Page 19 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)
Though half asleep, he struts towards me and Cory, a toothy smile nobly attempting to force its way past the fatigue an almost three week road trip followed by a red-eye from Florida has evoked.
I’m here to collect Boy Wonder himself because Lotte is stranded in traffic on the wrong side of Boston. Cory’s here because he was the first sucker with a license I could find.
Unsurprisingly, “Where’s Lot?” are Noah’s first words. “No offense boys,” he continued, eager eyes reaching past me in search of his fiancee. “But Brades your shade of blonde does nothing for me, and Malkovich, your man boobs aren’t the set I’ve been gagging to see all night.”
“I do not have man boobs.” Cory, who totally does, crosses his arms over his chest like he’s about to be sent down a water slide … or be placed into a coffin.
“Good to see ya, mate.” I chuckle. “Lotte and Quinn got stuck in traffic coming back from her appointment at the neurologist. She’s going to meet us at home.”
His disappointment is obvious, but lasts mere seconds before he regroups. “Right then. Let’s get crack-a-lacking. I’ve got two buttholes to shake and a little wifey-type to sweep off her feet.”
“Hey,” Cory protests. “This butthole is the one driving you to that wifey. You could be a little more grateful.”
“I could, but …” Noah’s voice trails off as he disappears into the crowd, so we can’t hear if anything comes after the but—but knowing my former captain, that’s probably a good thing. When it comes to Lotte he has a one track mind … not a clean one.
It’s odd how good I feel loyally following behind him. Goalie to his center, I watched him make all the right plays, and can’t help but wonder how it will be to have Troye taking his place.
We’re halfway through spring vacation, and Friday will be Becker’s first game as a Bear. So far, the break has passed with less than a handful of words exchanged between us, and with Quinn slipping in and out of the house like she was running a covert operation.
It’s her birthday in a few days. Saturday to be exact.
As if I needed a reminder of it, Troye cornered me in the kitchen this morning, wearing a lopsided smile and white boxers that left little to the imagination.
He wanted to talk to me about a special gift he was planning, but I made a run for it before he could grunt out another word.
I’d heard enough of him that morning, and the one before that, and the one before that.
Quinn, too. Lord did I hear her … and those whimpers and sighs.
Their mixed audible pleasure was made all the worse by Troye’s obvious affection for her.
Despite all of his ‘we’re not a couple’ bullshit, it’s clear that he’s as mad for her as I am.
And is actually kind of sweet when he thinks no one is watching.
That in and of itself is an issue. One that makes me feel …
well … something I’m not ready to acknowledge. Now or ever.
Not even to myself.
“Earth to Brades.” Large hockey calloused fingers click in front of my eyes, and I blink myself back to reality.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’ve called you like twenty times, bro. Malkovich can’t remember where he parked. Do you?”
“Quinn three,” I recite before my brain can catch up with my mouth. “Shit. I mean, Q three. Q for Queen. Section Q three. Quinn, I mean Queen three.”
As I would have done should situations be reversed, my friends swoop. “Pretty sure I heard Quinn 3,” Cory says. “What about you, Cap?”
Smiling like a fucking idiot, Noah slaps me on the shoulder, knocking me forward a step before grasping to steady me. “Sorry kid, but it definitely sounded like Quinn three. If only Troye was here to confirm. I know. Why don’t you call him, say it again, and see what he thinks?”
“Yeah, well.” I huff, struggling to free myself from his grip. “Why don’t you go get fucked.”
“Ohhh, touchy.” The taunting continues all the way to the car, parked in Q three, which of course, leads to intensified taunting that only ends when Noah pushes past me to claim shotgun.
“Hey, no fair,” I bitch. “I’m almost three inches taller. You should be squeezed in the back.”
“Squeezed, you say?” Cory laughs. “Squeezed. How do you spell that again, Noah?”
“Ahh, I think it’s S for Sexy, Q for Quinn?—”
Fuck, this is going to be a long day. Narrowing my eyes, I try my hardest to glare at my supposed best friend. “Why did I miss you?”
“Because I’m wonderful and you love me. Not as much as Quinn, I know, but still.”
Resigned to my fate, I climb in the back of the first model Prius and pray the traffic becomes the first thing to be kind to me today.
Guess what? After twenty minutes we’re still somewhere within the airport grounds, and the trek only slides down hill from there.
The first face I see as we finally, thank fuck, pull into the pebbled drive of Noah’s mansion, is Troye’s.
“It’s not a mansion,” Noah states when I refer to it as such.
“It’s a super large apartment. One I will one day replace with a mansion so big, Lotte will never run out of walls to paint.
” With that, he’s un-clipping his belt and jumping from the still moving vehicle.
Troye, who is lingering by the front door, arm slung around Quinn’s waist, is utterly ignored because Lotte is there too, Noah’s #13 jersey enveloping her frame as she bops on the balls of her feet.
“Little D. You are a sight for sore eye—” His words are swallowed by Lotte who takes three strides then leaps, melding her lips to his, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.
Their never-ending passion for one another would be beautiful, should it not be so gross and … graphic.
“Maybe we should leave.” Cory, who’s shielding his eyes and still in the driver’s seat, suggests. “Troye,” he yells out the window. “Do you have your gear here? Brades and mine are in the trunk. Maybe you can ride with us. We’re getting some food before we head to Conte.”
Mumbling under my breath, I close my eyes and pray.
“Sure do. I call shotgun.”
For fuck’s sake.
I don’t know where the hell Malkovich is taking us, but our drive was long enough for me to drift off. Beyond glum and hazy from my nap, my unrepentant headache thuds and my left hand searches an empty pocket for Poppy.
Man, I miss that troll.
Beside me in the back is Quinn, awkwardly shuffling in her seat when she notices I’m conscious, before pretending she didn’t and turning away to stare out through the window.
Upfront rides her boyfriend, spewing his usual amount of shit that no doubt continued while I was out of it. “So, Cubby my boy. I’ve heard some of the lads call you Spidey. Why is that?”
“Why are you talking to him like you’re a fifty year old leprechaun?” My croaky grumpiness earns a giggle from Quinn, but is ignored by its intended audience.
“Promise you won’t give me shit?” Cory whispers loud enough for us to hear, his cheeks aflame.
“Not really, no. But I promise I’ll try to try.”
“Oh. Well okay then. Thanks for being honest. Troye … I guess.” After a heavy sigh, Cory lays it all out. “I love superheroes. Old school ones in comic form mainly, but movie and T.V. adaptations too.”
“And,” Quinn adds, mirth shining brightly in her eyes as she leans to poke her face between the seats. “Lotte told me that Noah told her that Cubby likes to wear Superhero underwear. I believe Marvel ones like Superman and Spider-Man are his favorites”
“DC,” Troye quips with his usual cockiness. “Superman is DC, not Marvel.”
Cory and he exchange nods, then move on to which of Superman’s deaths was least believable.
Bored as fuck, my brain simultaneously tunes out, and kicks in, supplying me with a montage of random memories.
The day Troye moved in. The arrogant smirk on his face.
The bag of magazines he was so protective of …
HOLY SHIT. It wasn’t porn as I suspected. It was much worse … no, much better.
Comics.
TROYE BECKER. HOCKEY BAD BOY IS IN FACT, A MASSIVE DORK.
Judging by her gasp and excited wriggle, Quinn’s come to the same conclusion … or she needs to pee. “Holy Connor McJesus,” she squeals. “Troye Harold Becker, are you a superhero nerd?”
He stiffens, inhales, and scoffs so intensely, he breaks into a rattling cough. “No. Nope. No way.”
Oh, oh, this is oh so glorious. Could I, the eternal joke, have finally, finally, found a chink in this fuck-wit’s armor?
Drunk on power, I’m on the verge of exposing him to long overdue and deserved ridicule, when my mind’s eye highlights Troye’s face as he clung to that bag.
The signature scowl and the smart-ass smirk were absent, meaning all that’s left is a kid—a scared one who clearly harbors an emotional attachment to the contents of that faded, manky tote.
Unease burns in my belly. I shouldn’t care about his feelings. This guy feeds off my embarrassment as much as a dung beetle does shit. Should our positions be reversed, there’s no doubt he would take me down in a heartbeat.
But I’m not him.
And I never want to be.
“I dunno much about superheroes, but my brother Dale loves anime. You ever read or watch any of that?”
“Brady, yes. I love anime,” Cory enthuses. “Bleach and Naruto are my favorites. Did your bro watch them?”
“Naruto, for sure. He was a big fan of the original Sailor Moon, and my little sister Sam loves it, too.”
“Sailor Moon is awesome. Too many guys dismiss female led stuff and think it’s stupid. Those girls kick ass.”
Quinn agrees, and the comic book revelations are forgotten, replaced by hot takes of the movie Spirited Away. While her and Cory argue its morality, Troye’s disarming dark eyes fixate on me via the passenger side mirror.
For some reason, I find myself unable—perhaps unwilling—to look away.