Page 4 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

E yes as wide as ever, my best friend Lotte rises from her seat only enough to tuck her legs in a neat little cross beneath her bum, then plops back down.

It’s a move me and my gangly limbs could never pull off.

Supportive as always, she’s helping make sure what I plan to do today is the right thing after all.

“Tell me about it. How did things get like this?”

“Dermot McCain,” I reply, “Total dork. Beholder of buck teeth, one of which was missing the last time I saw him. Favorite band was something or someone called Def Leopard which he listened to ALL. THE. TIME.”

“Ooh! I love Def Leopard.”

“You never stood a chance,” she deadpans.

“Nope. I was a goner, Lot. I only shared a few games with the love of my life before fate played its hand. A game fell on a rare occasion where Dad was home for more than a day or two at a time mid-season. He’d been playing through a strained rotator cuff, but that bad boy snapped as he slapped a booming one timer into the nets in Dallas.

All this meant he was coming to one of my games; the first since pee-wee league. The last I would ever play.”

“I feel like I need some popcorn.”

Me being the bigger person, literally, ignored the distinct hint of sarcasm and continued.

“With my heart-eyes glued to Dermot the entire time I played like absolute shit, but that wasn’t the real reason I never laced up again.

It was more the attention from kids who ignored me on the regular, suddenly wanting to be my bestie.

The post-game chatter among the apparent grownups was worse.

Most of it centered on how disappointed Dad must have been to have a girl for an only child, and curiosity over how that child, girl or not, could spring from the loins of one so talented and be so … not.

“Anyway, hockey itself aside, that day marked a cosmic shift in our household. Overnight, Dad’s little Tomboy was replaced with a boy-mad girlie-girl who would rather dine on her newly acquired lip gloss, than chew the fat over the greatest game in the world.

My love for hockey turned to hate, and his over the top pride morphed into over-protectiveness. ”

It’s Lotte’s turn to sigh contemplatively. “If I’m totally honest, I can’t blame him. Especially after everything with Jordan.” Jordan, my ex, was a dud. One who stalked me till I was forced to leave BU and transfer to BC.

“I know. I’ve made terrible, terrible choices when it comes to boys. I know this. Yet I can’t seem to stop.”

“Possibly, but I think you’re right about this Troye kid. Despite what he keeps telling you, Noah says he has a good heart, and we both agree that he really cares about you. Why else would he have gone to see your dad to ask permission to date you? Bad guys don’t do that.”

“Right! See!” I wiggle my pointed finger in the air between us.

“But all Dad saw, or sees, is the nose ring, tats and radiating waves of attitude. He doesn’t see what I do.

He doesn’t hear him calling me Kitty. Looking at me so adoringly.

Holding so tight the heavy thump of his heart changes the timing of my own, then pushing me away five seconds later.

“And yes, yes, he’s so hot and cold, in and out, I’m beginning to suspect that Katy Perry was staring into a crystal ball when she wrote the song.

“And yes, he did seem quite keen to be rid of me last night.

“And the night before that.

“And that.

“And that.”

Hmm. The and’s are adding up.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t truly believe he’s not the heart breaker he tells me he is, rather I think …

I hope … he isn’t. Either way, today is the day I’m going to prove it to Dad and to myself.

I’m going to make Dad give Troye a chance and then Troye will give us a chance and everything will be right and good. Yes. Today it is. TO. DAY.”

Nodding, I turn to face Lotte and find her sound asleep, mouth open wide and a silvery line of drool running down her chin.

The poor thing was up all night talking to Noah who’s on a two week away-game trip.

I stand, drape her beloved crocheted blanket over her curled up body, snap a photo to send to Noah, and grab my bag. It’s time to set the record straight.

Lotte

I’m sorry I fell asleep on you, and for what I’m about to say.

I’ve woken up with a severe case of nervousness.

Are you sure you want to do this, Quinny?

Things have been pretty stable with you and your dad, and Troye isn’t exactly screaming commitment.

Maybe it’s best to wait?? You know what they say? Keep it simple stupid.

PS.. not saying you’re stupid.

“Great,” I mutter to myself while indignantly shoving my phone into my pocket. The one person in my corner is now out of it. I’m corner-less. Or people-less. Whatever.

Things were never meant to get so complicated.

Originally, my fling with Troye was a stop-gap; a distraction designed to keep my hockey boy-mad mind off another; Brady Basse, Dad’s hot Aussie goalie.

But then I discovered who Troye really was and …

here I am, bursting through the final set of doors leading to Conte Forum’s pristine practice rink.

Risking further damage to a parental relationship for a boy who once did the same for me.

It’s Brady I see first. From the corner of my eye I watch him, watching me as I waltz up-absolutely no extra swing to the hip—well, maybe a bit—and lean over the boards.

Unblinking, he drinks, sprays a little on his face and hair, till his surfer blonde locks that I could play with for hours are darker.

Drenched. Dreamy. Then, he tucks his water bottle back into the little pouch at the back of his net.

Those cute little freckles, the ones scattered across the tip of his nose are almost invisible against his flushed cheeks. That could also be because he’s halfway across the rink and I couldn’t possibly see them from here, but that is much less romantic, and I, Quinn Harris, am all about romance.

Our gaze holds, and Brady flashes a tiny smile, then tilts his head back, his hair swishing side to side before disappearing beneath his helmet.

Good Lord, he is so hot. I wonder what he kisses like? Shit. Troye. You are here to see your dad about Troye.

“Great save, Basse. Just watch that top left corner. If that shot was any higher it would have snuck in.”

Shit! Dad. That’s my dad. Dad is here.

Nothing ruins a sexy daydream like your father praising its star, but those big blue eyes and kissable lips still pose a challenge, cause clearly, Brady is still Brady, and I am still in need of a distraction.

In an attempt to de-smut my thoughts, I focus on why I came here; sweet talking Dad while he was in his happy place. Confessing I’m in a relationship with a hockey player … Troye, the one Dad promised he would never consent to me seeing.

“Hey there, Princess.” Dad’s baritone, South Boston accent interrupts my self-condemnation. “What brings you here on this freezing almost spring day?”

“Nothing in particular, just missed my Pops and thought we could grab dinner after training.”

One of the hard earned, genuine smiles that reaches Dad’s eyes comes my way. “That sounds great. Give me another twenty minutes and I’m all yours.”

“Perfect.” I return the smile, then fold my freezing hands into the hem of my sweater.

It really is cold. I mean, of course it is, I’m in a hockey rink.

But someone forgot to tell spring it should be ready to spring.

The one good thing about Boston’s crappy weather is the fashion.

I love me some tights. Lotte and I snagged several pairs each last night online shopping while sipping copious amounts of hot cocoa.

It was the perfect night in. I can only hope tonight’s adventures outside the colorful walls of her new love shack is half as successful.

This is a matter of utmost importance, requiring a delicate, subtle hand.

Timing is everything, and yes, now is the perfect time to tell him I am still seeing Troye.

“Dad,” I pretty much yell, slapping my hands on the linen-covered table, our cutlery jumps.

“I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.

” Three beers down and with a mouth stuffed so full of prime rib he resembles a Chestnut Hill squirrel, my father gags, coughs and splutters, sending a quarter-sized chunk of medium rare steak into my pupil.

“Jesus lord save us all, you’re pregnant.” Before my eyes, his beetroot red cheeks fade to a ghostly, almost translucent white.

“No Dad, I’m not pregnant. I’ve … I’m … um …

” I grab the napkin sitting beside me and begin to shred it, dislodging the discarded and regurgitated eye beef.

It rolls across the table, coming to a rest against my glass of cherry coke and prompting yet another lie.

“I’ve become a vegetarian.” I have most definitely not become a vegetarian.

Dropping his cutlery, Dad shakes his head and takes several slow, deep breaths.

I’m not sure why, but this news seems to be equally, if not more distressing than my non-existent love child.

On his final shaken huff his gaze drops to my half eaten BBQ ribs and mash potato covered in cheese and bacon bits, and disappointment switches to exasperation “A bad vegetarian,” I add preemptively. “It’s a work in progress.”

“But why darling? I know your mother’s meat is chewy as all hell, but you come from three generations of cattle farmers. Beef is in your blood.”

“Dad! You grew up in South Boston. I don’t think you’ve ever seen or touched a real life cow.”

“Quinn!” he mocks. “Yes, I grew up here, but I was born on a farm in Gilbertville, and that counts.”

“Barely.”

“Well, judging by your meal, you’re barely a vegetarian, so I guess we’re even.” On matching huffs, we cross our arms across our chests and sulk. It’s going to be an old-fashioned Harris stare-down till someone breaks, and that someone will NOT be me.

“Why must you challenge us the way you do?” HA, as predicted, Dad caves first. “As a kid you were a gifted hockey player and tossed it away out of spite. As a teen, I warned you not to get involved with hockey players and you went out of your way to garner the attention of the very worst of them, and as a young adult it’s this.

Meat. What am I going to tell your mother? ”

“You will never change will you? Nothing I do—” or pretend to do in this case—“is ever right. Every decision is wrong, or flawed or … disappointing for you. Well, I’ve had enough.

” I’m fully aware I’m defending a fake lifestyle choice but this attitude of his is so freaking typical it’s not funny.

I push away from the table, sending my chair clunking to the floor.

“This is why I stayed living with Lotte. I’m not one of your players, Dad. You can’t blow a whistle and create a set play of my life. Thank you for dinner, but I think it’s best I leave before we say something we’ll both regret.”

Looking painfully defeated, Dad nods in agreement. “Will you at least be home for your birthday next month? Your mother has ordered a cake, and is planning to fix your favorite pot roast … Guess that’s another plan we’ll have to change,” he adds under his breath.

“Of course I’ll be there. Mom’s suffered enough because of our hotheadedness, don’t you think?”

Another curt nod is my only reply.

“Quinny, babe,” Troye coos as I collapse into his lap two seconds after bursting through his always unlocked dorm room door. Actually, it’s not a dorm, it’s a frat house, but still, he was alone on the couch and now I am mooching atop him. “I take it dinner didn’t go well? ”

“Dinner didn’t go well. Dinner went terrible. And now I’m sad and hungry and a fake vegetarian who had no dinner.”

Troye shifts beneath me. “Wait. You’re a vegan? Since when? You had bacon and sausages for breakfast this morning … not to mention a serving of hot fresh Troye.”

“I said vegetarian not vegan, and hot, tattooed hockey boys are yet to secure a place on the food pyramid.”

“Well, we should. We’re delicious.”

“You are,” I agree, tucking my head into the crook of Troye’s neck, I take a slow deep inhale, filling my lungs of him . I’ve never been able to place what it is, because even when he’s sweaty and gross after a game, he still smells amazing.

“It’s probably for the best you didn’t tell him. Your old man hates me. Swapping the lip ring for the septum piercing cemented it. Him knowing … It will only drive you further apart.”

I tune out as Troye tells me again that he’s no good for me, that he’s a bad guy, with a bad attitude, and that he will only break my heart.

Contrary to that, he enfolds me in his arms, in his scent, and kisses the top of my head.

Once he realizes I have no intention of leaving, his words switch to sweet, whispered silliness till I can barely remember Brady Basse, or why I was upset in the first place.