Page 73 of Kitty Season
I don’t feel like Twizzlers, food of any type right makes me want to yak. But Claire’s a fixer, and her eyes are so wide and hopeful. She’s so desperate to cheer me up, I rip open the packet and pull one out with my teeth.
“Yum. Thanks, Claire.”
Appeased, she drops into her seat and nudges me, then Fifi, I’m pretty sure it’s Fifi—crap, why can’t I remember their names? —with her foot.
“I didn’t want to tell you three this earlier because you’d be too nervous to enjoy the game, but …” Fists clenched, she jiggles with excitement in her seat. “Noah told me, that his agent told him, the B‘sandNew York have some scouts here tonight. Apparently Troye’s name is on their list of prospects. They watched his last few games with the Bulldogs and have been here for each game since he switched.” Fifi and Delphine leap to their feet. There’s squeals and hugs and jumping in circles. It’s super cute and gets louder when the lights drop, the strobes flash and the teams hit the ice. Troye flashes past us, and even through his helmet, with the lights reflecting on his visor, I can see the suspicious narrowing of his eyes. He loves attention, yet hates this kind of fuss being made over him.
Hmm.
Fueled by misery, frustration and yes, maybe a little vengeance, I join the others and leap from my seat. I slap my hands on the glass, jump, scream and in general make a complete tit of myself. When Troye skates by us again, I add a little point and shimmy, hell if my dad wasn’t a few feet away I might even add a boob flash. “That’s my man!”
His moms are loving it, mirroring my every move to the point that it looks like we’ve studied a Gaga video for hours to memorize the routine. He’s going to hate this.
The music fades, the crowd settles and play begins. “Good Lord, Delphi. Can you imagine if Troye was signed by Boston or New York? He’d be so close to home we could embarrass him on the national stage as often as we liked.” Grinning deliriously, she spins to face Claire. “Is that why you were so insistent that we come tonight?”
“Yup. Well that, and because it could be his last game in Boston … if the Bears don’t make the playoffs which they absolutely will.” All four tap the plastic seat and mutter. “Touch wood.”
“You know they’re plastic, right?” I laugh, then gasp, then leap. This time not to embarrass Troye but to demand vengeance on his behalf. With the team caught out during a poorly timed shift change, Troye slips down the ice to help cover the shortage in defense, when Jason Mahomes, a six foot seven freak and well known thug, barrels across the blue line, heading straight towards the goal. Only Troye and Paul stand between him and Brady, and the latter manages to steal the puck off the end of his stick, turning defense in to offense. Mahomes doesn’t change course, though. If anything, he speeds up. It’s Troye that gets in the way, turning his back, using his body, blocking him from wiping out his goalie. Troye’s back that Mahomes lays a dangerous slash/crosscheck to right as he sails past Brady’s crease.
Without time to protect himself, he slams into the boards with a sickening crash and is down on the ice. There’s strict rules on fighting in the NCAA, but after a dirty lay like that, the Bears converge en masse. We lose sight of Troye in the ensuing madness, and for the first few terrifying breaths, only the zebra-striped shirts of the refs, straining to separate the scrum, are clearly visible, their whistles struggling to be heard over the grunts and groans of players, and chants of the blood-thirsty crowd. It’s chaos, the red Ohio and the maroon of the Bearsmelting into a frenzied blur of fists, flying gloves and helmets, and … Brady. Using every inch of his height and width Brady is on his knees, arms spread like an eagle, shielding Troye’s motionless form from the raging pack.
The world, and everything in it, slows to a halt. Behind cameras flash, and a broken cry can be heard above all else. “He’s not moving. Why is he not moving?”
“He is Delphi. He is. He’s just covered his head. He’s moving.”
I see it too then, tiny bursts of movement that kick start my heart. Troye staying low, protecting his helmet-less head with gloved hands, glancing over his shoulder.
The refs get enough control of the situation to move the still jostling scrum clear, allowing trainers to move in and help Troye to his feet. Appeased at this, Brady turns and shoves a still chirping Mahomes on the chest.
“Leave it Brady. He’s okay, leave it,” I beg, whispering to no one.
Like he hears me, he drops his hands, shakes his head and skates away, eyes locking on mine. It’s the first time he’s made eye contact with me all night, and after the way we left things, after me begging him not to make me choose, his actions to protect Troye, combined with that one look, mean everything.
“Thank you.” I mouth.
“I’m fine woman, Jesus Christ, stop fussing and leave me alone.” Sporting that weird-ass teeth-clenched, nostril-flaring glare only moms can pull off, Delphi slaps the back of my head. “Well, I mightn’t have had a concussion before, but I’m pretty sure I do now.”
“Well, call me woman again, and you won’t have a head to be concussed, for me to fuss over.”
What? Huh. Maybe I do have a concussion? That makes no sense. Not saying that out loud though.
I’m lying in a hospital bed after being transported from Conte to Massachusetts General by ambulance. With wanting Quinn steadfast in my mind, seven stitches decorating my right eyebrow, a rapidly spreading bruise down my entire right torso, there’s an uncomfortable melancholy wrapping around me like a blanket. I’m not sure why, but I’m ridiculously emotional. This is my first injury or hospital trip and likely not my last. But I am, and I think it’s because tonight was the first time I was scared on the ice.
Delphi and I were in a car wreck once, and there was this brief, almost indescribable moment before the speeding car slammed into my passenger side door. It was this weird form of clarity. Almost like I surrendered to my helplessness. I knewwhat was coming. Could see it. Hear it. But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.
That’s how I felt as I skidded head first towards the boards.
“Are you sure you’re okay baby? You’re whiter than that sheet you’re lying on.”
“I am, Mom. Promise.” For her benefit, I smile and am enduring my hundredth super hug when I hear footsteps pausing outside my room. My heart skitters.Quinn.
“Knock, knock, can I come in?” Without waiting for a response, Terry, the photographer I’ve been paying to take my glam shots for Brady, saunters in.How the hell does he know where I am?
“I study journalism, I have a hospital source … and I followed the paramedics. Got some great shots for the college paper,” he replies to a question I didn’t even realize I asked. “To make up for the creepiness, I thought I’d show you this. It’s not the normal style I take for you, but it’s pretty amazing all the same. Once I edit some of the background out, I’ll send it to you as well.” He proudly hands me a sheet of paper, and my heart grinds to a halt. It’s not great quality since he must have printed it somewhere here at the hospital, but the image itself is … wow. It’s me, face down on the ice, complete with a blood stained halo. And then, there’s Brady, the guy I’ve treated like absolute shit, single-handedly holding back a hornets nest of retribution behind me.
“Not the normal style you take? What sort do you normally take and why don’t we have any?” Fifi snaps the sheet from my hand, studies it, then passes it to Delphi.
“Nothing. Forget about it.” I grump, my eyes attempting to burn a hole in the pic and Terry.
