Page 6 of Kitty Season
Hmm. The and’s are adding up.
“Okay, so maybe I don’t truly believe he’s not the heart breaker he tells me he is, rather I think … I hope … he isn’t. Either way, today is the day I’m going to prove it to Dad and to myself. I’m going to make Dad give Troye a chance and then Troye will give us a chance and everything will be right and good. Yes. Today it is. TO. DAY.”
Nodding, I turn to face Lotte and find her sound asleep, mouth open wide and a silvery line of drool running down her chin. The poor thing was up all night talking to Noah who’s on a two week away-game trip. I stand, drape her beloved crocheted blanket over her curled up body, snap a photo to send to Noah, and grab my bag. It’s time to set the record straight.
Lotte
I’m sorry I fell asleep on you, and for what I’m about to say.
I’ve woken up with a severe case of nervousness.
Are you sure you want to do this, Quinny?
Things have been pretty stable with you and your dad, and Troye isn’t exactly screaming commitment.
Maybe it’s best to wait?? You know what they say? Keep it simple stupid.
PS.. not saying you’re stupid.
“Great,” I mutter to myself while indignantly shoving my phone into my pocket. The one person in my corner is now out of it. I’m corner-less. Or people-less. Whatever.
Things were never meant to get so complicated. Originally, my fling with Troye was a stop-gap; a distraction designed to keep my hockey boy-mad mind off another; Brady Basse, Dad’s hot Aussie goalie. But then I discovered who Troye really was and … here I am, bursting through the final set of doors leading to Conte Forum’s pristine practice rink. Risking further damage to a parental relationship for a boy who once did the same for me.
It’s Brady I see first. From the corner of my eye I watch him, watching me as I waltz up-absolutely no extra swing to the hip—well, maybe a bit—and lean over the boards. Unblinking, he drinks, sprays a little on his face and hair, till his surfer blonde locks that I could play with for hours are darker. Drenched. Dreamy. Then, he tucks his water bottle back into the little pouch at the back of his net.
Those cute little freckles, the ones scattered across the tip of his nose are almost invisible against his flushed cheeks. That could also be because he’s halfway across the rink and I couldn’t possibly see them from here, but that is much less romantic, and I, Quinn Harris, am all about romance.
Our gaze holds, and Brady flashes a tiny smile, then tilts his head back, his hair swishing side to side before disappearing beneath his helmet.
Good Lord, he is so hot. I wonder what he kisses like?Shit. Troye. You are here to see your dad about Troye.
“Great save, Basse. Just watch that top left corner. If that shot was any higher it would have snuck in.”
Shit! Dad. That’s my dad. Dad is here.
Nothing ruins a sexy daydream like your father praising its star, but those big blue eyes and kissable lips still pose a challenge, cause clearly, Brady is still Brady, and I am still in need of a distraction.
In an attempt to de-smut my thoughts, I focus on why I came here; sweet talking Dad while he was in his happy place. Confessing I’m in a relationship with a hockey player … Troye, the one Dad promised he would never consent to me seeing.
“Hey there, Princess.” Dad’s baritone, South Boston accent interrupts my self-condemnation. “What brings you here on this freezing almost spring day?”
“Nothing in particular, just missed my Pops and thought we could grab dinner after training.”
One of the hard earned, genuine smiles that reaches Dad’s eyes comes my way. “That sounds great. Give me another twenty minutes and I’m all yours.”
“Perfect.” I return the smile, then fold my freezing hands into the hem of my sweater. It really is cold. I mean, of course it is, I’m in a hockey rink. But someone forgot to tell spring it should be ready to spring. The one good thing about Boston’scrappy weather is the fashion. I love me some tights. Lotte and I snagged several pairs each last night online shopping while sipping copious amounts of hot cocoa. It was the perfect night in. I can only hope tonight’s adventures outside the colorful walls of her new love shack is half as successful.
This isa matter of utmost importance, requiring a delicate, subtle hand.
Timing is everything, and yes, now is the perfect time to tell him I am still seeing Troye.
“Dad,” I pretty much yell, slapping my hands on the linen-covered table, our cutlery jumps. “I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.” Three beers down and with a mouth stuffed so full of prime rib he resembles a Chestnut Hill squirrel, my father gags, coughs and splutters, sending a quarter-sized chunk of medium rare steak into my pupil.
“Jesus lord save us all, you’re pregnant.” Before my eyes, his beetroot red cheeks fade to a ghostly, almost translucent white.
“No Dad, I’m not pregnant. I’ve … I’m … um …” I grab the napkin sitting beside me and begin to shred it, dislodging the discarded and regurgitated eye beef. It rolls across the table, coming to a rest against my glass of cherry coke and prompting yet another lie. “I’ve become a vegetarian.” I have most definitely not become a vegetarian.
Dropping his cutlery, Dad shakes his head and takes several slow, deep breaths. I’m not sure why, but this news seems to be equally, if not more distressing than my non-existent love child. On his final shaken huff his gaze drops to my half eaten BBQ ribs and mash potato covered in cheese and bacon bits, anddisappointment switches to exasperation “A bad vegetarian,” I add preemptively. “It’s a work in progress.”
