Page 10 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ T his is a bad idea Quinn. Trust me. I am the last person Skip will want to see right now.”

I tighten my grip on Troye’s wrist and drag him into the elevator. “That may be true, but I still think it’s the right thing to do. You hurt someone, you apologize. It’s basic human decency.”

“And since when have I claimed to be decent?”

My eye roll is automatic, and as unappreciated as my reappearance on Troye’s doorstep only a few hours after rolling from his bed.

Energized by the bulldog’s win, we’d spent a hot and heavy night between the sheets.

The sex was hard, fast, on point, Troye’s tongue and that septum piercing wreaking havoc.

Afterwards he was distracted, our usual comedown humor missing.

Since he refused to tell me what was wrong, I came to my own conclusion.

He was worried about his coach’s reaction, and felt guilty for his rough play on Brady.

Hence me facilitating an apology.

In truth, I have a teeny tiny secret agenda, too. Yes I think Troye should check in on the man he stone-cold knocked out, but I also need this stupid … whatever it is between them to end.

Hanging out with Brady the other day made me realize how much I miss the days of him, me, Lotte and Noah. Since the latter is away a good portion of the time, maybe Troye could be dragged out of his room, and into Beanz and Bookz to complete the circle of four.

I just need to convince Troye that he’s likable, then Brady that Troye’s likable, and then get them to the point of not concussing each other.

Simple.

“Look Troye, you can try to sell me on the bad boy deal all you like, but mister, I know you. I know you feel bad. I ain’t buying.”

Pulling me flush against him, breasts to chest, Troye slips his hand between us, sliding two fingers down the front of my sweats. “You brought up big last night, Kitty. Made multiple purchases I believe.”

My eyes roll again, but this time for a totally different reason.

Pure. Orgasmic. Bliss.

“You’re still wet for me, Quinny,” he mumbles into the crook of my neck. “Or is … is that fresh? Have you soaked your panties at the thought of having me and Brady together … alone … in the same room?”

These little games he plays. The fantasies he weaves of him and Brady and me together, are becoming addictive.

There’s barely a time that we’re together now when Brady’s name is not brought up, and I can’t say it’s unwelcome.

My attraction to the giant goalie is equal to that that I feel towards Troye, and that is beyond explosive.

Imagine them together.

The thought and Troye’s continued public ministrations of my clit, have me squeezing my thighs together and I’m so damn wet, I fear it will be visible.

After a final flourish that almost brings me to my knees, Troye withdraws his fingers, plunging them straight between his lips to lick them clean. “Damn, Kitty. You are sweet.”

“Uh huh,” is the only reply I can form.

Sometimes I’ll drive to my parents, or to Lotte’s old apartment, pull up, stop the car and realize I have no recollection of how I got there.

Like, did I even stop at a single red light?

That same, weird … weirdness is what I feel as Troye props me up against the wall outside Brady’s dorm. Did I float here? Did he carry me?

“Still feeling a bit giddy, Kitty?” Biting his lip, he looks me up and down, and yeah. He knows exactly how giddy I am.

“Nope. No. Not at all. No idea what you mean. I’m just eager to see my friend. You and your fingers had no effect on my body at all.”

Well played, dick. Well played.

Ignoring the smirk I can practically hear, I call Brady’s name and knock with excessive force. “Brady, it’s me, Kitty.” Shit. “I mean Quinn. Are you home?”

The door swings open, and reality, in the form of a tall, blonde, stunning woman, hits me like a puck to the head. “Yes he is but he’s taking a shower. Can I help you with something?”

“Professor Plum?” A flurry of nerves, or murderous intent flutters through me.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s Quinn, isn’t it?” Stepping forward she puts out her hand and smiles blandly. Fake , I think to myself. She’s u tterly fake. And maybe not so stunning after all.

“Quinn, yes. Um, what are you doing here? I mean why? How are you—wait. Did you say Brady is in the shower?”

Beside me Troye snorts and mutters something that sounds a lot like, ‘go Skip.’ I don’t wait for an invitation before barging past, and should I accidentally crush her petite foot with my own clown-sized version, so be it.

“I did,” she replies as Troye crowds behind me. “He wasn’t feeling well after we ate breakfast, so I suggested he shower before I leave. That way if anything happened I could step in and assist. One shouldn’t be alone with a concussion, you know.”

“Yes I know. My father. He … I … I’ve dealt with more concussions than you’ve had—” Fillers. Botox. “Breakfasts with students. Did I mention my very large and influential father? He’s Brady’s coach … and my father. My dad.”

“I find most fathers are dads.” Plum replies flatly without taking her eyes off Troye who she’s intensely studying. “I believe the young, smirking man beside you is the supplier of said concussion.”

“Troye,” he says, commandeering her hand, and looking way too enthused about this predatory cougar being in Brady’s room. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Wish I could say the same,” I mutter. It’s rude AF but, hey, at least I was softly spoken, and didn’t scream ‘why are you here, you whore?’ in the woman’s face.

“Quinn?” Brady calls. “Is that you?”

Huh. Maybe it wasn’t the whisper I imagined.

The already fraught energy in the room quadruples when the bathroom door flings open, releasing a burst of humid steam, and an only-towel wearing Brady.

“This just keeps getting better.” Troye earns an elbow in the stomach for that, but he pays it no attention. He’s too entertained.

“What are you doing here?” Brady asks, cheeks ablaze, eyes darting between his three guests.

“That seems to be a popular question this morning.” That was Plum, who’s managing to coordinate replying and ogling a man almost half her age.

Not that I can blame her. I’ve slept in the same room as Brady on several occasions, but he’s never been shirtless, or pant-less, or back lit in a golden glow with rivulets of water cascading down his chiseled body.

Not that I noticed.

“Troye wanted to apologize,” I blurt while twisting my fingers into the arm of his BU tee and slinging him in front of me. “He feels really bad about what happened, and wanted to check in on you. Right, Troye?”

Stifling a laugh, Troye gives a nonchalant shrug. “Sure, if you say so.”

“I’m sorry, young man, but I don’t believe that’s genuine. Not in the slightest.” Professor Plum scolds before I can. “Actions have consequences, you know? From what I’ve seen of the incident your behavior was tantamount to thuggery.”

“Thuggery? We’re playing hockey out there, lady. Not croquet. As you can see, Brady is a big boy that’s quite capable of looking after himself.”

“You’re right. I am,” Brady interjects, face crimson as he fiddles with a knot in the towel. “Which makes me even more curious as to why you gave Coach Harris that note. It was bullshit, wasn’t it, mate? No one was gunning for me. You just made it all up so you didn’t get ejected or suspended.”

“What note?” Plum and I ask in tandem, only to both be ignored. Troye’s body is rigid, shoulders hunched as he steps into Brady’s space and pokes his finger into his bare chest.

“No, mate. Pollard is as dirty as my fucking mouth is. He wants BC out of Frozen Four contention, and he knows deducting you from the equation equals a win to us. Now you can call me a lot of things, trash, carny, Sideshow fucking Troye like your mate Lotte, but I will not be called a cheat.”

“Prove it,” Brady retorts, slapping Troye’s hand away. “Show me one piece of evidence. You got any? I bet you don’t ‘cause this is just like the photos. Just another one of your fucked up little games.”

“What photos?” Again in unison, Plum and I try to involve ourselves with zero effect, other than pissing each other off.

“Don’t tell me you don’t love them. That they don’t put a little fire in your belly and make you want to win if only to shut me up. You get off on those photos, I know you do. Just like you do my girl.”

Every shade of red ever catalogued colors Brady’s cheeks throughout Troye’s rant, but with those two words, my girl , all of it drains. He’s now as white as the fluffy towel precariously covering his nudity, and staring at me, eyes wide as pucks.

“That’s not true, Quinn. You’re my friend. I wouldn’t?—”

“Wouldn’t what, Skip? Slap the salami. Wallop the weasel. Pleasure the platypus?”

“That’s enough.” The one true adult in the room makes her presence felt, standing between the three of us like the Tri-state marker that my dad made us hold hands over for an hour when I was ten.

“I’m not sure about everything you’re referring to, but it doesn’t matter.

Brady shouldn’t be getting this worked up.

Troye, Quinn, I think it’s best you leave. ”

I’m a split second from telling Plum where to shove it, when Troye’s fingers circle my wrist. “Fine with us. Let’s go, Kitty.”

I don’t want to go. I want to stay and put Brady to bed and make him tea and … just be whatever he needs me to be. My fingertips itch with the compulsion to hold him. But Troye needs me too, and he is my kind of boyfriend, not Brady.

Besides, Brady has Plum, and she has her hand on his forearm, rhythmically sweeping up and down as she steers him back to bed.

“Call me if you need anything, Brades,” I mutter.

Leaving part of my heart behind, I exit through the door Troye has slung open with such a force, it almost hits me as it bounces off the wall.

“He won’t need anything,” Plum replies after shushing her patient. “He has me.”