Page 24 of Kitty Season
“Well, it’s just that I reckon Troye’s not the type to hang around when there’s nothing in it for him.”
“You think he’s selfish?”
“I know he’s selfish.”
“How?” I demand, defensiveness creeping into my tone even when I know he has a point. “What has he ever done to make you think that?”
“Plenty.”
“Like what? Show me. Tell me. What’s he done other than get into your head during a game.”
“During a game?During?” Brady slowly rises, clutching both temples for a beat or two before he’s completely upright. Eventhen his gaze remains glued to the floor. “Quinn, Troye cares about Troye. That’s it.”
“No. That’s not it. He came to see Dad. You saw and warned him that Dad wouldn’t listen, but he still stormed in there and demanded to be heard. Why would he do that if he only cared about himself? And why would he come to the cafe and drink ten coffees in a row, just so I can practice barista-ing, even when I’m not allowed within touching distance of the steamy-machine thingy? And why would he risk everything to go against his own team, just to help you when the only thing you two have in common is me?”
“Please. He’s a liar, Quinn. He’s just playing with me, because he knows he has what I want.”
Enraged, I struggle, wriggle and kick to free my legs from my bedding, then jump to my feet and push my hand into his chest. “And what is that, Brady? What do you want? You busting to switch from goalie? Want to get kicked off the team and out of school?”
“No.” Using his hulking frame, he covers my hand with his. Raises it above our heads. And pins me against the wall. The family photo taken at my first peewee hockey game crashes to the floor, sending shards of glass over our feet. “It’s you, Quinn. What I want is you.”
“You want me?”
Inod, that damn persistent thud in my head ramps up as I lean, resting my forehead on Quinn’s. Shit she smells good, fresh and clean. And that mouth. Her mouth is right there.
My hands shake with restraint. The only thing stopping me closing the minuscule distance between us, and finally tasting those fucking red lips is that I know she belongs to someone else.
To him. Even though he doesn’t deserve her.
“You know I do, Quinny. Everyone does. Especially?—”
“Troye.” Her teeth plunge into and drag against her bottom lip. Besotted, I follow its path, resisting the urge to repeat it with my tongue. In the end, no fight is required. Quinn ducks and slips underneath my arm, leaving the hand I still have pressed against clenching around nothing. “You should go, Brady.”
“But Troye?—”
“Is none of your concern. Just like anyone you’re seeing is none of mine.”
What? “Quinn, there is no one.”
“It doesn’t matter, Brady. You were right. This is wrong. I appreciate you coming over here, I really do, but I need to hear Troye’s version. Until then, this.” She points between us. “Whatever thisiscan’t be. No matter how much we might wantit.” Ouch times infinity. “I think we need to take a break from our friendship for a while.Ineed to take a break.”
I want to argue, to stay and plead my case, to persuade her I’m not dating anyone. But as she searches my faces for understanding, the eternally present spark in her eyes dulls. And since I would rather snorkel in a pool filled with shit than to hurt this woman, I nod and step away.
Coach demandedI rest for a week, maybe even two. But the nervous energy coursing through my veins hums like peak hour traffic on the I90. So, I head to one of my favorite places. Hidden in the rabbits’ warren of corridors at Conte Forum, my team’s home rink, is an NHL standard gym and sauna.
Here, I can think. Here, I am free.
Starting with a steady-paced walk on the treadmill, I gradually increase the speed till I’m in a light jog, and wait for the endorphin hit to kick in. Something is wrong though. Whether it’s the insurmountable sadness and fear of losing Quinn, my ever growing loneliness, or the lingering effects of my supposedly mild concussion, each time my foot lands on the belt, a pain sizzles from the back of my head, down my neck, somehow landing in my gut.
I’m going to be sick.
Gripping the handrails I push off and jump, my feet landing haphazardly on each side of the belt as it grinds to a halt. When I finally brave stepping off, it feels like I’m treading on marbles, my stomach is so knotted that I can’t even make it to the closest bench. Instead, I drop to the floor like a seasick bag of shit, and suck in as much air as I can without moving.
I’m so angry. So sick, and so fucking frustrated with everything, that I shove my hand into my pocket, seek out the so called good luck charm that brought me here, and toss it to the ground.
“Fuck you, Poppy.”
It’s unknowable, how long I sit and sulk as the world spins around me. All I do know is when Paul and Cory arrive for their workouts, I rise, slide the everything’s-great-mate mask back on, pretend to laugh as they joke about the girls they took home last night, then wave and head for the locker room. To my right, I see someone who looks an awful lot like Troye, striding with purpose behind Coach. Why would that asshole Becker be at Conte? Quinn’s told me several times that he refuses to talk to her dad, so again, why?
