playing D1 college hockey for one of the country’s best teams.
Or at least, there I was.
Those women gave, risked and sacrificed everything for me. How the fuck am I going to tell them I’ve pissed it all up a rope, as I’ve heard Skip so eloquently say?
It’s going to break them.
At least some good may come of it. No scholarship means leaving Boston, and a deadbeat college dropout is hardly long distance relationship worthy.
Not for Daddy’s princess.
For my Kitty.
I’m solemnly trudging back to Quinn’s car, shame, rejection, a past I will never escape weighing me down with every step, when the phone call I’ve been dreading arrives.
“Hey, Moms.”
“What’s wrong?” How she can pick up on my mood after ‘Hey, Moms,’ is anyone’s guess. “Fifi, listen to our boy. Something is wrong. Is it the piercing? Is it infected again? Why you had to shove a metal pole through your nostrils?—”
