Page 45 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

T he dull thud and metallic click of the front door closing and locking wakes me. Blinking my eyes open, I smell and feel Brady behind me, the steady cadence of his breathing telling me he’s still asleep. I don’t need to see the time to know Troye has left, I can sense it.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more conflicted. Wanting to stay and care for Brady. Wanting to go and support Troye.

Eventually, I do get up, and I check the time too. They’ll be doing their warm-ups now, Maybe embarking on my favorite part, the on ice stretches. The thought of Troye thrusting into the ice brings a smile but then I think of Brady, and that I may never see him prep for a game again.

“No,” I scold myself, slapping my own thigh. “He will play again. He will.” I have to believe that. Even when he can’t, I will believe enough for both of us.

From the corner of my eye I see the hospital bags containing his gear leaning against the door, and decide now is as good a time as any to get started on airing them out.

The pads come out first, and yeah, that’s ripe, but oddly, not at all unpleasant.

His jersey, shorts, cup and socks come next and yeah, that’s gross.

Still I find myself doing that weird-ass thing of holding something you know reeks to your nose and sniffing, with one of his socks.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Despite the fact I’ve clearly been busted, I whip the offending item behind my back and plaster on a smile. “Nothing. Just sorting out your gear. I’m not allowed to leave you alone so I can’t go to the laundry room, but I thought I could hand wash some things in the basin.”

“Things like the sock you just sniffed and hid behind your back?”

“Yeah, things like that.”

Brady laughs, then slaps his hands over his ears.

“Christ, I feel like shit, Quinny.” I’m on him in a flash, sliding my arm around what I can of his waist and leading him to the sofa.

The crochet blanket Lotte brought over is lying over its arm, so as soon as I have Brady seated, I lay it over his legs.

I don’t even know if he’s cold. I just need to do something. Just need to touch him.

“The boys will be warming up now,” he says flatly, all emotion drained from his voice. “I can’t believe I’m going to miss out. And that you are, too. It’s not fair to you, or to Troye.”

“Troye understands. And I do too. Even if I decided to go, he wouldn’t have let me. My place is here with you.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” I scold, shaking a finger like my mom would do if I stole a still warm cupcake. “Now, are you hungry? We have soup and pasta. Oh, and Faith brought you some cookies, Tom Toms, I think she called them.”

A wry smile breaks though, adding a little color to Brady’s face. “So, it’s Faith now, hey? Does that mean the vendetta has been annulled?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He scoffs, then winces and lays his head against the back of the sofa. “They’re called Tim Tams, by the way. Not Tom Toms. And sure, chuck the pack over here. Not like I have to worry about a meal plan any more.”

“Says who?” I snap, adopting my standard spoiled girl pose, arms across my chest. Pout. Cocked hip.

“Uh, say the doctors.”

“Don’t ‘Uh’, me. I’m not an idiot. I know what they said.”

“Right, you do. You were there. You heard them. It’s too risky for me to play Quinn. I can’t play … ever. I’m not sure what part of that you don’t understand?”

I don’t want to cry. I don’t and I will the tears away, but when Brady stands and starts to head his room—his, I notice, not Troye’s, the one we now call ours— he stumbles, barely catching himself on the wall, then hunches like he’s going to be sick.

He’s had nothing to eat for hours now, so it’s just a raw, empty dry heave, but he coughs and grabs at his throat like he’s choking.

“Let me help you.” Again I’m there, dashing to his side to support him. This time, though, he shakes his head and pushes me away.

“I’m not an invalid, Quinn. I can walk to my room.”

“I know you’re not. I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, you’re not. You know what would, though? Leave. Go watch your beloved hockey boy. Give me some peace.” Without looking my way, he takes the few paces remaining between me and his room, enters, and slams the door behind him.

“Hi Mom, I can hear your driving, probably to the game, but?—”

“Quinn, are you okay? What is it? Is something wrong with Brady?”

“I don’t know.” I’m squatting on the floor in the tiny kitchenette, wedged between the refrigerator and the small dining table and chairs we bought when I came to stay one night and never really left.

I’m not sure why I’m here, after I cleaned a little and it just seemed as good a place as any to have a breakdown.

“He’s really mad, Mom. And he was sick before and all wobbly on his feet, and he looked at me like I was trying to poison him with Tom Toms, except they’re not called Tom Toms, they’re Tim Tims.”

“I think it’s Tim Tams, darling.”

“I don’t care about the stupid cookies Mom, I care about Brady hating me.

” Mom patiently listens to a solid five minutes of uncontrollable weeping before I manage another cohesive sentence.

“I’m not made for this Mom. I’m not supportive and understanding of people and their genuine problems. I’m a spoiled rich girl who cares more about her shoe collection than the people she supposedly loves. ”

“Quinn Josephine Harris, you stop that nonsense right now. You are the most beautiful, most sweetest, most loving girl.”

“But I’m not. I was just about to interrupt you because most sweetest is grammatically incorrect. The most sweetest girl wouldn’t do that!”

“Preferring one to use correct grammar doesn’t make you any less sweet.

Just look at what you’ve done for Lotte.

You helped change that girl’s life. And Troye’s.

You stood up and believed in him when very few people had, and you and he have now given Brady a family when his is an ocean away.

Grammatically correct or not, you are the epitome of the most sweetest.”

My heart is aching, wanting to believe her, but struggling too. “You have to say that. You’re my mom.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t have to say that at all.

You’re grown now. You’re an independent young woman.

You don’t need me to blow smoke up your ass and I have no desire to do it.

So when I tell you I’m proud of you, Quinn, you have to believe me.

Like I said. You took a stand for the people you loved.

You moved out. You got a job and you stayed in school.

None of those things are the actions of a spoiled brat. ”

“I never called myself a brat.” I sniff.

“I believe it was implied.” She pauses, both of us giggling.

“Now, as for Brady. Sweetheart, there’s no polite way to say this.

Multiple concussions are a heinous bitch that can sour the sweetest souls.

He will be sore and sorry for a while, but like you’ve done for Lotte and Troye, you have to be patient, have faith, and always, always call your mom when you need her. ”

“Okay,” I sniffle. “So I’m calling now, and I would really like you to tell me what to do.”

In the background, I hear Mom’s car slow, the beeping of the monitors as she parks, then the cutting of the engine. “Where is Brady now?”

“Well, you may not want to hear this, but we just had a fight, kind of our first one, and he went to his room. He hasn’t slept in there for weeks. We’re always in our room together, but he went to his and I think that’s bad.”

“Right, so what I want you to do is stay where you are till you’ve cried all you can cry.

Then I want you to wash your face. Have a glass of water.

A half dozen or so of those Tim Tams, then I want you to sit on the sofa and have a rest.” She stops speaking and I wait.

And wait. And wait some more. “Quinn, are you still there?”

“I am. I was just waiting for what to do next.”

“Oh, well, you can do some online shopping, or read, but I suggest a nap.”

“But shouldn’t I go in there and lay with Brady? Or cook him something to say sorry, or?—”

“Do you have anything to apologize for?”

Do I? Brady’s blow-up plays in my mind. “No. I don’t think I do. Maybe? He was kind of mean, but maybe I was babying him. I’m not sure.”

“And that’s why I want you to let Brady rest, and for you to take care of yourself. When he wakes, it’s possible he’ll be up to talking and you could get your answers, but you may not, too. This is going to take time Quinn. The boy had his dream snatched away from him. He needs time and patience.”

“I can give him that.”

“Of course you can. You’re the most sweetest, remember?”

As Mom suggested, I rest. Tucked on the sofa beneath a blanket, I devour Brady’s cookies, leave a reminder on my phone to replace them, then turn on ESPN.

The boys are on the ice warming up, the buzz of the crowd, the nervous energy of the players is tangible even through the screen.

I can’t hear what they’re saying as I have the volume low so I don’t wake Brady, but the telecast has cut to a shot of Troye, his post-season stats flashing in a banner at the bottom of the screen.

He’s not fully dressed yet, not above the waist, anyway.

His shoulder pads just resting atop of his thin base layers, his Bears cap on backwards. He looks … delicious.

The camera person may think so too, as they pan up and down several times. “That’s my man,” I say to the empty room. Adding, one of my men in my mind.

“What about me?” Brady says, his voice still so soft from sleep. “I’m your number one goalie. The dreamy hockey boy you can’t wait to get back to training ‘cause my stinky pads turn you on.”

Tears I don’t want him to see soak my cheek in one agonizing beat, so I keep my eyes fixed on the blurred images dancing across the TV. “Brady, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Quinn, you love hockey boys so much, you’ve collected two of them.”

Every word of advice Mom gave me earlier is forgotten as I toss my blanket and jump to my feet. “Fuck you, Basse.”

“Don’t think you have to worry about that anymore.”

“That’s a very cruel thing to say, Brady Basse.

I’m very disappointed in you. But I also know you’re hurting right now, and sometimes when people are hurting they lash out at those they care about most.” I think of my dad, and the fights we’ve had over the years.

It’s because he cares so much, Mom always said. Lord, I hope she’s right.

“I’m not being cruel. I’m being honest.”

“No, you are and you’re hurting me. When we started this, I never would have believed you would be the one that broke my heart.”

“I’m not breaking your heart, I’m saving it. This.” He throws out his arms, pointing to the collection of mine, his, and Troye’s things that are scattered around the room. “All this ending is inevitable. You’re into hockey players and that’s not me anymore.”

“You think I’m only interested in you because you play hockey?”

He shrugs, his face so indifferent, eyes so cold that I can hardly recognize him.“You proudly declared yourself a Bunny. What else am I supposed to think?”

“Brady. That’s enough.” We both spin towards the door and find Noah standing at the open door. The spare key Brady had given him when they first became friends still wedged in the lock.

“Yeah. You’re right. It is. Now get out of my room. Both of you.”

“Sorry Brades, I can’t do that.” Noah steps inside so calmly it’s almost creepy, closing the door and making his way to me where he tucks me in under his arm. “You okay, Quinny?”

“Yes.” I eke out. “I think so.”

“Good.” He smiles down at me, his slow and steady breathing the antithesis of my fraughtness. “Lotte is in the car outside with some of your things. I want you to go with her, okay?”

“But Brady?—”

“I’m going to stay with Brady. Go. I promise I’ll call you if anything happens.”

“Okay.” As I turn, I glance to Brady and for a perfect moment I see my beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy, but then he blinks, and blinks again, his eyes narrowing as he winces against the light.

Then he frowns.

And he’s gone.