Page 40 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

I don’t know what in the hell possessed Quinn to do this. And by this I don’t mean hold both Brady’s and my hands as we walk to her car.

It’s the whole thing. The bringing us here. The being openly affectionate. Clearly fucking Basse—the lucky bastard—in the bathroom. The works.

Clearly, Coach Harris thinks I don’t deserve her, but for some reason, she thinks I do. And since she’s the smartest person I know, it’s time to stop listening to the ghosts of my past, and start listening to her.

Why has this, the most awkward dinner of my life, helped me come to this conclusion?

Well apart from picturing Brady biting down on his hand as he fucks into Quinn, and her being bad-ass enough to risk it in the first place, its because no one has ever done what she just did for me.

And I can’t deny it anymore. As much as Clarke loved Lois, and Harley the Joker, I Troye Harold Becker, love Quinn Josephine Harris.

Maybe Brady Rudiger Basse, too.

Definitely Brady Rudiger Basse, too.

Which even to me, sounds stupid. We’ve only been doing this for a few weeks.

But when I stop and think, and let myself feel, I can see that I’ve been in love with Quinn for months, and obsessed with Skip from the minute I saw him.

Every taunt I hurled, every photo I sent, was a modern day, fucked up love letter.

I don’t care if people think what we have is wrong. I’ve never felt more right.

The weight of it is both freeing and constraining. Ridiculous and real. Sitting heavy on my shoulders, keeping me tethered to earth. I catch myself thinking this, and glare at my reflection in the window. Who the fuck even are you?

“Quinny,” Brady says thoughtfully. “Do us a favor would ya? Next time you’re thinking of doing either the bravest or stupidest thing ever in front of your old man, give us a little heads up.”

Letting my head fall against the headrest, I snort a laugh. “Or at least get us drunk beforehand and fuck us both in the bathroom.”

“Are you nuts? No alcohol in the finals.” She winks, puts the car in reverse, and drives us home.

We win the game against Providence, and since we missed the last celebration due to our dinner date from hell, we join the boys for drinks at O’Reilly’s, sans Quinn who’s hanging with Lotte.

From what I’ve seen, Brady rarely indulges at these things, which works great for me. Hello designated driver. I haven’t had a drink since Dan and Chris bailed me up, but after the last few days, I could do with one. Or three.

Things aren’t quite working out as I hoped, though. Brady headed straight to the bar, and has consumed one beer. One. Normally that would be no big deal, but I’m suddenly very aware of why the kid doesn’t drink.

It’s gone straight to his head. He’s giggly, touchy and really, really bad at fending off the gaggle of bunnies hopping around after him.

I don’t see him check one of them out, and his polite rejections are useless against these battle-hardened veterans.

Eventually, after Brady pays them no attention, they give up and move on to the rest of the team. Shane and Cory, seeming their favorite.

“Where did everyone go, Troye? Troye. Troye.” Squinting up at the ceiling, he repeats it over and over like it’s the first time he’s heard it. Each time with a different inflection. “Hey why do you have an E on the end of your name? Were you named after Troye Sivan?”

“Yes, I was named after a twink that was eight and not famous when I was born.”

Brady blinks through unfairly long lashes that shadow against his cheeks, so innocently it hurts. “Twinks, huh. You into them?”

“I’ve been known to dabble.” I confess before adding, “Prefer someone a bit thicker, and curvier these days.”

“Curvier like Quinn?”

“Like Quinn … and others.”

Smirking, he leans in, breath warm and beer-y against my ear.

“Thicker like me?” Fuck I wish we were at home , my dick complains.

I have to agree. Right now, there’s nothing I want more than to sneak Skip into the bathroom, unbutton his jeans and have him blow his mind in my mouth.

But the whole team is here. I couldn’t give a fuck about me.

They all know I’m bi. They know I’m with Quinn.

But they don’t know Brady’s queer, and that we’re with Brady, and that Brady is a needy, whiny, self-declared lightweight drinker.

There’s no way I could keep him quiet. Unless I gave him something to bite down on.

Hmm.

Nope. That’s a risk not worth taking.

Not at all.

Nope.

Not helping my conundrum in the slightest, Brady takes another sip of his beer then slips his hand beneath the table, running a finger up the inside of my thigh.

Hard as stone, and hanging onto my control by a thread, I’m seconds from declaring-fuck it let’s go-when a hand slaps on my shoulder. “Long time no see, motherfucker.”

“Dan, dude. I already told you, me and your momma broke up. I’m not going to be your daddy no more.”

“The fuck did you say about my mom, Princess?”

To the casual observer, like Skip, this exchange may appear as unfriendly as they come. To me it’s the stuff true relationships are founded on. To tipsy Skip, not so much.

“Do we have a problem here, mate?” he grunts, rising to get in Dan’s face. The table, a slab of solid oak or some shit I genuinely thought was bolted to the floor, is shunted out of the way like it’s a Popsicle stick.

“Brades, it’s okay—” Without looking, he twists just enough to place a palm in my chest, depositing me back in my seat with embarrassing, but sexy, ease.

“Yeah nah, it’s not okay. No one talks to you like that. No one calls you names like that.”

A laugh huffs out of me, “Bro, you literally called me princess this morning.”

“Wha … pfft … Dude! You were lying in bed with one of Quinny’s face masks on while she gave you a pedicure. What the hell else am I supposed to call you?”

I tug at my tee, adjusting my non-existent collar. “Maybe try Daddy, next time.” That quells his vibrating rage, and gets his eyes on me. They’re wide, and focused on my lips. He is so easy to ruffle. I fucking love it.

“You’d like that, would you?”

“I think you know I would.”

“Hmm, hmm.” A throat clears and shit. Right. Dan and Chris, ‘cause Chris is here too. They’re not standing anymore but sitting at the sideways table, Chris sipping from my drink. “So, I gather things have impaled … sorry improved between you two?”

“Could say that.” Brady, now the color of Classy Cory’s wine, and busy avoiding all eye contact while apologetically dragging the table and rest of the chairs back into place. “Skip, this is Chris and Dan. All-round assholes. Former housemates and teammates.”

“And for that, we offer our deepest thanks to Coach, and our sincerest sympathies to you.” Brady’s brows narrow, Chris takes the hint, and moves on.

“So, big guy. Is this one—” he points at me, smirking— “still blinding everyone else with his morning light, and eating his disgusting porridge like a good boy?”

I am still eating my porridge. Every damn day. But just in secret. If Brady sees he’ll get on one of his, food is our body’s fuel and medicine crap, and I’m just not ready to ditch my chicken nuggets and pizza. So I go for distraction.

“So, how are the Bulldogs going in the finals … Oh, wait. That’s right. You lost your gun center and didn’t make it.” It’s obvious, but it works. We’re back to chirping about hockey.

“You ready for Ohio? Mahomes will be back for the St Louis game, and he’s telling anyone who’ll listen that the pretty boy with the nose ring took a dive.”

“The fuck I did. Maybe I should smash him head first into the boards and see if it helps change his mind.”

On hearing this, Brady’s bottom lip drops into a pout.

Not cute. At all. “No, you won’t do that.

We need you on the ice, not watching from the locker rooms. Besides, he wouldn’t learn a thing.

No brain, no pain.” The lamest burn I’ve heard since kindergarten earns a high five from Chris and Dan, and the sulk is gone.

Shame really. I’m not sure what it says about me that I so enjoy him being all moody and sour, that I want to heckle the shit out of him to earn a frown, but I do.

Damn, just thinking about it has me chubbing up. Again.

I wonder if Quinn’s home yet.

Guilt over never seeing my ex-roomies, and the desire to see Brady sober up from his whole one drink, is all that keeps me at the bar for another hour.

The longest of my life. With every word that’s said, all I can think of is getting him home, naked and spread out beside an equally naked Quinn, so I can taste every inch of them with my tongue.

Our dorm room is lit only by a sliver of crescent moon, the door still swinging shut, and I’ve got Brady up against the wall, my thigh between his parted legs as he ruts against me.

“Quinn’s not home,” he pants, hands busy undoing the buttons on my jeans. “Should we wait?—”

After one last suck, I relinquish the mouthful of neck my teeth have sunk into, and pull back. “Nope. No way. We’ve talked about this, Skip and agreed. She’s cool. It’s cool.”

“So you’re saying we’re cool?” he jokes, eyes catching the light and twinkling. As cute as he looks, pure reflex has me slap the back of his head with an open palm.

“Shut up, and do me, smart ass.”

“I’m not sure hitting me is the best way to seduce me.”

“Okay, well how about this?” I slide my hand under his tee, running my fingers over the peaks and valleys of his skin. He melts, smooth and soft as butter, his whiny moans are almost whimpers, and I think if I don’t have him soon I might die.

I’m nervous though, which is stupid. I’ve had his dick in my mouth, and in my ass on several occasions, but Quinn has always been there. How will he react when it’s just me? How will I?

There’s only one way to know.

Without speaking, I work my way up, over his ribs, not stopping until I’ve slipped his tee over his head, then follow the same path down his back, caressing the muscle covering every inch of him.

When I reach the dimples just above his ass, I groan at the way he ruts against me.

Not only is the boy a tasty treat, he can move.

The way those hips are rolling borders on hypnotic.

As too is the lust-drunk sheen to his eyes.

The crystal blue waters darken like a storm approaching.

Tearing my gaze from his, I kiss my way across his collarbone, slip both hands under his waistband, ghost over the smooth skin of his ass before parting his cheeks.

In the calloused tips of my fingers, I feel the moment he registers my intent.

“Relax, baby,” I whisper right before I press a kiss into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“If you’ll let me, I want to fuck you. Would that be okay? ”

“Yes. Please, Troye, yes.”