Page 65 of Kitty Season
“Like I said,yourname is on repeat.Yourparty was the last time they were seen together, andyourmother informs me the three of you were left alone when she came to bed.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh. Now, I know you think me old and foolish, but it was clear even to me that there’s something going on between you and Becker, despite the fact I expressly forbade it.”
“Something you have no right to do since I am a grown woman who no longer lives under your roof.”
“Needless to say, this is the exact reason I tookandmaintain my stance. You and hockey players are as simpatico as oil and water. You distract them from their game, and they from your studies.” I hold my breath, praying what I expect is coming, not too. “I’d have thought you learned that lesson with Foxman.”
And there it is. Tears sting my eyes on the mere mention of my toxic exes name. “Dad, that wasn’t my fault.”
“That may be the case, but if you’d listened to me in the first place, it would never have happened.” There’s a loud bang in the background followed by raucous laughter. “For God’s sake, Shane, get Malkovich down from there?—”
And with that he’s gone. As always, hockey comes before me.
Even at the collegiate level, a hockey player’s life revolves around the game, particularly at the tail end of a season with a finals birth up for grabs. For years I’ve thrived on that knowledge. In a world where I feel like a giant, doomed to wander life alone, the rink is my safe place. Here I am part of a team. A leader. Something.
Due in part to the concussion after effects I can’t seem to shake, in the weeks following Becker’s recruitment, the certainty of belonging has eroded down to a fine dust that slips between my fingers a little more each day.
Today being the worst.
After the shower incident, a dipshit part of me thought a truce of sorts had been called.
I was wrong.
The antagonizing. The taunting. The ridicule. All of it intensified to the point where several teammates have had to restrain me several times from knocking his block off. Today wasn’t even a full session. We’ve had a lecture from Professor Plum on the importance of the weekly mental health check-ins she’s initiated, followed by a mortifying social media, sexual consent and assault awareness training. For Troye, the open forum was his time to shine.
“Yes, I have two questions, Professor. Let’s say you’re an international, virgin hockey goalie in their early twenties. What preventive sexual health measures should said international, virgin hockey goalie in their early twenties take? And two, how should an international … wait. I gave that random example already. Hmm, let me think. Okay, how should anAustralianvirgin hockey goalie, psychologically prepare themselves for sex with a partner used to being with someone of far superior appeal, ability and … girth?”
It was only then, once I’d died of embarrassment and the others of laughing, that Plum conceded to stupidity and we hit the ice. Since we play a late game tonight, it was only for some light drills and stretching, but there was nothing light in the way Troye and I have been trading verbal blows. By the time Coach blows his whistle and declares our day is over, he’s gyrating with rage, the boys are desperate to escape, and I am heading straight to my phone to call tonight’s festivities off.
Troye Becker will never lay a hand on me again.
Bailingon Quinn once may have been forgivable. Twice is a stretch, meaning I need to handle calling today off delicately, meaning I will screw it up because I’m a goalie, there’s nothing delicate about me.
I’m still at the rink, in the locker rooms to be exact. Not the most private of places, but as well as being delicate, our … situation has to be sorted ASAP. Hunching over my screen to block my nosy neighbor Shane, I slide my phone from my bag and tap away.
Quinn, I’m sorry but I can’t do this. Please believe me that I want to be with you in that way. It’s just him. I cannot and will not let that thing touch me again. If you’re ever single and…
Nope.
Quinny. Babe. Thanks for the offer, but I forgot I had a date with a super hot cheerleader. Later
Nope. She would never buy that.
Quinn. Troye is a dick and I don’t want to touch his.
FUCCCKKK
Maybe this would be easier in person?
I’m already dressed and Troye is still lingering in the showers, singing some God-awful country song at the top of his lungs. The timing is perfect. I can get to Quinn before him, let her down, and be home in bed for my pre-game nap before he even shows.
My kit bag is packed and I’m halfway out the door when Shane pulls me up by the back of my hoodie. “Brades, coming to O’Reilly’s with us? Rumor has it Petterson and his Mrs. are there, and we’re going to crash. Serves him right for not coming to see us play.”
Behind him, Cubby scoffs. “They are spending some quality time together before he’s back on the road, you douche. And why the hell would he choose to spend time with you lot, when he could be lunching with his girl, or at home getting laid.” He knows he’s fucked up the second it leaves his lips.
“Fucking knew it. You’ve been picturing it, right?” Laughs Shane, yelling to be heard over the jeering. “Every time Plum said sex, your boner raised the desk off the ground. That thing was lev-i-tat-ing!” The ensuing whole team chirp is the perfect distraction. Ignoring Cory’s wide-eyed-please rescue meglare-I give him a quick wave and slip out the door.
