Page 5 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

I ’ve always been a selfish prick, but generally, I’ve been able to keep my shitty attitude and wandering dick reserved for those of an equal class of trash; peers who also want and take and use with little to no regard.

But the night Quinn Harris fell into my bed, fucked me to heaven three times, fixed me a sandwich, then left before I could pretend to ask for her number, is a night I hit a new low.

Sexy as all fuck, smart, funny, a rocket in the sack, Quinn is the itch I cannot stop scratching.

Everything I ever wanted.

Everything I don’t deserve.

I know that, but even now as she innocently snuggles in my lap, emitting her cute little purr-like snore and nobly fighting off sleep, I can’t turn her away.

Instead, I will take all that she will give me.

Will feed off her energy and light, sucking her dry till there’s nothing left but a ruined, tortured soul.

It’s what I do.

My birth family tradition.

A now familiar, dangerous warmth spreads like sweet Vermont syrup in my belly as Quinn’s tiny hand twists into the waist of my sweats. “Can I stay the night, Troye? I’m too sleepy to drive home.”

Yes.

“Nope. Sorry, Kitty, but we agreed that you wouldn’t sleep over anymore. Not till you talked to your dad.”

“I did talk to Dad.”

“Yeah, about bogus vegetarianism. You went there to ease your conscious and chickened—sorry—tofu-ed out. No Dad. No stay. Them’s the rules.”

Quinn huffs and it’s so freaking cute I wanna die. “Since when do you care about rules?”

“Since I started fucking the good girl, princess of a hockey legend that could end any hope I have of an NHL career in a heartbeat.” That is partially true.

As the Frozen Four winning coach of enemy team Boston College, Quinn’s dad holds a lot of sway in the industry.

I could give two shits about my reputation, and I shouldn’t about hers either.

But for some reason, the thought of her becoming further estranged from her family over me curdles my blood.

Quinn huffs again and pushes off my chest, a thin lipped scowl darkening her face.

Mentioning the fame of her dad is the equivalent of a red flag to a moody bull.

That’s why I did it. And why I set the-no dad, no us-rule.

He’s never going to approve of me. This game will get old.

She will move on. And I will be nothing more than a memory.

Still. I can have some fun in the mean time. Particularly with that bottom lip. It’s slightly swollen from where she keeps biting it. It’s a good look on her.

“Don’t look at me like that, Kitty,” I say, running my thumb over the lump.

“Don’t say things like that, then call me Kitty.”

“Then don’t snore like a cute little kitten and I won’t.

” The scowl is gone, replaced by a pout so sexy I want to sink my own teeth in and suck like fucking Le stat.

“We both know you’re so far out of my league it’s a different sport.

Your rich daddy dear thinks the same, and there’s nothing you can do to change his mind, which means we’re either done or it’s bang and go. ”

The tiniest wince and a flicker of pain cross her face and I hate myself a little more. “Maybe you could talk to him again?” she whispers, voice meek.

“Nope. No way. Been there. Done that. Not that guy.”

I tried to be, once. Not so long ago, in a moment of either weakness or pussy drunkenness, I marched on over to Conte Forum, home of the Boston Bears and sought out Mr. Boss Man’s approval to see his girl.

In reply I was handed a master class in thoughtfully selecting synonyms for get the fuck out of my office, you tattooed piece of carny shit.

I’d never such shame, or self hatred, and that’s really saying something. To make matters worse, Quinn moved out of her family mansion and into her friend Lotte’s tiny apartment after choosing me over her dad.

Me.

Apart from my moms, no one has ever done anything like that for me, and I decided at that moment, even if I was maybe a little in love, Quinn can never know it.

Short of ending things now, something I’m just not strong enough to do, I’ve done everything I can to push her away.

But here she stays.

Exactly where I want, but shouldn’t want her to be.

Cold sheets against my skin wake me before the first cracks of morning sun can sneak through my blinds. Chasing warmth, I groan and roll back to my usual side, but it too has chilled in my short absence.

Fuck I hate sleeping alone.

For a moment in time, when she first left home but before she’d resewn the fragile stitches of her relationship with her parents, Quinn spent almost every night at mine.

I’ll never admit it out loud, but those short few weeks were the happiest of my pitiful college existence.

I’d never slept as good as I did with her tucked up against me. Or on top, depending on her mood.

Pretending to be asleep, I watched through my lashes as Quinny left my bed, dressed then blew me a kiss. That was around one am, and I have a morning skate at seven and a game tonight.

And not just any game. It’s this season’s second Battle of Boston and we are not walking away losers again.

Fuck I need some sleep.

Attempting just that, I close my eyes and snuggle into my quilt, inhaling deeply on a patch still carrying Quinn’s scent.

I must drift off at some point, because my phone, tucked beneath my pillow, chimes, scaring the absolute shit out of me.

Scowling I pull it out, but the frown quickly turns upside down.

Skippy

What the hell is wrong with you, Becker? This little game of yours is doing my head in. KNOCK IT OFF.

After Googling doing my head in, I reply.

Morning Skip. Did my little buddy get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning? Maybe you should take another look at the last pic I sent you. The wink was just for you.

SKIPPY

No one wants to see your nasty pics. DO NOT send more.

Send more? Sure thing, Skip. I’ll send you a fresh shot after we kick your team’s ass tonight. Maybe even a few. You might be lucky and get 3 for 1. I feel a hat-trick baby brewing in my nutsack.

The next reply is a photo, that has me expelling a slow, throaty groan.

Brady’s sitting on the edge of his bed raising his middle finger into the mirror.

The phone is covering his face, but framing his arm is a perfect view of a thick barrel chest, bulging biceps and just a hint of a sandy happy trail.

It’s all I’m going to think of each time I face him tonight.

“Fuck.” I drop my phone, flip onto my stomach and slam my head into the mattress, pulling my pillow tight around my ears. It’s not comfortable in the slightest, ‘cause thanks to a lethal combination of Skip’s fuzzy belly and Quinn’s lingering perfume, I’m sporting a chub harder than a puck.

Why must I always want what I can’t have?

I remain that way until I can no longer ignore the rumbling of my gut.

Rolling from bed I slide into some pajama pants, conceal my semi and head downstairs.

Apart from the gentle hum of the heating, the house is silent.

Most of my frat bros partied at Alpha Delta Pi last night.

Those that made it home and don’t have metal blades, cleats or running shoes to slip on aren’t likely to venture outside before noon.

Those that do are either gone or will join me in the kitchen any minute.

Taking advantage of the little time I do have, I dump a fresh bag of beans into the coffee machine and start her up, enjoying the heavenly smell while walking through the dining room and lounge, opening all the blinds.

Mom says I must be part reptilian because I need the sun to function.

Like, need it-need it. I’m a grumpy-ass, winter hater.

Something that’s pretty inconvenient for a New England hockey player.

When the lower half of the house is bathed in as much light as possible for this time of year, I head back to the kitchen, stretching my arms above my head as I go, before pulling my double helping of overnight oats from the fridge and adding more berries.

“You’re going to turn into a bowl of porridge one day.”

“Not porridge.”

Dan, frat bro, teammate pain in my ass, pauses, his hand hovering in mid air between his body and the now full coffee pot. “Dude. It’s oats and milk and whatever else crap you put in there. Oats and milk equal porridge.”

“Hot oats and milk make porridge, numb nuts. Does this look hot to you?” I shove my bowl into Dan’s face and he responds by swiping a handful of plump blueberries from the top.

“Are you two arguing about oats again? I swear to God, you are the oldest twenty-one year olds I know.” That’s Chris, second teammate/frat bro.

The good one. “I heard Quinn sneak out of here in the middle of the night. You know, I don’t get you, Becks.

When she was dating Foxman you swooped in like Superman rescuing Lois Fucking Lane, now you're dodging her calls, ignoring her while you play GTA, and tossing her out like trash. Why don’t you just break up with her? ”

Just hearing Jordan Foxman’s name has me burning with rage, the heat from my body could turn my breakfast into Dan’s precious porridge after all.

Jordan was Quinn’s freaking psycho stalker boyfriend when she was a student here at BU.

Me and a few of the other boys on the team did what we could to intervene, but he was such a twat, she ended up transferring to BC to escape him.

I try to ignore Chris , the former good one, but he stands in my way, blocking me from exiting the small space holding too many hockey boys that have yet to shower.

“For the same reason I beat Foxman to a pulp and tried to get him kicked off the team. ‘Cause I like her,” I eventually grumble, eyes glued to my bowl.

“Wait. So you’re being a total dick, treating her like shit, but you won’t break up with her ‘cause you like her?”

“Exactly.” I nod. “I know it makes no sense, but … I can’t handle the idea of telling her it’s over. Just picturing her face when I break things off literally makes me sick. So, I figured if I act like a prick, she’ll leave me, and I won’t have to be the one to hurt her.”

“So, by being a bad guy, you’ll avoid being … the bad guy?”

“Right. She leaves and I don’t hurt her.”

“That’s some messed up Wreck-it-Ralph level shit, Bro,” Dan adds with a scoff. “Even I’m not that much of an asshole, and I’m a real dick.”

Resting the small of my back against the counter, I take a mouthful of my breakfast, nudging him with my elbow as I do. “Pick an end, Daniel. Are you a dick or an ass?”

“What, like you don’t love both?”

Dan and I snort with laughter, but Chris has yet to surrender the moral compass. “You’re hurting her right now, you do know that, don’t you.”

“I do know that.” And I hate myself for it. “But that’s her choice and not my problem.”

Fuck. I really am a piece of shit.