Page 46 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

Q uinn is here? Why is Quinn here?

It’s the third period against Denver, it’s been a filthy, hard fought game.

As they should do in a final, the refs have swallowed the whistles and play has flowed, with Denver firmly in control.

Their offense has been pounding Christian, who’s started in goal in place of Brady, but he’s holding up.

Blocking twenty out of their twenty-one shots on and freaking them the fuck out with some seriously weird goalie stares.

I’ve scored one, too. Tying the score with a lucky deflection off a defender’s stick.

No skill whatsoever but hey, I’m going to take it.

Games like this, where the opposition is dominating but the scores are level, are what I live for. It’s like I was designed to defy expectations. When you’re the team in control, having the underdog sneak a goal or two on a power play, or by complete fluke, can be a complete mind fuck.

And that’s the exact scenario we find ourselves in now.

We’ve got the opportunity, we have to take it.

We’re set for the face-off but the refs kicked out Erikkson for God knows what reason, and call up Bryce Collins, a buffoon Denver has trained to skate.

“One more boys,” I call out, ignoring the stench as he positions himself.

“One more and we can break these fuckers.”

“Hey Becker,” he grumbles an inch from my face. “I heard your toy-boy bottom got knocked out. Maybe you need to get him a padded headboard for his birthday.”

Rage has my eyes twitching and my fist clenching around my stick. I’d love to fight this ass, just to punch him right in the face. But sometimes, the best way to fight is not too.

“Yeah, tried that but I’m just too powerful.

Nothing can handle this.” I blow him a kiss at the perfect time.

The ref drops the puck, I take it before Collins has blinked and we’re off.

As always, Cory is waiting in the perfect position for my pass.

He takes it, fires a rocket one-timer at the goal before any defense can get back to help out their goalie, who watches helplessly as the puck sails over his left shoulder.

Fuck yeah. Nothing shuts a homophobe up like a goal.

The obligatory fist bumps take place, and I take to the bench for a well needed rest. Beside me Cory slides off his helmet and douses his face with water.

It’s something I rarely do. I hate how gross my hair feels when I shove the helmet back on, but damn, I know I’m inside an ice rink, but it must be a hundred degrees in here.

Fuck it. “Lay some on me Cubby,” I demand, sliding off my helmet.

“You called me Cubby!” His face lights up and he laughs so heavily as he squirts half a bottle of water on my face, he almost falls off the bench.

I give my head a good shake, dog after a bath style, and am about to stick the helmet back on when the boys start jostling me.

“When’s the Vogue cover coming out, Becker? ”

“What?” Cory points to the Jumbotron where they are playing a slow-motion replay of me removing my helmet, closing my eyes as the water hits my face, then shaking my wet hair. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?” I say to myself.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer asshole.” That was Coach and it sets me off in a most uncharacteristic fit of giggles.

It’s been such a horrible few days that it feels good.

Until it doesn’t. The image of a dejected Skip pops into my head.

He’s sitting at home with I don’t know who because Quinn is here with me, and I’m here laughing like a dipshit at the big screen.

Then the guilt over my agent, and the team’s interest, and everything else my fucked up brain can dredge up, piles on top of that.

I really am the most selfish prick on the face of the earth.

Perhaps something is telling in my posture, because a short sharp kick in my ass threatens to send me over the boards. “You’re easier to read than White’s whiteboard.”

Slightly bemused, Coach White looks up from the boards he’s erasing. “What?”

“Ah, it’s empty?” I say stupidly.

“My point exactly. You’re allowed to enjoy the game.

Even without Basse here. We all are,” he says, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the crowd.

“Yes, what’s happened to Brady is unfair.

But life is unfair. We do the best we can with what we can, and the best we can do for him is to fucking win. ”

I’ve just won the fucking Frozen Four, picked up the MVP, and my agent is currently negotiating a deal that will see me playing with Noah in Boston.

Around me, the team is celebrating, drinking sparkling wine from a mini Stanley Cup because the one we were just handed, as impressive and historic as it is, stupidly can’t hold liquor.

My back and ass are red raw from congratulatory slaps, I’ve had a pep talk from the prowling Professor Plum, and the whole thing is a fucking surreal dream. Yet never have I felt more miserable.

I need my Quinn and Brady.

Now that the game is done, my brain is stuck.

Not knowing why she was here is killing me.

I have a meeting with Dannie and the B’s Coach Cole, and then we’re heading to a private function at O’Reilly’s, something he’s said is mandatory.

Family and friends are invited, but I can’t see Quinn leaving Brady for that long.

If only she’d answer my calls.

Waving off another slap of congratulations, I sneak into the showers, droplets still clinging to the mirrors, thanks to Christian and his need to have the last and longest shower.

“I’ll give you a minute,” he says when he sees me on my phone. He drops his comb, then much to the delight of the packed locker room, struts out with his towel around his waist.

“Come on Quinn … Please … Come on … God damn it.” Defeated, I slump against and slide down the wall, hunching my body into a ball like a coward.

“Troye.”

“Kitty?” I raise my head and there she is, in her #1 and #2 jersey, blue kitty ears I definitely didn’t notice earlier popping out through her hair as she emerges from the steam like it’s my favorite wet dream. “I really, really dig those ears.”

“Lotte gave them to me, but I said I’d only wear them if you won.”

“And we did.”

“You did indeed.” Her feet nudge mine, and I reach up, snagging the hem of her sweater and pulling her down into my lap.

I kiss her with all the lust and love and fear I hold in my heart, and when we break apart, panting, foreheads connected, the full impact of the last forty-eight hours crashes over me, rendering me speechless.

Seeming to know exactly what I need, Quinn runs her hand down my cheeks and cups my jaw in her hand, raising my head till our eyes lock.

“Noah’s with Brady. We had a … difficult afternoon. Not long after I left, Brady let Noah know he was struggling to cope with the headaches and dizziness, so Noah drove him to the emergency room.”

“What? Is he?—”

“He’s okay.” She smiles, pressing a kiss to my lips. “They gave him some more medication and he’s at home sleeping now.”

Hushed voices, giggles and the distinct sounds of making out infiltrate our little bubble, then a sighed, “Cubby,” lets us know who at least one of the participants is.

Quinn leans backwards, and calls out. “Ah, hello. Emotional reunion happening here.” The giggles and moans are replaced by hurried footsteps and a flash of movement.

“Holy shit, Troye. I think I just saw…” Quinn pauses. “Actually, you don’t want to know.” She kisses me again, then snuggles into my chest. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. I mean I should be. I got the trophy, an agent, and picked up by Boston but all I wanted was you and Skip.”

“And you have us, Troyeby. You have it all.”