Page 32 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

E ven at the collegiate level, a hockey player’s life revolves around the game, particularly at the tail end of a season with a finals birth up for grabs.

For years I’ve thrived on that knowledge.

In a world where I feel like a giant, doomed to wander life alone, the rink is my safe place.

Here I am part of a team. A leader. Something.

Due in part to the concussion after effects I can’t seem to shake, in the weeks following Becker’s recruitment, the certainty of belonging has eroded down to a fine dust that slips between my fingers a little more each day.

Today being the worst.

After the shower incident, a dipshit part of me thought a truce of sorts had been called.

I was wrong.

The antagonizing. The taunting. The ridicule.

All of it intensified to the point where several teammates have had to restrain me several times from knocking his block off.

Today wasn’t even a full session. We’ve had a lecture from Professor Plum on the importance of the weekly mental health check-ins she’s initiated, followed by a mortifying social media, sexual consent and assault awareness training.

For Troye, the open forum was his time to shine.

“Yes, I have two questions, Professor. Let’s say you’re an international, virgin hockey goalie in their early twenties.

What preventive sexual health measures should said international, virgin hockey goalie in their early twenties take?

And two, how should an international … wait.

I gave that random example already. Hmm, let me think.

Okay, how should an Australian virgin hockey goalie, psychologically prepare themselves for sex with a partner used to being with someone of far superior appeal, ability and … girth?”

It was only then, once I’d died of embarrassment and the others of laughing, that Plum conceded to stupidity and we hit the ice.

Since we play a late game tonight, it was only for some light drills and stretching, but there was nothing light in the way Troye and I have been trading verbal blows.

By the time Coach blows his whistle and declares our day is over, he’s gyrating with rage, the boys are desperate to escape, and I am heading straight to my phone to call tonight’s festivities off.

Troye Becker will never lay a hand on me again.

Bailing on Quinn once may have been forgivable. Twice is a stretch, meaning I need to handle calling today off delicately, meaning I will screw it up because I’m a goalie, there’s nothing delicate about me.

I’m still at the rink, in the locker rooms to be exact. Not the most private of places, but as well as being delicate, our … situation has to be sorted ASAP. Hunching over my screen to block my nosy neighbor Shane, I slide my phone from my bag and tap away.

Quinn, I’m sorry but I can’t do this. Please believe me that I want to be with you in that way. It’s just him. I cannot and will not let that thing touch me again. If you’re ever single and…

Nope.

Quinny. Babe. Thanks for the offer, but I forgot I had a date with a super hot cheerleader. Later

Nope. She would never buy that.

Quinn. Troye is a dick and I don’t want to touch his.

FUCCCKKK

Maybe this would be easier in person?

I’m already dressed and Troye is still lingering in the showers, singing some God-awful country song at the top of his lungs. The timing is perfect. I can get to Quinn before him, let her down, and be home in bed for my pre-game nap before he even shows.

My kit bag is packed and I’m halfway out the door when Shane pulls me up by the back of my hoodie. “Brades, coming to O’Reilly’s with us? Rumor has it Petterson and his Mrs. are there, and we’re going to crash. Serves him right for not coming to see us play.”

Behind him, Cubby scoffs. “They are spending some quality time together before he’s back on the road, you douche. And why the hell would he choose to spend time with you lot, when he could be lunching with his girl, or at home getting laid.” He knows he’s fucked up the second it leaves his lips.

“Fucking knew it. You’ve been picturing it, right?

” Laughs Shane, yelling to be heard over the jeering.

“Every time Plum said sex, your boner raised the desk off the ground. That thing was lev-i-tat-ing!” The ensuing whole team chirp is the perfect distraction.

Ignoring Cory’s wide-eyed- please rescue me glare-I give him a quick wave and slip out the door.

Hoping Noah and Lotte are out for lunch like Shane said, I jump on, then off the Green Line and wander through Boston’s streets.

Before I’m mentally ready to be, I’m standing on their doorstep, ringing the fancy old-fashioned door bell with an excuse still formulating.

Telling Quinn I want out isn’t so much the problem.

She would never want me to do something I’m not into.

It’s how to do it without insulting the worst person alive, that she, for some reason, likes. A lot.

Alienating her is not the plan, because if I can’t have her the way I want her, I need to at least keep her as a friend.

Gut-wrenching nerves that could take down the Hulk almost cripple me as I wait to hear Quinn’s footsteps.

There’s no noise coming from inside, but there’s plenty from my stomach.

I haven’t eaten since this morning and it’s after midday now.

Maybe I could nick to the In’Out around the corner, grab a couple of burgers, then come back.

I do always think better on a full stomach.

I’m on the last of three stairs leading me back to the pavement, when I hear the door open behind me.

Turning, I see the door barely cracked open, a few strands of Quinn’s dark locks, and a smidge of what I think is her temple.

My heart skips a beat or ten, ‘cause I’m such a simp for her, a possible temple sighting causes arrhythmia.

“Brady! Wait! I’m here! I was in the shower, don’t go. ”

Picturing Quinn’s naked, dripping wet curves works wonders, fueling me up more than a Double-Double ever could. “No I was just … cleaning my shoe.” In case she needs a visual, I bound back up the stairs, pointing to my feet ‘cause I’m a dick. “Dog turd.”

Well done Mr. Seduction.

“Oh, it’s probably the pug next door. The owner never picks up after her. Just leave your shoes by the door and come in.” She’s still talking through the tiny slit, and my hand is on the lever when it clicks as to why that may be.

Shit.

A shudder, even stronger than saying dog turd evoked, rolls through me. “Quinn. Are you naked?”

“No, of course not. As if I’d answer the door naked.” Stepping back, she swings open the door, I bend to slip off my shoes, step inside, straighten up, and yep. She’s not naked. But she is in the smallest towel I’ve ever seen. It may be a bath mat. Or a face washer.

“Quinn!” I slap my hands over my eyes and turn my back. “You said you were dressed.”

“No, I said I wasn’t naked.” Pure evil lines her laugh as she grabs my arm and tugs me in, slamming the door to prevent my escape. “Stop being such a baby. Need I remind you why you’re here?”

“No. No reminders necessary. Actually, I wanted to know if we could talk before Troye rocked up.”

“Sure, we can talk … if you open your eyes.”

“They are open.”

“They most definitely are not. You look like Lotte when she’s trying to put her contacts in.”

I huff and open my eyes. “Fine. There. Better?”

“You tell me. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“Wrong. None. Now open.”

Socked feet slide on the parquetry as I shift from foot to foot, willing my eyelid muscles to respond to her command.

Bit by bit fractured chunks of light eat away the darkness, and the reasons why hooking up with almost naked Quinn, and dickwad was such a monumentally bad idea, vanish along with it.

With the sunlight shining directly in her eyes, they seem hazel, not their usual brown they’re almost black.

Her cheeks are flushed, skin bare, and makeup free.

Obviously , I tell myself. A clear attempt has been made to sweep her hair into a towel atop her head, but determined chunks have slipped free, and water droplets cascade over her collarbone, disappearing in the swell of her breasts.

I want to seek out each one with my tongue.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Quinn”

Exhaling, Quinn looks at me the way she did Troye. The way that curdled my blood with jealousy. Her lashes flutter, her smile grows.

“Couldn’t agree more, Skip.”

Oh, right. Of course. Not smiling because of me.

Troye has slotted himself behind me in what feels like sweats and a hoodie and pushed, or rather thrusted me, inside the house with his groin.

Quinn is pressed into my front in a fucking wash cloth.

And I am wedged between them, facing an existential crisis.

My treacherous dick and my brain have to come to some kind of agreement. I shouldn’t be so hard after hearing the voice of someone I hate so much.

And I do hate him.

I do.

“What did you want to talk to Quinny about? My guess is it’s either trying to sneak a bit of one on one action before I got here, or you’re chickening out.

” The door clicks shut, Troye plants his hand in the small of my back and nudges me further inside.

He’s so close I can feel his hard dick pressing into my ass. “So. Which is it, big guy?”

I legitimately have no recollection of anything prior to feeling Troye’s warm … area slotting into mine.

What was I doing here again?

“Did it have something to do with training?” Quinn, who also seems to have stepped closer, asks. “Dad called earlier and said there was some tension between the two of you.”

“Tension?” If you call cracking a painful hard on as your boyfriend taunts me tension, Yeah. “Umm. I, umm.”