Page 13 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“You want me?”

I nod, that damn persistent thud in my head ramps up as I lean, resting my forehead on Quinn’s. Shit she smells good, fresh and clean. And that mouth. Her mouth is right there.

My hands shake with restraint. The only thing stopping me closing the minuscule distance between us, and finally tasting those fucking red lips is that I know she belongs to someone else.

To him. Even though he doesn’t deserve her.

“You know I do, Quinny. Everyone does. Especially?—”

“Troye.” Her teeth plunge into and drag against her bottom lip.

Besotted, I follow its path, resisting the urge to repeat it with my tongue.

In the end, no fight is required. Quinn ducks and slips underneath my arm, leaving the hand I still have pressed against clenching around nothing. “You should go, Brady.”

“But Troye?—”

“Is none of your concern. Just like anyone you’re seeing is none of mine.”

What? “Quinn, there is no one.”

“It doesn’t matter, Brady. You were right.

This is wrong. I appreciate you coming over here, I really do, but I need to hear Troye’s version.

Until then, this.” She points between us.

“Whatever this is can’t be. No matter how much we might want it.

” Ouch times infinity. “I think we need to take a break from our friendship for a while. I need to take a break.”

I want to argue, to stay and plead my case, to persuade her I’m not dating anyone. But as she searches my faces for understanding, the eternally present spark in her eyes dulls. And since I would rather snorkel in a pool filled with shit than to hurt this woman, I nod and step away.

Coach demanded I rest for a week, maybe even two. But the nervous energy coursing through my veins hums like peak hour traffic on the I90. So, I head to one of my favorite places. Hidden in the rabbits’ warren of corridors at Conte Forum, my team’s home rink, is an NHL standard gym and sauna.

Here, I can think. Here, I am free.

Starting with a steady-paced walk on the treadmill, I gradually increase the speed till I’m in a light jog, and wait for the endorphin hit to kick in.

Something is wrong though. Whether it’s the insurmountable sadness and fear of losing Quinn, my ever growing loneliness, or the lingering effects of my supposedly mild concussion, each time my foot lands on the belt, a pain sizzles from the back of my head, down my neck, somehow landing in my gut.

I’m going to be sick.

Gripping the handrails I push off and jump, my feet landing haphazardly on each side of the belt as it grinds to a halt.

When I finally brave stepping off, it feels like I’m treading on marbles, my stomach is so knotted that I can’t even make it to the closest bench.

Instead, I drop to the floor like a seasick bag of shit, and suck in as much air as I can without moving.

I’m so angry. So sick, and so fucking frustrated with everything, that I shove my hand into my pocket, seek out the so called good luck charm that brought me here, and toss it to the ground.

“Fuck you, Poppy.”

It’s unknowable, how long I sit and sulk as the world spins around me.

All I do know is when Paul and Cory arrive for their workouts, I rise, slide the everything’s-great-mate mask back on, pretend to laugh as they joke about the girls they took home last night, then wave and head for the locker room.

To my right, I see someone who looks an awful lot like Troye, striding with purpose behind Coach.

Why would that asshole Becker be at Conte?

Quinn’s told me several times that he refuses to talk to her dad, so again, why?

By the time I decide it wasn’t a hallucination, and search the halls, Troye, if it was him, is gone.

When I arrive back at my dorm, a solitary figure is leaning against my door, two large bags of groceries at their feet.

Facing away from me, with their hair tucked beneath a Boston B’s cap, I have no way of telling who it is.

My first pick is Lotte, but whoever this is, is far too tall, and it’s not Professor Plum, she wouldn’t be caught dead in baggy sweats.

“Big D,” a familiar Bostonian accent says.

“Claire?” I’m so bloody happy to see her, my vision blurs. “What are you doing here?”

“Noah was worried, and asked me to check in on you.”

I continue on my path to the door, feet tripping on nothing as she speaks. With one glance, Claire recognizes me for what I am, a man looking as bad as he feels, a goalie taking the blame for his entire team’s loss.

“Come here, Brades.” She drops the one bag remaining in her grip and opens her arms. With no care to how pathetic I may look, I break into a mini sprint, crashing into her at such a pace I nearly knock her off her feet, the same dizziness that cut short my workout hits me again as her arms enclose around me.

Her gesture. Her floral scent. Her taking the time to be here, solidifies how deeply I miss my mum, brothers and sister, and those fat, vision-blurring tears are no longer just a threat.

An hour after I stumbled upon Claire at my doorstep, I’ve finished three bowls of diet approved chicken soup, lied that I feel no adverse effects from the concussion, whined about Quinn extraditing me from the friend zone to the much worse no-go zone, and apologized a thousand times.

What for, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the lies.

Or the embarrassment of crying in front of her like a six foot five baby.

Or the embarrassment that dwarfed the first embarrassment when I open the door to my dorm room.

“For the fiftieth time, Noah, stop saying sorry. I’m related to Noah-what even is a fresh sheet-Petterson.

He’s a pig. This—” A rainbow ring covered finger points to the discarded sweats, tees and Gatorade bottles littering the floor “—is nothing. Honestly I don’t know how Lotte puts up with him.

” Voice cute, gruff and grumpy, she crosses her arms over her chest, and rolls her eyes.

“You miss him a lot, don’t you?”

“Lord help me I do.” Sighing, Claire slumps deeper into my tiny sofa, almost disappearing into the crack between the two back cushions.

“Same goes for you I guess. You and numb nuts fell headfirst into a bromance the second you landed. It must be hard for you without him.” Now, I don’t know Claire as well as her numb nuts bro, but as she studies me, I notice the same curious, mischievous twinkle lighting her eyes.

“You know, Lotte, my wife Kelly and I used to wonder if, for you, there was more to it than just friendship. For you,” she repeats in case I didn’t catch it the first time.

Had this theory been expressed a few weeks ago, I would have denied, denied, denied. But I’m tired of holding this in. Of being ashamed. “I wondered that a few times myself.”

Clearly surprised by my openness, Claire’s shoulders drop from around her ears, settling in a far more comfortable position as she taps the empty space beside her.

“Wading through the mud of sexuality can be difficult. Especially when you’re young, playing a traditionally male dominated sport, and so far from everything you know. Did you ever come to any conclusions? ”

With a pang for home cracking against my rib cage, I drop next to her and let my head fall backward.

“Well, when I was maybe twelve, my aunt gave mum this chesty-man calendar for Chrissy … Oh, Christmas,” I clarify when Claire goes a little cross-eyed.

“It was of this Australian male stripper group called The Thunder From Down Under. I was mesmerized. The oil-coated, bronze skin. The muscle. The bulges.” At that Claire snorts a laugh, and I do too.

“In hindsight they looked bloody ridiculous, but back then, whoa.” I sigh, puffing out my cheeks.

“I was an absolute string bean, six feet already and skin and bone. I told myself I admired their bodies because they were manly and buff and that’s what I wanted to be one day.

But by the time I was eighteen, and the same stolen calendar was still hidden beneath my mattress, I had an inkling that something was wrong. That I was … abnormal.”

“Abnormal? Brady, who the hell told you that. There’s nothing wrong with being queer, just like there’s nothing wrong with being straight.”

“No one in particular ever said it. I just … felt different. You know? I mean, sometimes Mum would see a friend of my older brothers from school at the shops, tut and say, ‘such a shame he’s gay.’ Like, who is it a shame for?

” I shrug. “Mum is one of the kindest, most loving souls on earth, so she would never mean to be intentionally prejudiced. But I guess I absorbed things like that, you know? I was always sporty and calling someone a fruit or poof or cocksucker was the highest form of insult. And it wasn’t just that.

I liked, and still do like girls. Like …

a lot.” Girls like Quinn, I think to myself.

“But I didn’t understand how I could like both, so I never made a move on either.

Ever.” An angry blush burns my cheeks, and I consider hiding.

But I don’t. Because there’s nothing but acceptance and kindness and support on Claire’s face. “I’m not like you, Claire.”

She mock-gasps and clutches at her heart. “ What ? You mean, you’re not a lesbian?”

“Haha, very funny,” I scold, trying and failing to not return her cheeky smile.

“I mean I’m not brave like you are. I already don’t fit in, and I’m afraid of how people would treat me if I …

you know. And, and what if I don’t really feel what I feel, but just think I feel it.

And so many people are so dismissive or nonchalant about it all now, and I’m still so …

rigid. Being so afraid of something that doesn’t even matter, seems kind of stupid.

You must think I’m kind of stupid.” How could she not after that crap heap?

“Nothing you just said is stupid Brady, and nothing you have done is lacking courage. Trust me, a lot of people care in good, and sadly, bad ways. As for not knowing what you want, some people know who they are, and who they want from a really young age, but some, like me, take time to sort it all out. You can experiment or not. Label it or not. Like boys, girls, and they/them, hotties. Take a day, a month, ten years. There is no queer timetable. No one is grading you. Just be patient and open to new people and experiences and you will find where you fit. I promise.”

Suddenly tired, I let my body collapse to the side till I’m squishing my seat buddy, and her fluffy space bun hairdo is tickling my nose. “You’re very wise for someone with such a dumbass brother … and such pink hair.”

“Thanks. You’re very heavy.”

“Thanks. Actually, that reminds me. I’m hungry.”

Claire snorts a laugh. “How did that remind you of being hungry?”

“Dunno. But it did.” Standing, I make my way over to the kitchen and start plucking stray noodles stuck to the sides of the pan Claire used to heat the soup. After all, I’m a growing boy and it’s been at least twenty minutes since I ate.

“I know you guys train like machines, but I swear my grocery bill is a quarter of what it used to be with garbage guts gone. I can’t believe how much you can eat.”

“Faith said that, too,” I reply, opening the fridge and swiping a handful of grapes. In my periphery I see Claire’s jerk upright, her ears practically pointing like a fairy.

“Faith. Whose Faith?”

“No one special. Just one of my teachers. She’s Aussie too, and has taken me under her wing, I guess.

” Quinn’s odd reaction to Faith’s presence in my room jumps to the front of my mind.

“Actually she was here the morning after the Battle game. She let Quinn and Troye in when I was in the shower, and Quinn completely freaked out.”

“Wa, wa, wait. So Quinn and your female professor were in your dorm room?”

“Yeah. That freaking boof-head Troye was too. Freaking hate that guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yuck, boo Troye.” Claire leaps from the couch and literally bounds to my side. “So what time was this? And what does this Faith look like? Oh, and who was here first? Quinn and Troye or this Faith?”

“Ahh, why do you keep calling her this Faith?“

“Just curious, big fella. Now come on. Indulge me.”

Sensing trouble, my hand dives into my pocket to work Poppy’s hair.

Only she’s not there ‘cause I’m a knob. “Like eight or nine, maybe. I can’t remember.

Oh, and Faith was here first, and she’s tallish I guess.

Hot for an old chick. Blonde hair, blue eyes.

Really, really, really nice legs.” Gasping, my very excited guest slaps her hand over her mouth, and I’m very confused.

“What’s with the face? You look like Quinn did but less pissed.

I don’t get why this is so interesting?”

“Dude!” Claire’s palms slap against my tiny bench, the Cornflakes box still sitting out from breakfast falling to its side and adding to the mess.

“What don’t you get? Why is a hot teacher in your room at eight a.m., while you’re showering is interesting?

Why the girl you fancy, and her boyfriend that you quote, ‘freaking hate’ were here not long after, or why that girl with the boyfriend was so freaked out and pissed looking.

You’re honestly telling me you don’t get why any of that is interesting? ”

I rub the back of my neck with my free hand. The other is working overtime in my pocket, searching for what I know isn’t there. “Not really, no.”

A burst of laughter propels Claire forward, till she’s practically lying in filth, crushing stray but innocent bits of cereal.

“Oh, Brady. My poor sweet, naive, Brady.” It’s muffled by laminate, but the condescension is deafening.

“You’ve had enough for one day, but soon, we need to have a little chat. ”