Page 6 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ P lease. Lotte. Please. Please. Please come with me.”

“Nope.”

I huff, shimmy closer and duck to rest my head on Lotte’s shoulder.

“But you have too. I’ve made this jersey.

” I proudly display a photo of the Frankenstein jersey that took me hours to make.

“See, it’s half Bears, half Bulldogs, so I need backup if I’m going to walk out of there alive wearing it.

I’ll bake you some cookies too. M&M ones.

” Sweet treats being her true weakness …

Well, other than Noah—Lotte’s hands pause for a split second before she shakes her head and resumes spraying whipped cream onto the frappe she’s preparing.

Lotte is the best barista at Beanz and Bookz, the best on campus cafe.

I really shouldn’t bother her while she’s working with a potentially appearance-altering steam machine, but she’s also easily embarrassed which makes her easy prey in public.

“Nice jersey, but nope.”

“A double batch. Extra chocolate.” This time, her teeth sink into her lip. I’ve got her.

“White and semi-sweet?”

“Whatever your heart desires, Lot.”

“Deal.” With a clunk, the can of cream is slapped onto the bench top and we shake on it. “But no after game drinks. I haven’t been to O’Reilly’s since Noah left, and I would very much like to keep it that way.”

A laugh bubbles from my chest as I picture Lotte at The BC Bears favorite sports bar. Win or lose, the place is packed after a game and tonight will be no different. “Cross my heart and hope to die, poke a hockey stick in my eye. I’ll even drive you home after the?—”

“Hey, Noah’s girl. How’s Noah doing?” Rudely interrupting me, some clown yells across the packed cafe as he swings open the entry doors and strides toward us. “Will he be at the game tonight?”

“No, he won’t be at the game tonight. He’s in Minnesota, then Vegas, then Dallas, then … I can’t remember,” Poor Lotte mutters, the color in her kawaii-blue eyes fading as her volume did, becoming almost clear as she sank to a whisper.

“Bummer. Maybe next time. Hey, anyway. Do you think you could get me and my homies some B’s tickets?”

Inserting my face between Lotte and the buffoon, I take the wheel. “No she does not. Now did you come here for coffee or to be a pain in the ass?”

“Coffee, mam.”

“Good. Go down to the register to order and, oh fuck—” My finger stabbing in the direction of the giant order here sign, stalls mid-air when I feel Callie, Lotte’s boss approach. “Have a good day Mr. Customer man.”

“Quinn. You’re here. Again.” If her voice was any flatter she’d be a pancake.

“Just leaving!” Grabbing hold of my elbow, Callie pulls me to a halt. The muffin I’ve been picking at and did not pay for, sours in my stomach.

“Before you do, I have a question?”

Shit. The words, ‘I’ll pay, I swear’ are on the tip of my tongue when Callie makes me choke on them. “You seem to have the gift of the gab and I’m looking for some slightly friendlier staff.” Pausing, she glances to the barista, and biatch, emo-girl Mika, then back to me.

“Heard that,” Mika huffs.

“Wanted you to,” Callie hollers. “As I was saying, I’m seeking a happy chappy to man the registers now Lotte is cutting back shifts for her internship. You interested?”

Said intern releases a squeal of glee so familiar it warms my heart, heavily tipping the scales of my decision making before it’s begun.

As Lotte’s squeak suggested, working together would be fun.

And I could do with some extra cash. Since leaving home, I’ve been living off the inheritance my beautiful gran left me, and the odd handouts Mom sneaks into my bag every time we catch up.

A job would also give me something to occupy myself with other than hockey boys and their flows.

I should probably ask some questions, though.

Negotiate my salary before agreeing to anything.

“Yes. Sounds like so much fun. When can I start?”

Shit.

“Come in with Lotte tomorrow morning and we’ll run through a few things before it gets busy.” Callie grins triumphantly. “Wear comfortable shoes, all black and a smile. See you at seven.”

Wait. “Seven? Seven am?” It’s possible she thinks I’m kidding, because my confusion is dismissed with a snort, an eye roll and a curt wave as she disappears into the kitchen and starts clanging … kitchen stuff. That leaves Lotte to clear up the obvious mistake.

“Is she for real? Seven am. You don’t even work Saturdays. You’re always at home making breakfast when I get up … or stumble in the door semi-sober.”

Another eye roll is dispensed. Geez, are they on the menu? “Yes, you’re right. I normally start at six, and I am home when you wake up or stumble in, because you wake or stumble in at midday, after my shift has finished. And it’s not breakfast I’m making, it’s lunch.”

I give an ape-like scratch to my head. “Hmm. I did think it was odd that you wore your work clothes on the weekend.” Preparing the next order, Lotte laughs and without looking at her hands once, grabs a takeout cup and begins barista-ing.

It’s almost graceful, how effortlessly she moves.

Kind of reminds me of Troye on the ice, wafting through the mass of bodies like a cloud of smoke.

Speaking of. “Well, this is all very exciting, but I better go get ready for the game. What time do you finish?”

“Five.” She doesn’t snap, but says in a tone that makes me think she’s told me this several times.

“Fiiiive?” I don’t mean to moan and go all floppy. But I do. “But you’ve been here since this morning.”

“That’s right, because it’s Friday and I do a full day every Friday.

We don’t all have inheritances to live off, Quinn.

I have to work or I don’t eat. I swear, sometimes I think you sleep in the next universe, not your bedroom.

” The last part was muttered as several more orders flash up on the screen.

One in particular drawing an exasperated huff.

“For fuck’s sake … A cappuccino without foam is a latte, Mika! ”

Too busy and triggered to notice, Lotte says nothing as I slink away, slightly licking my wounds while barreling out into the pollen-rich air.

It’s not the first time I’ve unintentionally offended others when it comes to money.

I do it to Troye sometimes too. But just like they can’t help not having money, I can’t help being brought up with a lot.

Being a genuine NHL star, Dad earned millions in salary and endorsements, and that hasn’t changed much since he retired and moved into coaching.

Am I spoiled?

Yes.

Do I know what it’s like to go without?

No.

Does my Daddy, as Troye loves to taunt, to this day call me his little princess?

Yes. Yes he does. Or did.

But again, that’s not my fault and also no longer my reality.

Nope. As of devil’s ass crack o’clock tomorrow, this little princess is a working girl … as in a coffee shop. Not a hooker.

“Who’s a hooker?” Questions a thick, syrupy voice I would recognize underwater the second my feet hit the pavement.

Shit. Of course, it’s the last bit that I said out loud. Wincing, I turn to find Brady kitted out in his game day suit, bag tossed casually over his shoulder, and looking like an absolute snack. “Me. Well, not me. But me.”

I’m treated to Brady’s wonky smile and blush before he replies, “Righty-then. Makes perfect sense.”

Thoughtlessly, we move in the same direction at the same time, and once social formalities—how’s school, crappy weather, great last game—are concluded, we fall into a companionable silence.

One where I don’t once sneak a sideways glance at his freckles or thick neck.

Walking so close our fingers brush together, I’m so at ease beside the gentle giant, that more than a block or two pass before I realize he’s heading the opposite direction of Conte Forum.

“I’m not heading to the arena. Some of my things—” Troye’s jersey, I don’t say—“are still at Lotte’s old apartment.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I figured as much, but thought I’d walk with you anyway. The boys already call me a kiss-ass, so showing up hours before another game won’t help.”

“You’re not a kiss-ass, but, why are you going in so early? It’s barely three.”

It takes some time for him to reply, his free hand busily fidgeting with something in his pocket as he mulls over what to say.

“Honestly, I have nothing better to do, so I thought I’d work in some extra ice and stretching time.

Might try get a rub down with one of the trainers if they’re free.

My hammy’s been a bit tight.” Grimacing, he clutches the back of the left leg, confirming a hammy is what I think before I can ask.

Once again, I do not notice any of his physical aspects—the neighboring pert ass, for example. Instead I continue today’s theme and say something stupid. “I can help, if you like. With the rub down, I mean. We can pop you on my bed and?—”

“Nope.” Brady’s head shakes so violently as he backtracks, I get motion sickness. “Nope. That is a bad. Bad. Bad … Nope. We are not popping any one or anything.”

“C’mon, mate,” I tease, my Aussie accent appalling. “I’ve been around sportsmen my whole life. I’m practically a pro … in massage … Sports massage. Again, not a hooker.”

“Yeah, well I’m not so, thanks but.” Nothing follows that but, and Brady is now not following me. Instead, I watch as he runs, not walks away, noting that like his ass, his hammy seems just fine and dandy.

“Hey, you’re smart and are studying psych.

” Is the first thing I say to Lotte as we take our seats at the game, hands full of popcorn, drinks and candy.

We’re directly behind the player’s bench, meaning one sheet of Plexiglas is all that stands between me, a perfect view of Brady, and if I lean forward and stretch my neck, Troye. Oh, and Dad, too. Hence the question.

Lotte shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and as she so often does, mumbles under her breath. “Good Lord, questions that start like this never end well.”

“I’m sure this one will, Lot. Now, could clueless-ness be hereditary?”

Skewing her lips to the side, she ponders. “Hmm. What type of clueless-ness are we talking? Common sense. Book smarts, street smarts, affairs of the heart smarts?”

“Definitely the last two … and wait. Was book smarts first or second?”

“Second,” she replies around a Twizzler.

“Oh, okay, so the last two and the first one. Any book smarts come from Mom. It’s the other stuff, the heart and everyday duh-stuff I’m talking about.

” I point to my father who’s awkwardly erasing plays he’s drawn on a mini whiteboard with the cuff of his sleeve, and not the fluffy eraser he has in his other hand.

“Look at Dad. Sure he’s successful and wise and lecture-ry now, but when he was my age all he cared about was chasing bunnies and partying.

If he hadn’t met Mom and settled down, he wouldn’t have made it to the end of his second college season, let alone the NHL. ”

“And that relates to your question, how?”

“Well, I am super good at school, right? Top of my class, circling valedictorian territory. Yet despite the obvious high IQ, I make stupid, stupid decisions when it comes to … " I let my voice fade and my index finger do the talking, pointing between Troye and Brady.

“Ahh. I see. We’re talking hockey boys again.”

“Hockey boys,” I confirm. “Now, I don’t know if you know this. But, Brady wanted to date me.”

Lotte gasps and clutches her chest. “No.”

Once again ignoring her sarcasm, I continue, “Yes, and even though I really wanted to, I turned him down because I promised my folks I’d go clean turkey on the bros with flows.”

“Obliviously. No one wants to be a bro-flow-ho.”

“Right? And I had caused them so much grief with Jordan, I didn’t want to put them through that again. But then I met up with Troye, and—” Lotte drops her snacks and grips my arm so tightly, I can feel her nails through my puffer jacket.

“You didn’t cause them grief, Quinn, Jordan did. You broke things off and he stalked you till you were forced to move out of your dorm and change schools. None of that was your fault.”

“I know, but?—”

“Do you know? I’ve heard you blame yourself so many times, I’m not sure I believe you.”

Honestly, I’m not sure either, but after the money my parents have spent on therapy, I feel like I should be.

“Perhaps that’s true, but it’s also irrelevant.

The point is, I said no to Brady. Began seeing Troye, have reached the point where I could possibly be in the L-word with him even though he wants nothing serious and actively pushes me away.

Meanwhile.” I pause again because I know how this will sound.

But then I remember this is Lotte. My best friend.

And I truly believe I can tell her anything.

“I might still have feelings for Brady.”

When all Lotte does is nod, I sigh in relief and trust that I can keep going.

“But even if things with me and Troye ended, and I was with Brady, I’d still be forced to lie to my parents, ‘cause they wouldn’t approve of him anymore than they do Troye, ‘cause again, hockey—” I take a massive breath and sip from my diet soda. “See. Not so smart.”

Lotte is silent for a moment, then clears her throat and slips her hand from my forearm to my palm, twisting her fingers into mine and smiling so purely my heart squeezes.

I close my eyes. Inhale deeply, and wait for her healing words of wisdom.

“Quinny. I’m confused.”

Understandable, but not what I was hoping for.

“Me too, Lot. Me too.”