Page 44 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

T here’s going to be a team of coaches and officials from both Boston and New York at tonight’s game and they are coming to see me.

Me.

I know this because my agent told me so.

My agent.

Not only is Danni White an absolute gun, she’s the sister of Coach White, Noah’s agent, and now mine. She spoke to me in the dressing room last night. Practically forced her way in because I refused to come out and speak to her.

“I have to get to the hospital. If you want to talk, talk while I shower.”

And she did, with her eyes squeezed shut, she gave me her spiel, ran me through my options, and signed me up with nothing more than a towel around my waist and a disbelieving smirk on my lips.

Even now, I still can’t believe it. I also haven’t told anyone. Anyone being Brady or Quinn. How can I when Brady is missing tonight’s game and may never play again. Quinn, I haven’t told because I don’t want her complicit in my deceit.

Not telling them is killing me, but so would witnessing the disappointment on Brady’s face.

The hurt in those blue eyes is all I can picture as we drive back home from the hospital, a trip I’m surprised we’re making. I mean obviously the doctors that let him leave know what they’re doing … don’t they?

We are almost home and I can’t help but notice how much he’s squinting and rubbing his temples. Fuck. I’m really not sure about this. Come to think of it, those doctors did look pretty young.

“Dude!”

“Uh, what?” I shake my head and turn my head to Brady.

“I asked how are you feeling about tonight? Are you nervous?”

“Me. Nervous? Nah. I’m chill. So chill I’m … um…” My brain goes blank. I’ve got nothing. Brady has closed his eyes altogether now and is gripping the dash as we turn a corner.

“Chilled?” He’s still got his eyes welded shut but there’s the hint of a smile, and he’s making jokes. Noah Petterson level lame jokes, but jokes all the same.

Speaking of Noah, the man himself, and his beloved Lotte, are waiting for us when we pull into our assigned car space. Professor Plum is with them too. And Cory, Shane, plus some of the D-men Callum, Sean and Paul.

“What the hell?” Blushing his ass off, Brades unfolds himself from the front seat, muttering under his breath. “You do all know I spent one night in hospital, right? I didn’t like … I dunno, die and resurrect or something.” He’s smiling, but it’s forced. The strain evident.

“We know,” Captain Shane replies. “But we wanted to see you before the game, and Plum.” He pauses when Plum herself clears her throat. “Sorry, Professor Plum said we can’t all be in your room at the same time because it might ‘overwhelm’ you.” Overwhelm is highlighted with fingered air quotes.

Plum smiles. “The stench, especially.”

“She’s got you there,” Noah says, him and Lotte the only ones of the group laughing.

“Well, anyway.” Shane sulks. “We bought you this.” He bends, pulls a jersey from his bag and unfurls it. As he steps closer, arms outstretched like his holding a stinky diaper wearing baby, I notice it’s not any jersey, it’s one of Skip’s jerseys.

I’m about to remind them that Brady can’t play, and Brady looks like he’s going to tell them to fuck off, when I notice the big, shiny gold C on the sweater’s chest. “We know you can’t be with us tonight, but we wanted you to know that you always will be.

And that tonight, in spirit at least, you’re the Boston Bear’s Captain. ”

“Well, this is just darling,” sobs Lotte. “I just brought a cake. You hockey boys are so cute.”

I take my eyes from the out guests and turn back to Brady. Quinn has him wrapped in her arms, her cheeks awash in tears. Brady though, Brady’s just staring at the ground.

By the time we clear the mop, haul the jersey, cake, fruit and other food stuffs the team bought for Brady, he’s passed out in bed, Quinn’s beside him snoring equally loudly and I’m ready to go.

It’s the biggest game of my life, on one of the worst days of it, and I find that so fitting it’s laughable because God forbid Troye Becker can possess a sliver of happiness for any length of time.

With my social battery drained beyond comprehension, I made my mind up to take the Green Line to the game, and handed my pre-packed kit bag to Shane as I kicked him, the last guest out.

The train allows Quinn to stay with Brady and have the car in case of an emergency, and give me the space to think. And I need to think.

Because honestly, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Not only if we win, but if I get offered an NHL contract? How can I celebrate my future while Brady’s mourning his.

And what about the contract? We’re talking New York or Boston. I’ve followed the B’s my whole life. Hated New York with the same passion, but would I still play for them? Absofuckinglutely.

But how do I do it? Do I do a Mr. Invisible? Live the double life of a fake desk jockey with some shitty insurance company, when I’m really a top secret NHL player?

Or, do I deny my dreams, throw away everything my moms and I have worked for and turn it down?

Do I take it and run?

The latter is the last thing I want, a fact confirmed as I lean over and press a kiss on the lips of the sleeping loves of my life before I leave.

As per usual, Kitty is wriggling, but tucked up next to Brady purring.

And Brady? Brady is blushing, Princess Poppy in his grip, rhythmically rubbing against his cheek.

His captain jersey tucked under his arm.

Adorable and impossible to leave.

But I do.

Being the cynical ass I am, I never really believed in fate, but as I step into a Green Line carriage bound for Conte Arena, a familiar smell makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe there’s a little something to it.

Three rows before me sits my mom. She’s alone, her head resting in the glass window, matted hair sticking in the condensation. Dad is nowhere in sight. I have nothing of worth to give her. No money. No flowers. I do have time though.

“Can I sit here?” I ask, lightly tapping her shoulder, because up this close I’m not sure if she’s even conscious.

Tightly fused eyes pop open, suspiciously scan me, then flutter closed. “No one’s stopping you, kid.”

I sit next to her, my hand so tightly clenched it’s painful and search for something, anything to say. Here’s the thing, though. What do you say to a woman you haven’t seen in God knows how many years. To the woman who ditched you at seven. To your birth mom.

In unison, we rattle along, bodies clunking together with the motion of the train.

It’s only after two stops that I realize some of her movement isn’t actually her.

Curious, I discreetly drop my head and scan her up and down.

That’s when I see it. On her lap sits a tiny kitten, it’s raven hair as ratty and matted as hers.

As Mom’s.

“I like your kitten,” I mumble, unsure if she’s even awake. “What’s his name?”

“Troye.” She smiles, rotting teeth on full display as she pats the soft patch of fur below its chin.

“Troye with an E.” I sit in stunned silence, watching her shift in her seat, eyes meeting mine as a tiny smile curls her lips.

For a brief second those eyes appear cognizant of reality, and I wonder …

does she? But then she blinks, and blinks again, and it’s gone.

“I named him after a little boy I used to know. I’m giving this one all the cuddles I should have given him. I hope he’s happy.”

It’s me, Mom. I want to say. It’s me. I am happy, I’m doing great. I’m in love with two amazing people and I might have a chance at my dream and … I miss you.

Instead I reach over and pat little Troye’s head and smile back. “I’m sure he would love that.”

Coach says nothing when I enter our rooms, a curt nod is the extent of my greeting. It would be hard for him to say a lot anyway. The room is chaos. Music is blaring. Shane is going from person to person, checking in and offering advice where requested … and when not.

The equipment manager has all our gear set up, new jerseys for each player, a special little Frozen Four emblem on each sleeve. Sitting in my cubby, I trace it and my #two with my fingers, looking over to the empty spot where Brady should be, wishing he was here.

A rough tap on my head draws my gaze from Brady’s hanging jersey, and meets Coach Harris’. He hitches his pants like all old people seem to do then grunts as he takes a seat beside me. It’s awkward as fuck for a solid minute as he just sits there saying nothing.

I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

Scratch that, now I have never been more terrified, because he grunts again, low and deep as he leans forward, picking up a stray skate, one of Shane’s extras I think.

For a brief moment I panic, thinking this may be the way he finally unalives me.

I can almost picture it. But then I remember how amazing he was yesterday when I met with the clubs.

At first, when he sat down beside Danni, rolled up his sleeves and laid out the first compliment, I wasn’t sure he was talking about me.

Both teams were offered nothing but praise for my skills and he surprised me by commending my sportsmanship and teamwork since I came to the team.

“It hasn’t been easy for him. BU did the wrong thing in letting him go, and he could easily let that bring him down.

But he used it to spur him on and strive for better.

It worked and I think it’s worked out for all of us.

Except for BU, of course, but who gives a fuck about them. ”

To me, it felt the closest I may get to any form of approval from him, and I’m more than happy to take it.

I just hope I don’t let him down.

Still, that blade he’s now running his freshly licked thumb down, does look awful sharp.

“I meant everything I said yesterday, Becker,” he says suddenly, making me jump.

“I know we have had our differences but you’ve done well.

” He shifts a little closer then and drops his voice.

“I’m not going to pretend I approve or understand what’s happening with your …

relationship … but I won’t stand in the way of it either. ”

I swallow the ball of emotion in my throat, and nod. “Thanks David. Or should I call you Dad?”

I swear to God, I can smell his rage.

“Fucking hell, Becker. You just can’t help yourself, can you?

” he mutters something reminiscent of smart-ass punk , then stands.

“Give it everything you’ve got out there, tonight, Troye.

” He smirks kind of sadistically, but I choose to take it as a smile.

“Do it for Basse. Quinn, too.” He takes a step and pauses.

“And take that fucking ring out of your nose.”

“Yes, Coach.”