Page 70 of Kitty Season
Then she’s gone.
Losingmy virginity a couple of hours before the second to last game before playoffs was, in hindsight, not the wisest idea. Not because of anything physical. In that sense it was brilliant. Even with my heart hanging out my asshole like some festering hemorrhoid, I was so knackered I still managed the best pre-game nap in the history of hockey. As my feet thud against the rubber matting lining the tunnel between locker room and rink, there’s enough energy surging through my veins to power Conte Forum.
No, the issue lies solely withwhoI gave my virginity too. And I don’t mean Quinn.
Troye struts into the locker room with enough time to kit out and do a half-assed warm up. Coach Harris is livid, as are all the boys, but like he seems to always do, Troye worms his way back into everyone’s good books with a bullshit excuse, a playful wink and on ice skills most players here would kill for. He moves so fluidly. Footwork and speed second to none, allowing him to waft through the packed ice like a delicate wisp of smoke, then clown around with jumps and spins like a wanna-be Mitch Marner.
Kind of like how he was in bed. One minute the task master. Next the Joker. Finally the needy mess. On cue, the image of him wagging his butt in my face, “Umm, hello. Ass waiting to be fucked over here,” and I laugh. I fucking laugh. Jesus Christ, he’s sucked me in too. If I wasn’t on my knees mid-splits as I finish my warm up, I’d slap myself in the face.
Forcing myself to suppress the lingering hiccups of giggles, I spring back onto my feet with the intent of finishing up with the zipper drills like I always do.
“Chest forward. Eyes up. Hands out,” I mumble, again and again as I zoom left to right, back to front. These drills are so frequently practiced, they come to me as easy as breathing does. But still, superstition demands I call each move out like it’s my very first time.
“What’s that, Skip?” Showering me with ice, Troye comes to an unnecessarily flashy stop before me. “You want to know if Quinny and me are up for some flip-fucks after the game? She’s not here but I’m sure I could convince her to meet us.”
I try to stop my eyes bulging from my head, but Troye’s amused smirk and brow wriggle tells me I failed. “Wanna say it a bit louder? I don’t think my mum heard you in Australia.”
“My moms might have, though. Why don’t you ask? They’re right behind you.”
Teammate or not, there’s every chance Troye will knock me onto my ass the second I turn my head, but I still do it anyway because I’m a dick. With people still lining up to get their last minute snacks, the stands are still half empty. In the reserved front row behind the net, often the last to fill, only four seats are taken, and I would put money on none of the faces staring back at me belonging to Troye’s moms. Two of them I’m certain of, because they belong to Claire and her wife Kelly.
“Nice try,” I scoff, waving to the pretty blonde and redhead who’ve noticed me staring at them. “But there’s no way those two hotties are your moms. They can’t be older than thirty, for starters.” It’s then, as they stand, that I notice the jerseys, Troye’s #2 jersey. Oh, and then there’s the handmade sign they now have pressed against the glass.
Becker’s a Bear now and we say, yeah how!!!
“They’re your moms. How old are they?”
“Probably not much older than your Professor Plum. Hands off, though. I know you’re into the older ladies, but they’re lesbians, remember.”
“Seriously dude. Did they have you when they were twelve? And what the hell does ‘Yeah How’ mean?”
“Actually,” Troye says, both hands over his head in a super wave. “They didn’t have me at all. They took me in when they were eighteen and nineteen, and I was seven. As for the Yeah How? I think they meant Yee-haw. Great moms, not such great rhymers.” Flicking a puck off the end of his stick into his glove, he skates to the boards and tosses it over, much to the delight of his … foster moms? What the?
I rack my brain for any memory of Quinn, Noah or Lotte mentioning this, but I’ve got nothing. “They’re your foster mums?”
Back to me, Troye’s pad covered shoulders gather around his ears, and when he turns to face me his joker face is as dark as the sea with a thunder storm rolling across Port Phillip Bay. “Forget it, Basse, or it’ll be the last thing you hear.”
“What?” The mood swing is dizzying. “You said it to me, asshole. Not like I waterboarded you for secret family deets.” And it must be a secret. One he didn’t mean to spill.
I could use this, I realize and he skates to the bench, that ominous cloud hovering as he glances over his shoulder every three seconds, then disappears down the chute. Whatever he’s ashamed to reveal about his past could prove to Quinn and Noah, and everyone who thinks the sun shines out of his ass, that they don’t even know him. Against my own better judgment,I kept his little superhero nerd secret, but this could be the thing that finally breaks the hold he has over Quinn.
“BRADYYYYYYY!” I spin in the direction of the hollering and find Claire and Kelly have joined Troye’s moms on their feet. They too have a sign.
Hey, Ohi-o! Did you know-O Bears #‘s 1 + 2 = a loss 4 you.
So, the front row isn’t great at math, either.
My guess is Claire made this one, as it’s pink, covered in glitter and reminiscent of a birthday cake she demanded Noah get for Lotte the first day they met.
Acknowledging the sign and the excited waves, I raise my stick and wave back, my eyes lingering on the women that Troye confessed,took him in at seven.
Shame knots my stomach. Using that against him feels like something he would do to me, not the other way around. My own mum would slap me sideways for even thinking it. Then it hits me. At twenty, I can barely tell my thumb from my asshole, yet they were younger than me and fostering a kid. Fuck.
How would that even happen?
I wonder what happened to his real parents.
Heavy-hearted, I give one final wave to the delirious foursome, then head to the bench for Coach’s final instructions.
