Page 12 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)
“ N oah, your little D is being a massive pain in my A. We just got back from the old apartment after hours of packing, lugging boxes down three hundred flights of stairs?—”
“Three, Quinn. Three flights of stairs,” Lotte rudely yells, trying to steal her phone from my hand.
“Because,” I overemphasize. “Someone’s afraid to use the elevator.
Then we dusted and vacuumed and cleaned the walls.
Now we’re home, and I’m so close to the comfort of the sofa, I can taste it.
But am I resting? Are my aching feet, already weary from a four hour shift at work, nestled upon by any kind of fluffiness?
No. Instead they’re facing a wall, covered in filth because she’s painting … again.”
Flicking my eyes, from what appears to be a dew drop, to Lotte is unnecessary. I can hear the slow roll of her eyes accompanying her sigh. “It’s not filth, it’s life and color and dreams and infinite possibilities.”
I gaze down to the cans filled with pink, lime green and yellow goop. “It’s paint, Lot. Mass produced, liquid chemicals in a can. Isn’t it Noah?”
“Well, I can’t hear what Lot said, but I presume it was something about paint equaling dreams or rainbows or some other fairy junk,” he replies.
Lotte scoffs and jabs the air with her brush. “Noah will agree with me, Quinn. Your problem is you lack imagination. If you put as much effort into your creative side as you have your stalking of Plum you’d be the next Frida Kahlo.”
Since all I know about Frida is that Selma Hayek played her in a movie, I let that slide and give in to Lotte’s desperate attempts to talk to her own fiancé.
“Bye, Noah. See you next week.” My roomie snatches, and presses the phone to her head like it’s an iron and she’s trying to press a pleat into her skull.
By the time they share fifty goodbyes and Lotte disconnects the call, I’m overcome with jealousy.
Yes, it’s petty. Yes, it’s wrong. And yes, Troye can be sweet and soft and cuddly, too.
But he also has to catch himself each time he is, and before I can blink, that damn barbed wire guarding his heart slips right back in place.
I could tell her how lucky she is, and beg her for tips on casting such a spell over her man, but I instead choose to address her earlier inaccuracy.
“Stalking is such an overrated term. I mean, take you and Noah. You accused him of stalking on several occasions when you first met, and now you’re engaged and living in a palace. ”
Lotte drops the phone, and tilts her head like a wounded pup.
“That was different. I was basically a tiny hermit being pursued by an extroverted giant jock. You’re mapping out the daily movements of a professor and your friend .
” She air-quotes friend, and like everything else she’s saying, it’s highly unappreciated.
“Look. My father is a member of faculty, which means I have a by proxy duty to uphold the school’s reputation.”
“Really. And is this by proxy duty, that I’m sure is recorded on a legally binding document, why you dressed me as a bunny and yourself as a German beer wench for a party held on the grounds of our school’s arch-nemesis?”
“That was months ago, and yes, I think it’s mentioned somewhere. Besides, Troye’s place is off campus.”
“Oh, well yes. You’re right. That makes all the difference.”
Since I’m still holding my paint brush, I flick a blob of pastel rose destined to become a petal, into her hair. Of course it looks cute as fuck. “These smart-ass comebacks may have won over your man, Charlotte West, but I find them tiresome.”
“I should expect most things would after your first full day at work. How are your feet feeling?”
I look down and attempt to wriggle my toes. “Not dead, but not working.”
“So …” Her voice trails off as something out of the window catches her attention, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth.
“So if Brady was standing by the door, hand raised to ring the door bell, you couldn’t possibly—” I’m up on my feet before the DING has the chance to DONG.
“It’s a miracle not on ice!” Declares Lotte, proudly chuckling to herself.
“Yes, yes, now please don’t say anything ‘bout the stalking-I mean, investigating.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Running my fingers through my hair as I go, I hobble to the door, swinging it open just as Brady prepares to ring the bell again.
“Hey, Bra—” Almost knocking me off my feet, Brady strides inside, his strong, calloused, but somehow soft hands cradling my cheeks.
“Quinn, are you okay? I swear I had nothing to do with it. I detest the guy, but I never said a word, I swear.”
As much as I‘m enjoying the affectionate touch of a man who is not my boyfriend, I have to ask. “Nothing to do with what?”
Confusion crosses Brady’s face as his touch falls away, my skin tingling in its wake. “Troye didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
I should not be wasting tears on a boy who holds me in such little regard, that his life-altering news is not worthy of a fucking phone call.
Yet here I am.
“Can they even do that?” I sniffle, accepting the Kleenex Brady passes me from the now near-empty box. “Doesn’t he need to face a tribunal, or board, or a vote or something?”
Brady’s shoulders hit his ears as he shrugs, a whoosh of air following their equally rapid descent. “Dunno. Guess not.”
“If he doesn’t play, he’ll lose his scholarship. How is that fair?”
“It’s not, Quinny, but it is the rules. The same would happen to me if I lost my spot on your dad’s team.”
Dad’s team.
The reminder of why I could never be with Brady, of why I first turned to the boy now breaking my heart, feels like a fresh slap to a raw face.
Uncertain as to what to say or do, I succumb to the doldrums that had me take to my bed, while my visitor drifts into the background, hovering by the door. “Do you want me to go?” he asks eventually.
l tap the cold, empty space beside me. “Lay with me for a bit? Just till I fall asleep.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Quinn. Troye?—”
“Troye’s not here. You are.”
“Should I be though?” The awkwardness on his handsome face loosens every tight, rigid muscle within me, freeing a deafening laugh that makes Brady jump.
“You most definitely should, and have. I’m sure I can be trusted not to ravish you.”
Only just.
“Now come. Sit at least. We’re friends after all, right?”
“Right,” Brady repeats, visibly squirming. But, bit by bit, my father’s goalie inches towards my bed like the sheets are aflame. When his knees bump against the mattress, he drops in increments, his movements stiff , nothing like his gracefulness on the ice.
“Do you think he’s already been kicked out of the dorms?”
“Maybe,” his almost-whisper comes with his back turned to me, the door he was hesitant to leave the most interesting thing in the room.
“When Ryan was booted from our team, he hung around like a bad smell for a week before he finally left, but I dunno if he was on a scholarship. Also, Troye’s …
” He pauses, head angled toward me that I can see the burning red glow of his cheeks. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sitting up, I place my pinkie beneath his chin, turning his face until his big blue eyes meet my hazel. “It matters to me, Brady. Say what you’re thinking. I trust your opinion.”
“Well, it’s just that I reckon Troye’s not the type to hang around when there’s nothing in it for him.”
“You think he’s selfish?”
“I know he’s selfish.”
“How?” I demand, defensiveness creeping into my tone even when I know he has a point. “What has he ever done to make you think that?”
“Plenty.”
“Like what? Show me. Tell me. What’s he done other than get into your head during a game.”
“During a game? During ?” Brady slowly rises, clutching both temples for a beat or two before he’s completely upright. Even then his gaze remains glued to the floor. “Quinn, Troye cares about Troye. That’s it.”
“No. That’s not it. He came to see Dad. You saw and warned him that Dad wouldn’t listen, but he still stormed in there and demanded to be heard.
Why would he do that if he only cared about himself?
And why would he come to the cafe and drink ten coffees in a row, just so I can practice barista-ing, even when I’m not allowed within touching distance of the steamy-machine thingy?
And why would he risk everything to go against his own team, just to help you when the only thing you two have in common is me? ”
“Please. He’s a liar, Quinn. He’s just playing with me, because he knows he has what I want.”
Enraged, I struggle, wriggle and kick to free my legs from my bedding, then jump to my feet and push my hand into his chest. “And what is that, Brady? What do you want? You busting to switch from goalie? Want to get kicked off the team and out of school?”
“No.” Using his hulking frame, he covers my hand with his. Raises it above our heads. And pins me against the wall. The family photo taken at my first peewee hockey game crashes to the floor, sending shards of glass over our feet. “It’s you, Quinn. What I want is you.”