Page 17 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

T here’s a sacred hockey saying inspired by weird-ass net minders envious of teammates’ hotel room sexcapades, ‘hell hath no fury like a goalie with an ear pressed against a roommate’s wall.’

Seems apt. Though fury’s probably not the right word in my case.

What’s a synonym for sad, and horny as fuck? Pathetic? Hell knows no patheticness like a goalie with an ear pressed against a bedroom wall. Yeah, that’s it.

When the noises started I was on the couch, elbow deep into a bag of kale chips, wishing they were real chips, and wallowing in pity.

Dropping the bag was an accidental reaction to the first moan.

As was sliding off the couch and tiptoeing to my room.

Same with how I fell sideways on my bed, ear conveniently coming to rest against the plasterboard.

And I definitely didn’t mean to stay, listening to whimpers turn to sighs, to moans of yes, to pleas for more.

On occasions, my older brothers and I had read the juicy bits of their girlfriend’s romance novels, but I legit had no clue that non-fictional guys, vocal guys like Troye with really, really, really dirty mouths existed.

Nor did I know living breathing girls liked that type of thing.

Quinn doesn’t seem to like it. She loves it.

Can’t say I blame her.

Willing the lure of it all to go away, I squeeze my eyes so tightly it’s painful, but all I see are flashbacks to the x-rated daydream I had on the couch at Noah’s place, “Kiss me Brady. Kiss us.”

Fuck. This … this … whatever it is has to stop. I have a hard-on I could use to dig my way home via the center of the earth, and I’m pretty sure both touching, and not touching it, might just kill me.

The only option is deflation. Can’t seem to move though.

Eyes still fused shut, I pound my fist into the wall, “For the love of God, I can hear everything.”

For your average Joe, that would be enough to incentivize putting a God damn sock in it, but this is Troye.

Troye who loves to taunt and tease and garner as much attention as possible.

All my bitching does is tell him that I’m listening, egging him on, feeding his ego.

“He can hear everything we’re doing,” he rasps, voice gooey and thick. “Do you want me to stop?”

Quinn’s, “No,” comes fast. Like I might.

“No?” Troye asks. “You like it, Kitty?”

“Yes.”

In a similar fashion to the skin of the beady eyed-brown snake, any restraint, pride or shame is shredded and discarded alongside my sweats at the foot of my bed.

There’s a chance I’ll blow the second I touch myself, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.

My boxers follow the same path and I run my thumb through the bead of pre-cum decorating my tip.

“Fuck,” I moan, as quietly as I can on the first down stroke, then still, waiting for any reaction next door.

When none comes I continue, thrusting into my hand and quickly falling in sync with Quinn’s gasps.

Guilt sizzles through me, but is overtaken by the need to come.

To come with her. With Quinn.

“Quinn. Quinn.” I don’t mean to say it but I do, the words choking me as I near the edge. The tingles swirling in the base of my spine are rapidly descending when I hear Troye’s smug laugh.

“He likes what he hears, Kitty. Should we give him some more?”

Bugger! I haven’t moved so quick since I stumbled upon my naked nan in the shower. My eyes are fused together just as tightly, too. My pants are snatched up and shoved on as I bolt, where am I heading? Anyone’s guess.

“Are you dead, or what?”

“Dunno. Kick me and see.”

Coach, well I’m 99% sure it’s Coach, huffs and pokes me with his stick rather than jabbing with a metal blade. “If you’re not dead, why are you face down on my ice … and why the hell are you wearing those spare lost property pads. They’re disgusting.”

They are disgusting. My nose is pressed into inches of frozen water and I can still smell them. “Left the house in a hurry.”

“My ass could be on fire, and they—” he kicks the pads—“could be extinguishers. And I still wouldn’t touch them. What the hell happened to make you leave so quick?”

Your daughter and her secret boyfriend busted me busting a nut.

It would be so easy to snitch. Sure as heck would solve a few of my problems. Harris would lose his mind. Troye would be gone. Quinn would be free to date … anyone but Troye. Or me. But it would hurt her too, and I would rather eat the stinkiest, grossest moldy secondhand pads than hurt that girl.

So by time, I roll to my side and hope I can think of something. Anything he’ll buy. “Troye was being an ass.”

Another huff is released, a hand extended. “I’m convinced he’s the third Tkachuk brother, which is exactly why he’s here. He scores goals, forechecks like no one else, and that mouth of his draws penalties.”

Again, I’d like to squeal and tell him what his new bestie’s mouth was doing earlier, but I swallow it down along with my pride and reluctantly take his giant, un-gloved palm.

I’m hauled to my feet with embarrassing ease, and have to remind myself this guy left the NHL almost a decade ago.

You’d never know it. “Is it true? BU got rid of him because of that note?”

“It is.” Coach nods, drifting backwards towards the goals.

“Apparently he has honor, too. Who would have thought?” Who indeed.

“Let’s put those pads to use, hey.” From his pocket, he pulls a couple of pucks, tossing them to the ice and nodding towards Netty.

“May as well burn that tension off with some light practice. Harnessing that rage will make you a better player. Fuck, pure spite fueled half my career.” He chuckles, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to.

I also want to ask who or what bothered him so deeply, but I don’t do that either.

I’ve been in Boston, in the States, less than a year and I’m still kinda figuring him out.

He’s a man like no other I’ve met. An incredible leader.

Predictable. Wise and empathetic, somehow always knowing the right thing to say at the right time.

But he’s also terrifying, not only because he holds my future in his hands, or even because he’s Quinn’s dad.

No, it’s more to do with dragging my six foot five frame around like it’s nothing and out-skating half his team, who are half his age.

Pissing him off is not on my to do list.

“Sure thing, Coach.” Way to not be a kiss-ass.

Certain this is going to be humiliating or horrendous or both, I skate towards Netty, give her a few love taps, then sweep my crease.

Cautious of my recent concussion, a few soft shots come my way, but once Coach warms up and he sees me moving okay, ninety mile an hour bullets are being fired with little to no regard for my health.

It’s awesome.

Turns out one-on-one, non-official practice with Coach Harris is fire.

My cheeks hurt from smiling, my body feels loose and free, the prudish shame my shoulders carried all but disperses.

The only issue, I could puke enough to fill my helmet.

Us hockey players are notorious for playing injured.

And I don’t mean a slight twinge in your calf.

I’ve seen guys finish a game with broken ribs and only three teeth remaining, but this is different.

After thirty minutes there’s two, then three pucks coming at me and Coach is suddenly a triplet.

I need to get off the ice but I don’t want to tell him what’s wrong or I’ll miss more games. Excuses are being formed in my foggy brain when I’m saved by the bell. Or rather, the plum.

“Are you sure it’s wise for Mr.Basse to be on the ice?

” Concern pitches Faith’s voice at a near squeal as it carries over the ice, just as Coach lets rip a stinging slap shot.

Distracted by her presence, I miss it, and am knocked off my skates when it crashes into my mask, the back of my head the first to make contact with ice.

I’m fairly sure I’m fine. Maybe just a little winded, but you’d never know it by Faith and Harris’s reactions.

Bickering like an old married couple, they rush to my aide.

Faith shows remarkable foot skills to stay upright in her bright yellow sneakers.

“This is exactly what I was talking about, Mr. Harris,” she grinds out through gritted teeth.

“You’re supposed to protect him, not take his head off. ”

“And you’re supposed to be trusting me to do my job.”

I’m still on the ground, pads protecting me from this stinging cold as they argue. Clearly familiar with each other, they seem to forget I’m there till Marty joins pushing his way between them. “You okay, Brades? Noah would kill me if I let something happen to his goalie on my watch.”

“I’m not Noah’s goalie anymore,” I remind him, eyes glued to the antics playing out before me. “And we were just mucking around. It’s not your watch.”

“My ice. My watch.” With a wink, Marty straightens and adjusts my helmet then nods towards the bench.

“Why don’t you hit the showers and call it a night.

I hear they’re serving Lobster rolls and Cannolis over at Brookline dining hall.

” He rubs his chin, then his stomach. “Ugh. I might join you. Donna’s mother is in town and kidney pie is her specialty. ”

Right now, the thought of food, organic or not, has my stomach churning. “Thanks for the tip, Marty, but I’m knackered. I’ll probs just head home.” He gives me the look everyone does when I say something Aussie and nods.

“Just take it easy, kid.”

“Oh he will.” Inserts Faith, who pushes past both men to grab me by the elbow and usher me towards the gate. Again, it’s disturbing how easily I can be maneuvered. “I’ll make sure of it.”