Page 11 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ S o, golden boy Brady is banging a professor. Who would have thought ?” With my arm draped over Quinn’s shoulder, I lead her into the waiting elevator. “Not me, that’s for fucking sure. How long has it been going on, you think? All year?”

“What was Brady talking about? What note?” Shit. “What photos?”

Shit.

Is my endgame to be such a dick that Quinn will ditch me and move on to greener pastures?

Bet your sweet ass.

Does that mean I want her to know about my little snap shot game?

Absolutely fucking not.

I can’t say why. I just don’t, and from learned experience comes the knowledge of not delving too deep into my inner psyche. It’s best for everyone.

That reason I rode Brady into the boards is something else I was keen to keep quiet.

Sure, Daddy Dear can blow my cover at any minute, but the communication between them is so hit and miss, and his dislike of me so strong, that I hoped it would never come up.

Besides, like Skip himself, there’s no way in hell Harris would have believed me.

Brady’s just proved my reputation precedes itself, which makes my deniability even easier.

So yeah, as far as everyone knows, he was taken off the ice because of the concussion.

My snitching and misguided attempt to do the right thing had nothing to do with it.

I just need to throw Quinn off the scent.

Before I can reply, Quinn moves on to her favorite subject. Brady. “And also, eww. Plum and Brady are not banging. That’s disgusting. She’s old enough to be his mother.”

Now, that I can work with. Casually leaning forward, I press the ground button and watch the doors slide closed, trying not to snicker at the look of disgust on Quinn’s face.

“Yeah. If she popped him out when she was ten. Age doesn’t count, anyway. Not when you’re Plum level hot.”

“She’s not that hot.”

“Dunno, babe. I wouldn’t mind taking a few extra credit subjects like Ol’ Skippy is.

Bet she’s real knowledgeable. Hands on, too.

” The plethora of puns my brain has lined up go on pause when my phone rings in my pocket.

It’ll be one of my moms for sure, and missing a post-game check-in with them is not an option .

“ Hey Mom,” I answer, not bothering to check the screen. “Yes we won. Yes I got binned and yes it won’t?—”

“It’s not your damn mommy, Becker. It’s Coach Pollard. I need you here in ten minutes. No excuses.”

“Ten minutes? Coach, I’m on the other side of town. There’s no way I can?—”

“No excuses. Ten minutes.”

This is not good. This is bad. Really bad. After such a massive build up to the Battle of Boston, today was a rare scheduled Sunday off. Even physio time with Coach White was voluntary.

He knows.

I’d like to say I’m not scared of anyone, but a pissed off NCAA coach has even me quaking in my boots. My trepidation must be obvious, as Quinn squeezes my hand and rises to her toes to place a quick kiss on my cheek.

“Pollard sounded pissed.”

“Pissed he is, Kitty. Pissed he is.”

Sometimes being a loser boyfriend, with bare minimum expectations comes in real handy.

Not without protest, I drop Quinn off at BC’s Green Line stop, and absolutely floor it to BU … in the top of the line Mercedes she got when she turned eighteen. Even then, cross-town traffic means it takes double the usual fifteen minutes to make it to the administrative wing of Agganis Arena.

In general, most of my teammates dread an office call-up, but I lap up the opportunity to flirt with the office ladies …

and a few of the guys, too. None of that is happening today, though.

I may as well be Casper the fucking Ghost for all the heads that rise as I pass by doling out my usual banter.

Yeah. This is not good.

Though no one acknowledges my presence, someone must alert Coach to it. His office door swings open as I approach, and happiness is not what I see on his swollen, rosacea scarred face.

“Did I, or did I not say ten minutes?”

“You did, Coach. But the traffic?—”

“The traffic from Chestnut Hill is a nightmare this time of day. Is that what you were about to say? Because I know you were there. I have eyes all over this city, and I want to know why, Becker. Did you have some more intel to share? Some more betrayal to commit?”

Shit.

“Not sure what you’re talking about, Coach,” I reply, fighting to control my temper. “I mean I was at BC visiting my girlfriend, but?—”

“Quinn Harris. That’s your girlfriend, right? Coach Harris’s daughter”

“Yes, but?—”

“How lovely. How … cozy.” Interrupting me again, he turns to look over his shoulder. “Isn’t that cozy, Jordan.”

Fucking Foxman. Of course.

“Hey, Coach, why don’t we talk in your office?” I’m still standing in the foyer, Pollard’s PA Denise is doing her best chameleon impersonation, attempting to camouflage herself into the background. But there is no escape from this dose of secondhand embarrassment.

“I don’t think so. We have nothing to talk about.

Besides, I want every person in this organization to know what a no good, lying, cheating, piece of trash you are.

You lied to Harris. Told him I was targeting his goalie when it was you, yourself, that was after him, in pursuit of your own homosexual vendetta. ”

“What?”

“I know all about your little photo exchange, Becker. Jordan here has proof of payment to one of our PR team’s photographers.

That in combination with the lies and attempted smearing of my name gives me all I need.

You’re off the team, Becker. Your scholarship is hereby null and void.

Go to the locker room. Pack your things and leave. ”

“Not necessary, Coach.” Jordan’s pre-ball drop, high pitch sneers as the buck-tooth dick appears. “I’ve taken the liberty of cleaning out Troye’s stall.” My kit bag is handed to Coach who tosses it at my feet, spilling half its contents to the floor.

“Excellent. I expect you have some cotton candy to spin. Off you trot, Becker. Back to the carnival you go.”

Addiction is a medical condition. A disease that ruins families and takes lives. But when you’re seven, and your parents chose a pipe, Vegas, and their loser friends over you, knowing that and believing it, are two very different things.

Memories of my last night in our trailer have my heart thudding louder than the door just slammed in my face.

Scared, bleeding and alone, I knocked on the first door I found.

Inside the freshly painted trailer were Delphine and Fifi, the two women I now refer to collectively as Moms. Without a shadow of doubt, they saved me that night.

After all, prospects for an underweight, almost illiterate child of two meth-addicts are not great.

But here I am. Playing D1 college hockey for one of the country’s best teams.

Or at least, there I was.

Those women gave, risked and sacrificed everything for me. How the fuck am I going to tell them I’ve pissed it all up a rope, as I’ve heard Skip so eloquently say?

It’s going to break them.

At least some good may come of it. No scholarship means leaving Boston, and a deadbeat college dropout is hardly long distance relationship worthy.

Not for Daddy’s princess.

For my Kitty.

I’m solemnly trudging back to Quinn’s car, shame, rejection, a past I will never escape weighing me down with every step, when the phone call I’ve been dreading arrives.

“Hey, Moms.”

“What’s wrong?” How she can pick up on my mood after ‘Hey, Moms,’ is anyone’s guess. “Fifi, listen to our boy. Something is wrong. Is it the piercing? Is it infected again? Why you had to shove a metal pole through your nostrils?—”

“The piercing’s fine, Mom. It’s nothing.”

“Troye Harold Becker.” Oh shit. She full-named me.

Every kid gets this, but when the best parts of your life have been spent with free-loving, tree-hugging hippy types, traditional parenting methods feel fucking terrifying.

“I have cared for you when you were hungover, nursed you back to health from every childhood disease known to humanity, and cried alongside you when you got your place at BU.” Dagger, meet heart.

“I know you like I know my way around your mom’s?—”

“NOPE! DO NOT FINISH THAT THOUGHT!”

The sound of their joint laughter slightly loosens the knot that my stomach has been in since I was summoned to Coach’s office.

“Honestly, Troye. How did we raise such a prude?” That’s Delphi.

My other mom. The self-appointed ‘cool one’.

“Now, back to your mom’s question. We know you. Tell. Us. What. Is. Wrong.”

Many a lie has slithered its way from my mouth over the years, but very few, if any, have been directed to these two. I don’t want to start now. But I also don’t want to let them down. They cried alongside me when I got my place at BU.

How do I tell them I’ve blown it?

“Ahh, I made a bad play last night, and a guy, Brady, got a pretty decent concussion. Guess I feel a bit guilty.” Moms mutter to themselves like they always do, one unable to settle on a decision without the other. It‘s Delphi that speaks first. Her soothing, raspy tone, a much needed tonic.

“You have a heart of gold, Troye. Even if your temper is a little short at times on the ice. I can’t imagine you set out to hurt this boy, did you?”

“No. I was … Um.” Pausing, I rub my hand down my face, waiting for the right answer to come to me. “I was trying to help him, but kinda did it the wrong way.”

“Like the time you decided to help us make apple jelly by smashing a half day’s pick with your hockey stick?”

“Kinda. Yeah.”

“Then I think what you’re feeling shows that you are a good and honest person.” Fuck me I’m going to hell. “Who deeply cares for others. Not feeling any remorse would be more of a concern.”

“And do remember, son,” adds Fifi. “Hockey is like a romantic relationship. People get hurt all the time, but we still love to play the game.”