Page 37 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ I ’m fine woman, Jesus Christ, stop fussing and leave me alone.” Sporting that weird-ass teeth-clenched, nostril-flaring glare only moms can pull off, Delphi slaps the back of my head. “Well, I mightn’t have had a concussion before, but I’m pretty sure I do now.”

“Well, call me woman again, and you won’t have a head to be concussed, for me to fuss over.”

What? Huh. Maybe I do have a concussion? That makes no sense. Not saying that out loud though.

I’m lying in a hospital bed after being transported from Conte to Massachusetts General by ambulance.

With wanting Quinn steadfast in my mind, seven stitches decorating my right eyebrow, a rapidly spreading bruise down my entire right torso, there’s an uncomfortable melancholy wrapping around me like a blanket.

I’m not sure why, but I’m ridiculously emotional.

This is my first injury or hospital trip and likely not my last. But I am, and I think it’s because tonight was the first time I was scared on the ice.

Delphi and I were in a car wreck once, and there was this brief, almost indescribable moment before the speeding car slammed into my passenger side door.

It was this weird form of clarity. Almost like I surrendered to my helplessness.

I knew what was coming. Could see it. Hear it.

But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

That’s how I felt as I skidded head first towards the boards.

“Are you sure you’re okay baby? You’re whiter than that sheet you’re lying on.”

“I am, Mom. Promise.” For her benefit, I smile and am enduring my hundredth super hug when I hear footsteps pausing outside my room. My heart skitters. Quinn .

“Knock, knock, can I come in?” Without waiting for a response, Terry, the photographer I’ve been paying to take my glam shots for Brady, saunters in. How the hell does he know where I am?

“I study journalism, I have a hospital source … and I followed the paramedics. Got some great shots for the college paper,” he replies to a question I didn’t even realize I asked.

“To make up for the creepiness, I thought I’d show you this.

It’s not the normal style I take for you, but it’s pretty amazing all the same.

Once I edit some of the background out, I’ll send it to you as well.

” He proudly hands me a sheet of paper, and my heart grinds to a halt.

It’s not great quality since he must have printed it somewhere here at the hospital, but the image itself is …

wow. It’s me, face down on the ice, complete with a blood stained halo.

And then, there’s Brady, the guy I’ve treated like absolute shit, single-handedly holding back a hornets nest of retribution behind me.

“Not the normal style you take? What sort do you normally take and why don’t we have any?” Fifi snaps the sheet from my hand, studies it, then passes it to Delphi.

“Nothing. Forget about it.” I grump, my eyes attempting to burn a hole in the pic and Terry.

“I will not forget about it. We—” She wiggles her index finger between them— “Haven’t seen a photo of you where you’re not pouting, or trying to zap the camera with your eyes since you were twelve. Now make like Britney and gimme gimme.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And stop using the lord’s name in vain.”

I sit up so quickly I lose balance and almost fall from the bed. “You’re an atheist! What the hell do you care?”

Terry, who’s standing beside my mom’s looks as confused as we do pissed. “You know, I’m glad to see you’re good, but I think I’m going to …” He side-nods towards the door then backs out through it.

“You’re quicker!” Fifi calls, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Chase him, Delphi. Don’t let him get away!

” If dust could exist in such a room as sanitized as this one is, Fifi would disappear into a cloud of it.

That’s how fast she books it out the door.

As the squeak of her high-top Converse fades into the distance, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. Or try too.

“Whoa. When did the world get so spinny.” Swaying, I grip the thin, hip high mattress. Delphi’s on me in a second, one arm snaking around my waist, the other cradling my neck like she’s holding a baby.

“Since you had your beautiful head slammed into a wall by a thug. Concussion or not. Sit”

“Fine, but I’m doing it because I want to. Not because you told me to.”

With a resounding slap, my ass hits the cushioning and I sigh, rubbing the sizable lump on my head. Fucking Mahomes. “Any wonder Skip’s been such a grump since his knock. This shit’s rough.”

“Who’s Skip? Another person you’ve been secretly dating for months?”

“No.” It’s been days and it’s not dating, it’s fucking. “This is Skip.” I snatch the photo still lying beside me and thrust it into her face. “He’s our goalie.”

“And his name is Skip? Haven’t met a lot of Skips in my time.” She swipes the photo and yep, she’s totally checking him out.

“His real name is Brady. I call him Skip to shit him ‘cause he’s an Australian pain in my ass.”

“He’s very protective of you. He shielded you from all those boys fighting. It’s a little fuzzy, but he looks like a bit of a hottie, too. Don’t you think?”

I’ve seen him naked. Lady, you’ve got no idea.

“Ehh. He’s okay.” Taunting me, Delphi waves the pic in front of my eyes, then reluctantly hands it back when I whine like a bitch.

Sucking in some deep breaths, I will my heart to stop racing, and attempt to keep my face impassive.

Brady’s ’touch him and die’ expression, makes it hard.

Hard like my dick will be if I keep ogling it.

What Skip did to keep me safe went above and beyond. We’re supposed to be the ones protecting our goalie, not the other way around. Being a complete ass to him after this is going to be … hard.

I’m pondering all that firmness when my other mom’s voice bounces off the nearby corridors’ concrete walls. “He may not be once we finish with him, but for now he’s fine. I promise, sweetheart.”

Quinn’s sniffled, “Okay,” sets me on edge. She has been, or is crying. I hate it when she cries. Her eyes are always so big and expressive, but when sad they and the emotional carnage they create triple in size. They also unleash the biggest tears I‘ve ever seen.

Suddenly cold, I shiver as Mom enters first, Quinn follows a second later.

She’s smiling, but her swollen bottom lip is trembling and her eyes are red and puffy.

Like I knew it would, seeing her upset makes me feel terrible.

More than terrible. My shiver becomes a full body shake, and my stomach twists so violently I feel I might be ill.

I don’t want her to see that though, so I offer a small smile and that’s enough for the tears to flow.

Hers and mine. She runs towards me, wrapping her arms around my neck so enthusiastically she almost knocks us to the floor.

Her warm body, her scent, everything feels right. Even her soft hair catching on my nose ring.

“Are you really okay? And why are you wearing your piercing? You’re not supposed to keep it in while you play. Also I’ve decided you’re not allowed to play anymore.” She sniffs. “Maybe you could take up a new sport. I hear curling is great fun. Still on the ice too so it could be just as hot.”

“Could be? Baby please, you know I’d fucking rock curling.

” Her body tenses, and she holds me tighter, but I’m eternally grateful she lets baby slide.

Maybe that gratitude is what prompts me to say what I do next.

“I’m sorry I made you cry, Kitty. And that I didn’t tell Moms about you.

” Her tiny gasp tickles my ear, and she pulls from our embrace like I’d slapped her, not offered an apology.

I really am an asshole.

Standing before me, hair sticking to her wet lips, she looks so fucking beautiful. So … vulnerable. “It’s okay. I understand.”

“You shouldn’t have to be understanding, though. I should have?—”

“Knock Knock.”

I’m just about to tell Terry to fuck right off, when Quinn turns and shifts slightly to the left, opening up my view of the doorway, and Skip.

He’s leaning against the chipped door jam, his hair still damp from the post-game shower, draped over his stiffly held arm, a neatly folded varsity jacket.

Seeing his face it’s the ultimate juxtaposition of joy and trepidation.

“Can I come in?” Unlike Terry, Skip waits for my nod of approval, then inches his way inside, nervous glances darting between the three women crowding me, and staring back at him.

In the blink of an eye, the tension in the room feels stifling, and I don’t think I’m alone in that observation. In sync as always, Moms clear their throats.

“Why don’t we go grab some snacks, Fifi. Would any of you like anything from the cafeteria? It’s bound to be hideous.”

Once we’ve all politely declined, they advise they will bring us something back, something nice anyway, then leave.

Delphi pauses as she passes Brady to lean in and whisper in his ear.

Whatever she said forces a shy grin to break free and light Brady’s face, and frees a flurry of butterflies in my gut.

Yup definitely cracked something in my head.

“I don’t know why they bothered asking. They were always going to empty the shelves.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Quinn replies while accepting the jacket Brady hands her. “You haven’t eaten yet.”

What bug represents a twinge of jealousy and shit yourself fear? Whatever they are, they’ve just swarmed and are eating those weak-ass pussy butterflies up. “You two rode in together?”

“I, I wanted to make sure you were okay, but, I um, don’t have a car and Quinn?—”

“Does,” I finish, skipping right over the part where Brady wanted to check on me, and going straight to them being alone.

In my mind’s eye I picture them, cozy in Quinn’s flash car, her hair windswept because no matter the weather, she always drives with the window down just that little bit.

His cheeks flushed red as he looks over at her from the passenger side.

What did they talk about? Brady’s heroism?

My unplanned foster parent reveal? I knew my moms were coming, but I didn’t expect Quinn to be because she said she would likely hang out with Lotte.

My moms know better than to talk about my past with friends, but Brady doesn’t.

For him, my loose lips provide a perfect opportunity to swoop in and prove to Quinn what a low-life I am.

Hey, he wouldn’t be wrong. And it would facilitate my plan with little effort required on my part. But the prospect of my genius coming to fruition has bile rising in my throat, and a well overdue acknowledgment of what I want, and don’t want, hitting me harder than that prick Mahomes ever could.

I don’t want to lose Quinn. I want Brady. And I’m not ready for what’s only just started to end.