Page 33 of Kitty Season
I’m still on the ground, pads protecting me from this stinging cold as they argue. Clearly familiar with each other, they seem to forget I’m there till Marty joins pushing his way between them.“You okay, Brades? Noah would kill me if I let something happen to his goalie on my watch.”
“I’m not Noah’s goalie anymore,” I remind him, eyes glued to the antics playing out before me. “And we were just mucking around. It’s not your watch.”
“My ice. My watch.” With a wink, Marty straightens and adjusts my helmet then nods towards the bench. “Why don’t you hit the showers and call it a night. I hear they’re serving Lobster rolls and Cannolis over at Brookline dining hall.” He rubs his chin, then his stomach. “Ugh. I might join you. Donna’s mother is in town and kidney pie is her specialty.”
Right now, the thought of food, organic or not, has my stomach churning. “Thanks for the tip, Marty, but I’m knackered. I’ll probs just head home.” He gives me the look everyone does when I say something Aussie and nods.
“Just take it easy, kid.”
“Oh he will.” Inserts Faith, who pushes past both men to grab me by the elbow and usher me towards the gate. Again, it’s disturbing how easily I can be maneuvered. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Like Basse was listening in on me and Quinny earlier, we’re now the ones with our ears glued to an inanimate object. Barely holding herself back, Quinn’s body is as stiff as the timber we’re leaning against, those green eyes of hers glistening.
“What did you two think you were doing training days after a concussion? And on an empty stomach, too.” I know I got it wrong when I mistook Professor Plum for Claire Petterson, but this time it’s her for sure. Her mixed accent is as much of an identifying marker as a fingerprint on a corpse. “Do I need to tie you to the bed to keep you from further injuring yourself?”
“The bed?” Quinn’s vibrating now. “Notice how she saidthebed, notyourbed?”
“What’s the difference?”
Disgusted, she drops her hands to her hips, mouth agape. “What do you mean?Thebed indicates a vested interest or loose ownership.”
“Hmm, does it though?”
“Yes. It does. And what kind of teacher casually mentions tying up her students?”
“The best kind?” For that I earn an elbow in the stomach. It’s possible more violence was coming but the door handle starts jiggling and Quinn and I make a dive for the sofa, me slapping my feet up onto the same coffee table that Quinn picks a copy ofThe New England Hockey Journal off. Brady freezes the second he sees us, those damn rosy cheeks blooming.
“Oh. You guys are here?”
“Where else would I be? It’s my place now. Remember?” The wink I add is not remotely required, or suited to the moment, but results in a deepening of the blush I can’t get enough of.
“How could I forget?” he replies flatly, watching Quinn who only has eyes, and words for the hot teacher.
“Two visits in one day seems a bit … excessive, wouldn’t you say, Professor?”
“Not at all,” she snaps, rolling her index finger and over her thumb. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Really?” Stepping closer, Quinn doubles down. “Your job? Since when did a sports psych professor’s role description include wildly inappropriate bondage references to students while inspecting their bedrooms?”
“One, that’s not what you heard, and two, since Dean Mankato appointed me as mental health consultant for the Bears.” This seems to be news to Quinn and Brady, both look like a sideshow clown. “I was in Brady’s room to make sure he took Aspirin, and rested. Heaven knows what would have happened if I hadn’t spotted him while finalizing paperwork. Any intervention on my part was due to your father’s negligence.”
Your fatheris said with such vibrant animosity it could glow in the dark. Maybe that causes Quinn’s uncharacteristic back down. Or maybe it’s the gut-churning awkwardness oozing from Skip’s every pore.
Feeding off others, but especially his, unease is kind of my thing. I live for it … normally. I couldn’t give two shits about Professor McHotty’s discomfort, but for some reason, witnessing Quinn and Brady wallowing in its depths doesn’t sit right.
“Anyone else hungry?” Purely for a distraction, I meander to the refrigerator I know contains nothing remotely edible. “Just as I thought. Nada. Dammit I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Hey, maybe we could order some. I hear it tastes like chicken.”
The live actionadaptation of Roald Dahl’s Matilda was my favorite movie as a kid. Odd choice for a hockey-obsessed carny, but Matilda and her red bow taught me a valuable lesson. There were other kids with asshole parents that didn’t give two shits about them.
I wasn’t alone.
On each re-watch I dreamed that one day, I would wake with magical powers, wreak revenge on my birth mom and dad, then find my own bespectacled teacher, with a cute cottage, to take me in.
Lucky for my folks, they ditched me before I got the chance to come into my powers.
Lucky for me I was taken in by not one but two women, two times as sweet as Miss Honey.
Two further examples of feminine strength, and maybe stubbornness, have been on display as I eat my large pepperoni pizza. Countering each other’s moves, opinions and offers of support, Quinn and Plum have turned waiting hand and foot on Brady into an Olympic level sport. I guess that’s why Plum looks so exhausted when she finally makes her exit, waving over her shoulder then disappearing into the stuffy hallway.
