Page 14 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

T his place smells weird. Like fresh paint and new furniture. Clean but weird. Un-hockey like.

I’ve been waiting outside Coach Harris’s fancy office, my legs jiggling relentlessly, for what feels like a month. If the guy wasn’t Quinn’s old man, I would have left fifty-five minutes ago. But he is. So here I sit.

Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.

At my bouncing feet sits the same bag of comics I’ve had since I was a kid, and a solitary case containing the remaining pitiful extracts of my woeful life.

As I packed it, Chris and Dan tried everything they could to make me stay and fight Coach Pollard’s bullshit decision, but there’s no point.

The whole fucking system is designed to keep kids like me down.

I’m just a loser living up to expectations.

Even if sanity prevailed and I won my place on the team and in school, my pride wouldn’t allow me to play for that asshole, or walk those grandiose halls.

Nope. My college career, and time as a Bulldog is over.

As is my NHL dream.

How I’m going to tell Moms haunts me. I’ve practiced saying the actual words, I’ve lost my scholarship, at least a hundred times.

On each, the thought of breaking the news, as well as their hearts, crushes mine.

The worst part is, I know they will tell me I can stay.

That they’ll sell the house, the car, the farm, and Kenny our three-legged diabetic dog if they have to.

‘We will do anything for you,’ they’ll say.

And then I’ll break their hearts again by refusing to let them.

Rolling around in my hands is my phone. I’ve had it on silent since Quinn, the other woman I’m actively avoiding, began calling. Gossip travels faster in the hockey world than it does a beauty salon, so she’s no doubt heard my loser status has been doubly confirmed.

Quinn loves hockey boys as much as I do. Now that I’m not one, her interest will wane.

That’s a good thing, I repeat for the hundredth time, a sharp pang piercing my chest. It has nothing to do with Quinn leaving me, though.

Quinn gone is what I want. That’s been my end game for weeks.

So why are you still hanging around, waiting to impress Daddy Dear?

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Becker,” says the same voice that called me trash the last time I was here.

“Dean Mankato and I were working on something. Please, come in.” He waves his hand between me and the door like that fancy French Candle-thing does in that movie Quinn loves.

What’s it called? Beauty and the Beast or some shit?

The image of a hot, cartoon book girl riding the ladder should not be what I’m focusing on now.

Though a mansion full of magical household items seems more realistic than the fairy tale Harris spins as soon as I’ve finished shaking the fancy pants dean’s hand and flop my ass in a seat.

“I’m going to cut to the chase, Becker. I don’t like you, or that thing you’ve got shoved in your nostrils.”

“Thanks,” I scoff. “So glad I came all this way to hear that I suck. Is that all, or would you like me to lay on the ground so you can kick me while I’m fucking down, too?”

“Sounds like fun, but now’s not the time,” he replies dryly, earning a scolding look from the dean. “You may have noticed we’ve struggled to get wins on the board since we lost our captain?—”

“Nice way of saying your team blows.”

“Thanks. Now are you going to shut the hell up and let me get this out before I come to my senses?”

Rolling my eyes is the safest answer I can give, because hey.

I’m a firm believer in fucking with the patriarchy and all, but Harris is huge and I’m not as stupid as I look.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, as I was saying, we’re down offensively.

We have a handful of games left before finals and if we lose more we are done.

You’re a skilled offensive player. One who doesn’t have a team, a school, and some may say a future.

Surprisingly, I do think you have integrity, though.

More than I would have imagined. Hence why the dean and I think that maybe …

” He pauses, I think to swallow the vomit tickling his tonsils after the backhanders.

“I think maybe we each are the solution to the others’ problems.”

It takes a second for the fancy speech to sink in. Then … “No. Oh no fucking way.”

I cannot believe it.

Cannot.

Believe.

It.

A Bear.

A fucking Bear.

I am a BC fucking Bear.

One with a full scholarship that shits all over the basics my BU one covered. That means I’ll be able to graduate and not break my mom’s hearts.

But it’s the, grrrrr, the Bears part of this that’s all I can think of as I trail behind Quinn’s dad—my new coach.

He’s giving me the grand tour of Conte Forum, my new home arena.

I’ve been here before, of course. But only into the zones opposition players are granted access to.

So far I’ve been read the riot act— No more heroics.

No more mind games. Just good, clean hockey.

Yawned my way through piles of paperwork and a mini tour of the admin section.

Swiped an apple and a piece of pie from the player kitchen/dining hall, pretended not to be impressed by the fucking Olympic-sized pool, massive locker and weights rooms, and sauna, and oh, I found something very pink, very interesting that may come in handy at some point on the ground.

I’m now on my way to see my room options. Or option, it would seem.

Walking in stride, I can’t help but notice the mannerisms my new coach passed down to his daughter. One especially. There’s a lot of lip licking. I always thought that was just Quinn being flirty, but unless Coach wants to get a little handsy in the library stacks, it’s not.

“We have no housing available in the dorm the majority of the team are in, but we can offer you a room across campus with our most recent starter. He’s a quiet kid. A bit weird like most goalies are, but?—”

I come to a screeching half, squawking, “What?” Like a chicken laying a massive fucking egg. “Your goalie? No fucking way?”

“Is that your favorite expression, or just the one that comes to mind when you’ve been handed a lifeline?”

“Bit of both, I think. Honestly, though. You can’t be serious. Brady Basse. You want me to room with Brady Basse?”

Harris stops, propping his hands on his hips, head dropping to study an interesting spot on his shoe.

“Look, I know there is history between you two, but unless you have a spare few thousand to cover the last few months rent and other items like food, electricity and bull rings, you don’t have much choice.

Besides. You lost your place at BU because you warned us Basse was in danger. That’s not an act of hate.”

I think of the last photo Brady sent me before our little text exchange was put on hiatus. Him on his bed. That chest. That hair.

Oh Mr. Harris . I yearn to say, hate has nothing to do with it. Hate would be easy.

Hand poised to knock on Basse’s door. Harris pauses, squeezing his eyes together in what looks like a silent prayer before he speaks.

“Do me a favor, kid. Lose that shoulder chip wider than the Rio Grande and smile. My assistant has been trying to get a hold of Brady all day, but he’s not picking up, which means this is as much of a surprise to him as it was to you. ”

With Brady’s good luck trinket rolling in my pocket, I force a grin a Disney hero would be proud of and wink. “Super.”

“Lovely,” Daddy Coach, I think I can now call him, grunts and is about to knock when I hear female laughter on the other side.

I really, really hope it belongs to that hot professor Quinn blew a gasket over.

That would be interesting. That would turn this whole bizarro-ass day even more on its head.

I’m practically drooling, but Harris either doesn’t hear, or doesn’t care and pounds on the door while I move to my left, out of view of the peephole.

All is quiet once it stops shaking, then I hear footsteps and hear a muffled, “Coach?” float through the cheap ass chipboard.

“Yeah. Hey, Brady. Sorry to interrupt, but we need to have a little chat.” Deadbolts unlock.

A chain slides. The door swings open and there he is, Skippy, in all his rumpled sweats glory.

Those perpetually rosy cheeks are glowing, overgrown blonde locks hiding sea-blue eyes and unfairly long lashes.

“Of course, come in.” He politely waves Coach in, turning to follow when he spots me. “What the fuck?”

To this, some pink-haired woman who is definitely not the hot professor raises her brows, and Coach huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, you two are a match made in heaven.” Once he releases his grip, he forces a smile. “Good to see you, Claire.”

They continue talking, but whatever is taking place between the two adults in the room is of little to no concern to me. I have some chaos to create.

“Hey, Skip. Glad … no, disappointed to see you’re wearing some clothes this time. And who’s the babe?” I nod towards Pinkie who, come to think of it, looks really familiar.

“She’s not a babe, she’s Noah’s sister, and as I said, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Actually, you said what the fuck, which is a different thing entirely and quite rude, if you ask me. Now. Aren’t you going to invite your new roomie in?”