Page 36 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

H ours after the dicking down of a lifetime, I’ve regained enough feeling in my legs to slip from bed and make my way to the shower. Halfway there, about four steps, I decide I’ve massively overestimated the link between feeling an appendage, and it working.

Walking, it seems, is more difficult than I remember.

Rolling seems more my speed. Once again, I make it the equivalent of a few steps when Lotte flings herself through my door. “Quinn, are you okay? I heard a dead body hitting the ground-like thud … why are you lying on the floor?”

“Sex related injury.”

Sliding her glasses up her nose she considers me, not a scrap of judgment on her face. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not, no.” We both begin to laugh, but I force myself to stop because as well as needing a shower, I really have to pee. “Little help?” I throw my arms in front of me and flail about.

Okay, now there’s a little judgment. “You want me to help you stand or just drag you?”

“Umm. I think dragging would be best.”

Lotte moves to stand in front of me, bypasses my hands, takes hold of my forearms and tugs. She grunts too. It’s super cute. Not at all embarrassing. “You remember last year when Noah met us outside Conte to take me to the doctor, and you wished me luck and told me I deserved every good thing?”

Lotte has a memory like an elephant. I have one closer to a chimpanzee. “Yep, sure do,” I lie.

“Well, while I’m not asking for details, or assuming, or drawing any conclusions, I am saying that sometimes, perhaps, one can have too much of every good thing. And that maybe one losing the ability to walk, is a sign that one has reached that point. Also, I like your nightie.”

“That was wise and very diplomatic. Also thanks. I made it.”

Thankfully, we’ve now made it to the tiled floor of the bathroom.

Its cool surface is heaven to my freshly carpet-burned skin, though the squelching sound isn’t especially flattering.

Looking over at me, Lotte hovers and gives me a sympathetic grin.

In reality, I should be the one fussing over her.

Noah’s back on the road for another seven days of away games, and she’s as forlorn as she was the first time it happened.

She won’t even come to the game tonight, declaring, “hockey is not in my good books right now.”

“You right from here?” she asks, letting my hands fall. “Or do you need help to undress?”

“Nah, I got it covered. Press studs. I designed it for easy tear off.” Her grin morphs into a grimace and yep, there it is. The judgment.

“Have fun at the game, Quinny,” is muttered as she turns to exit. Pausing just outside the door, she looks back and points to my legs. “Maybe not this much, though.”

The boys are already out on the ice, tonight’s game starting any second now, when Claire spots me on my descent down the bustling stairs, and begins frantically waving me over.

I’m slightly gutted to see the Bears are shooting the opposite end this period, meaning I’ll only have Brady up close once.

But then again, this way I get two glorious periods of Troye skating into the offensive zone in full, attacking flight.

And both your boys are on the same team. Don’t forget that.

My boys.

For the umpteenth time, the image of Brady pushing inside Troye, as he thrusts inside of me, sends chills up and down my spine, and that boneless, legless sensation almost sends me hurtling down the stairs.

I’m relieved when I reach my friends in one flustered piece, and force a smile at Kelly who at least tries to conceal her disappointment to find me alone. Claire makes no such attempt. “It’s just you? Where’s Lot?”

“Hi, I’m great, thanks. As for Lotte, I’d say by now, she’s pining, fretting and eating.”

Synchronized awws come from the two women sitting beside Kelly. They’re clearly sitting with the girls, at least I hope they are since they are leaning over Kelly to steal Doritos from the bag in Claire’s lap. I search my brain for their names, but, nope. Got nothing.

“Poor Lotte.” Kelly sympathizes. “It must be so difficult for her. She’s too young to be alone so often. At least she has you.”

“And you will have her when it’s Troye’s turn,” Claire adds with an evil smirk replacing her frown. “Speaking of raven- haired heathens, Quinn, look who’s here. Fifi and Delphine!” Channeling Vanna White, she waves her hands around her friends as though they’re a new dishwasher I just won.

“Oh, hi.” I smile showing every tooth in my mouth. I have no idea who these women are but I think I’m supposed to. They are wearing Bears jerseys. Both Troye’s number two. Just like me.

Shit, are they … with him? Is this his harem? Have I accidentally stumbled into a Why Choose?

Slowly, my Clueless-ness registers with Claire.

“Troye’s never shown you a photo?”

“Told you our names?” Either Fifi, or Delphinium I think it was, asks.

I shake my head and eke out , “Sorry.”

Tutting, and sighing, the four women exchange glances, eyes and brows twitching and I get the feeling they’re communicating via Morse code style blinks. Once their message is decoded, Claire shifts in her seat to fully face me.

“Fifi and Delphine are—” There’s a sudden banging on the Plexiglas wall. The five of us jump, I squeal and we all turn toward the ice. Troye is there, eyes wide, mouth agape, pure panic coloring his face.

“No. NO. NO!” Each time he says it, it’s louder. More desperate. Even when Shane skates up behind him and drags him away, he’s clenching his teeth and swiping his index finger across his neck.

“What the hell is your son talking about?” The blonde stranger asks the redhead.

“Oh, so he’s mine when he’s acting like a fool?”

“Exactly.”

“Ahhhh, what now?” I don’t mean to yell, but I do judging by the way their eyes, and those of half the stands we sit in, fall on me. “Your son?”

“He’s not told you a damn thing about us, has he?” one says.

“So typical.” The other.

“Boys,” adds Claire.

Kelly keeps munching on Doritos.

I want to say something but there’s too many thoughts and emotions running through my head. These women. Troye’s moms. Look like they could be his sisters. Sisters that look nothing like him. A second ago I thought they were his mistresses. Not his parents.

Why didn’t he tell me they were so young? And that they were coming tonight? And their God damn freaking names.

When I think about it, the them being here part is my fault. I told Troye I wasn’t coming in the hope he would beg me too. He didn’t. Now I know why. Serves me right for playing games, but still. How. The. Hell. Do. I. Not. Know. Their. Names?

Like an avalanche barreling down a mountainside. There’s the overwhelming rush of nothing I know about the boy I love burying me.

Shit.

I just realized I love him, and that he’s a fucking stranger in the same breath.

Fifi and Delphine, Troye’s alarmingly beautiful moms, not my sister-wives, seem to be struggling to process the events of the evening as the stupid fucking goal horn blares, and the game puck drops.

Troye and his line’s almost non-stop attack sees the Bears up 4-0 at the end of the first period.

A semi-finals birth is looking almost certain.

But no matter how much I love hockey, how much is riding on this game, or how brilliantly Troye and Brady are playing, nothing can entice me to give two shits about it.

“He didn’t tell us about you either, if that makes you feel any better.”

No, it does not make me feel better. Not one incy-wincy, teeny-weeny bit.

I’m sure Delphine, or was it Fifi, offered this knowledge in a conciliatory manner. Was angling for a light-hearted boys will be boys , moment. But somehow it made me feel worse.

As much and as loudly as I declare I love my hockey boys,Troye isn’t a boy. He’s a man. And I am a woman. One who’s been living in a dream-state for far too long.

I can’t deny his touch ignites a spark in me I’d never felt with anyone else, Brady being the only possible exception to that rule. And yes, him not telling his family about me should come as no surprise. And it doesn’t. Not really.

But still, it hurts.

I’ve let the aforementioned touch, accompanied by lingering kisses and whispered poetic prose, fool me into thinking that one day, one act, one moment, would crack that iced-over shell guarding his heart and he would look at me and see how good we are together.

I can’t imagine my life without Troye in it, but perhaps it’s time to be open to that possibility.

To accept that a lasting us is just not going to happen, and decide if the kind of limbo, and loss of self-worth, loving a man who will likely never love me back brings, is worth it.

The weight of that sinks me deeper into my seat as the boys—men—come out for the final period and the four women I’m sitting with return from their trip to the concession stand.

Plastering on a smile, I rise to my feet, letting Troye’s moms, then Kelly shimmy past me to resume their seats.

“I bought you some Twizzlers.” Claire smiles as she passes, dropping the pack into my hand and her now empty one onto my shoulder. “Lotte says they’re a surefire cure for whatever ails ya, though I’m more partial to a Junior Mint.”

I don’t feel like Twizzlers, food of any type right makes me want to yak. But Claire’s a fixer, and her eyes are so wide and hopeful. She’s so desperate to cheer me up, I rip open the packet and pull one out with my teeth.

“Yum. Thanks, Claire.”

Appeased, she drops into her seat and nudges me, then Fifi, I’m pretty sure it’s Fifi—crap, why can’t I remember their names? —with her foot.

“I didn’t want to tell you three this earlier because you’d be too nervous to enjoy the game, but …

” Fists clenched, she jiggles with excitement in her seat.

“Noah told me, that his agent told him, the B‘s and New York have some scouts here tonight. Apparently Troye’s name is on their list of prospects. They watched his last few games with the Bulldogs and have been here for each game since he switched.” Fifi and Delphine leap to their feet.

There’s squeals and hugs and jumping in circles.

It’s super cute and gets louder when the lights drop, the strobes flash and the teams hit the ice.

Troye flashes past us, and even through his helmet, with the lights reflecting on his visor, I can see the suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

He loves attention, yet hates this kind of fuss being made over him.

Hmm.

Fueled by misery, frustration and yes, maybe a little vengeance, I join the others and leap from my seat.

I slap my hands on the glass, jump, scream and in general make a complete tit of myself.

When Troye skates by us again, I add a little point and shimmy, hell if my dad wasn’t a few feet away I might even add a boob flash. “That’s my man!”

His moms are loving it, mirroring my every move to the point that it looks like we’ve studied a Gaga video for hours to memorize the routine. He’s going to hate this.

The music fades, the crowd settles and play begins.

“Good Lord, Delphi. Can you imagine if Troye was signed by Boston or New York? He’d be so close to home we could embarrass him on the national stage as often as we liked.

” Grinning deliriously, she spins to face Claire.

“Is that why you were so insistent that we come tonight?”

“Yup. Well that, and because it could be his last game in Boston … if the Bears don’t make the playoffs which they absolutely will.” All four tap the plastic seat and mutter. “Touch wood.”

“You know they’re plastic, right?” I laugh, then gasp, then leap.

This time not to embarrass Troye but to demand vengeance on his behalf.

With the team caught out during a poorly timed shift change, Troye slips down the ice to help cover the shortage in defense, when Jason Mahomes, a six foot seven freak and well known thug, barrels across the blue line, heading straight towards the goal.

Only Troye and Paul stand between him and Brady, and the latter manages to steal the puck off the end of his stick, turning defense in to offense.

Mahomes doesn’t change course, though. If anything, he speeds up.

It’s Troye that gets in the way, turning his back, using his body, blocking him from wiping out his goalie.

Troye’s back that Mahomes lays a dangerous slash/crosscheck to right as he sails past Brady’s crease.

Without time to protect himself, he slams into the boards with a sickening crash and is down on the ice.

There’s strict rules on fighting in the NCAA, but after a dirty lay like that, the Bears converge en masse.

We lose sight of Troye in the ensuing madness, and for the first few terrifying breaths, only the zebra-striped shirts of the refs, straining to separate the scrum, are clearly visible, their whistles struggling to be heard over the grunts and groans of players, and chants of the blood-thirsty crowd.

It’s chaos, the red Ohio and the maroon of the Bears melting into a frenzied blur of fists, flying gloves and helmets, and …

Brady. Using every inch of his height and width Brady is on his knees, arms spread like an eagle, shielding Troye’s motionless form from the raging pack.

The world, and everything in it, slows to a halt. Behind cameras flash, and a broken cry can be heard above all else. “He’s not moving. Why is he not moving?”

“He is Delphi. He is. He’s just covered his head. He’s moving.”

I see it too then, tiny bursts of movement that kick start my heart. Troye staying low, protecting his helmet-less head with gloved hands, glancing over his shoulder.

The refs get enough control of the situation to move the still jostling scrum clear, allowing trainers to move in and help Troye to his feet. Appeased at this, Brady turns and shoves a still chirping Mahomes on the chest.

“Leave it Brady. He’s okay, leave it,” I beg, whispering to no one.

Like he hears me, he drops his hands, shakes his head and skates away, eyes locking on mine.

It’s the first time he’s made eye contact with me all night, and after the way we left things, after me begging him not to make me choose, his actions to protect Troye, combined with that one look, mean everything.

“Thank you.” I mouth.