Page 20 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ Y ou’re under an hour away from your first game with your new team, and this is how you’re spending the pregame. Calling me for sex advice?”

“That’s right, numb nuts. Now are you going to help me, or just give me shit?”

“Can’t I do both?”

“Chris!” Several people look my way, which is not surprising since I’m standing outside the locker room, looking dodgy as fuck, cap pulled low over my face, hand cupped over my mouth.

“Seriously dude, I need help. Time is running out. I need to lock this thing down. Quinn’s birthday is tomorrow.

I have to get Skip on board tonight, but I can’t make myself do it and I don’t know why. ”

“Pfft.” Chris scoffs. “I can tell you why. Sneaking around with Quinn, pretending what you have isn’t what it is was easy when you were at different schools, and her dad wasn’t your coach. But now that you are, and he is, and you’re spending more time with her, liking her more too, it’s not.”

Shifting on my feet, I try really, really hard to process that, but … “Wait. What?”

“It’s obvious, Bro. You told me you planned to lose Quinn by being a jerk, but could never quite do it ‘cause, hello! You like her too much. Then you concoct this dumb threesome thing to shift her off to Brady, but you can’t bring yourself to do that either, ‘cause you like her. And , you like Brady, too. So, young Becker. What’s the common denominator here? ”

“You,” I scoff, thoughtfully stroking my chin.

“You are the link. I need to stop telling you everything. Also, I don’t like Skip.

Not one bit. So yeah, maybe the guy has grown on me like fungus on a locker room shower floor.

I mean, I knew he was hot, but now … I see he’s …

nice. Like the bigger asshole I become, the kinder, more considerate and caring—while actively ignoring me—he becomes.

My comics are a perfect example. I know he knows, and he knows I know, and we both know my absolute annihilation was handed to him on a silver platter, with Quinn, the girl he wants, right there. But he hasn’t spilled. Not one word.”

“Maybe ‘cause he likes you, too.”

I do my best goal buzzer sound, and wave off more odd looks.

“Wrong again, Chrissy. He hates me, like I hate him, and I can prove it.

Get this, he cooks dinner for me all the time, but everything is loaded with gross vegetables.

Vegetables! Why does he do that? ‘Cause I hate vegetables, and like I said, he hates me.”

“He hates you so much he cooks you delicious, healthy meals. Wow. You’re right. What a jerk.”

“I know, right? So what do I do?”

A hearty sigh comes down the line and after years of living with Chris, I know I have about thirty seconds before he loses it and hangs up.

“Troye. I can feel my life slipping away as we speak, so this is the last thing I’m ever going to say on the subject.

As far as I see it you have three options.

One. Grow some balls and break up with Quinn.

Two. Be a half decent human, treat Quinn the way she deserves, the way I know you want to treat her deep down inside, and forget about your crush on Brady?—”

“They both suck, and I do not do crushes. What’s three?”

“Three,” he grumbles. “Is the worst of the bunch. Fuck them both. Have amazing, mind blowing sex, then suffer the undoubtedly monumental consequences of your terrible, terrible decision.”

It’s at that moment that Brady enters the corridor.

His head is down, the headphones jammed over the top of his beanie are probably playing that God-awful pop music he listens to.

He doesn’t notice me, which means I have an uninterrupted view of the barely decent crisp blue suit that clings to his biceps, thighs, and yep, that .

The guy is a snack, and I am more than ready to chow down.

“Fuck you very much for the advice, Chrissy boy. I think you’re right. Mind blowing sex it is.”

“That’s not—” Cutting Chris off, I slide my phone back into my pocket and chase Brady down grabbing his elbow, and pulling him aside before he enters the locker room.

“Skip, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Now?” he whines, head rolling back then side to side.

It’s not cute. At all.

“Yes, now. It’s urgent and about Quinn.”

“Quinn. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, but I know a way she could be even finer, and it involves you, me and a naked birthday present she’ll never forget.” Before I can say another word, Brady’s all over me, crowding me against the wall, pinning me beneath that massive mound of muscle, face twisted in anger.

“You know what Troye? I’ve punched one person in my entire life and you’re a fucking idiot who is a heartbeat away from becoming the second.

Quinn is a good girl that deserves better, so do me a favor, yeah?

Keep whatever filth you were about to suggest locked in that sicko head of yours. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Becker.”

A voice I recognize without looking, bounces off the walls. “How’s the nerves, Buddy? Ready to take the mantle from the man?”

No. I’m not ready. I think . I’m still sporting a semi after your best friend tossed me like a pair of gloves. “Petterson. Surprised you and your massive head could fit through the arena doors.”

“Which head?” I’m sitting down but that doesn’t stop Noah from barreling into me, giving a hearty man hug, back slap before tousling my hair as though he’s ten inches taller than me, not a half. “Maroon suits you. Brings out shit in those pretty brown eyes.”

“Yeah? Well …” Nothing. I got nothing. “What are you doing here, anyway? You’ve been away for weeks. I thought your little lady would have you chained to the bed.”

“I wish. But I came home a day early and Lotte had already promised Quinn she’d be here. Then promised me she’d give me a special treat if I came with her, and like you said. It’s been weeks, Troye. Weeks. And I really, really want that treat.”

With a wink he’s gone, striding across the room to tackle Brady who takes the affection much better than I did, leaning, almost melting into his hug.

Seeing Skip be so happy … so, Brady … with another guy after shutting me down, has something tugging in my chest. Something that feels a lot like disappointment, or maybe rejection.

Or maybe even jealousy. Which is stupid, ‘cause that would imply I’d formed some kind of attachment, or …

feelings, and like I said to Chris, I do not do feelings.

Averting my gaze before someone notices me staring, I slip my skates on, and set to work on my laces, “bunny ears, bunny ears playing by a tree.”

For the entirety of my playing career at BU I was a winger.

But after noting my speed and agility, Coach Harris switched things up, moving me to center, Cory—the kid I refuse to call Cubby—to left wing, with Shane covering the right.

I wasn’t sure, at first. The middle of the ice is a position of responsibility, and I’m no leadership archetype.

But practice has quelled the uncertainty, and honestly, I can’t fully explain why, but I feel …

free. Like right now, it’s midway through the first term, and I’m kind of impressed with how well the boys and I have synced.

I can read them. They can read me. And in hockey, that type of chemistry is priceless.

We’ve locked the puck in our offensive zone for ninety percent of the play. The only reason this game isn’t over is Michigan Blue’s tender and his ability to track the puck like it’s the size of Mars. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for ours.

In some far off realm, some may consider me partly responsible for Brady’s poor performance. My usual pregame taunting was perhaps a poor choice, and I consider it lucky that my head remains attached to my body. But me and my big mouth aren’t the only issue.

Coach sent Shane to check on him twice, and he dismissed it both times with a huff. Well, he might be able to fool the coaches, trainers and the rest of the team, but I have spent an exorbitant amount of time watching that man, and something isn’t right.

A regular, top form Brady is an edgy one.

Even when the puck is at the other side of the rink, he’s moving like a meerkat on speed, sharp eyes darting, stick tapping against the ice, gloved hands rhythmically caressing his beloved ‘Netty’.

Tonight he’s languishing, resting on his haunches or back against the pipes like they’re all that’s keeping him upright.

Sure, he’s blocked the handful of rushed, half-assed shots the Blues have made, but I could have done the same, and I haven’t played goalie since juniors.

Unable to stop myself, I continue to monitor him from the bench as I reach for my water bottle and suck in some big breaths.

“You see it too, don’t you?” As Coach’s eternal favorite, Noah’s been invited to join the team on the bench, and is driving us all nuts with his pacing and commentary. “Brades is acting weird. Weirder than normal,” he adds. “Is this your doing?”

“Sure?” I cough, water spilling down my chin. “Blame the new guy. How original.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you being new, and everything to do with you being you. Tormenting him is your hobby.”

“I am not tormenting … I mean I was, but … shit.” I squirt more water into my mouth, and manage to actually swallow some.

Then do it again, just to buy me some time.

“Look,” I say eventually. “I know I have been fucking with him for a while, but I swear I have been on my best … better.” I admit after Noah’s head tilt.

“Behavior. Ask Quinn. She’ll back me up. ”

“Right, ‘cause your besotted girlfriend is always the best source of unbiased feedback.”

If my heart skips a beat quicker as I jump the boards for our next shift, it has nothing to do with Quinn and besotted being linked to me .

“Not my girlfriend,” I yell over my shoulder just as the puck lands on the end of my stick like a magnet.

It’s a perfect shift change that sees thoughts of Quinn and Brady melt away as I fly down the ice, carving my way through the Blue’s defense, fooling the goalie with a perfect deke that leaves the top left crease as barren as my morality.

With a deft flick of the wrist, the puck whizzes through the scrambling defense, and slams into the back of the net for my first goal as a Bear.

“Fuck yeah!”

Air has barely re-entered my lungs and I’m drowning in a sea of maroon, gold and gross BO. My helmet is tapped, shaken and knocked by every man on the ice, then those on the bench too.

“I always knew I liked you, Becker.” My captain declares. “Even when I hated you.”

“Thanks, Shane, backhanded compliments are my favorite.”

“My pleasure.” His smile fades as he nods to the solitary figure manning his crease. “Think he’s still in the hate camp.”

It’s like Skip has forgotten we’re on the same team. Disgusted, he rips off his helmet and glares in my direction, even that movement is awkward looking.

Yep. Something is definitely wrong.