Page 8 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

S houlder to shoulder with my teammates, we hunched over whiteboards on our final time out for the night. As planned, I’ve been kicking BC Bear’s ass, but I’m beginning to think Brady slipped on the soap and cracked his head in that last break.

I’ve watched a lot of his games.

A. LOT. All for strictly research purposes, of course. And in all those replays, never have I ever seen him play this bad. So bad, it’s not funny anymore. I can’t help but wonder if I’m a little responsible. I mean, I have taunted him. Challenged his masculinity.

Have I pushed him too far? Broken him? Looks that way.

Do I regret it? Possibly. But here’s the thing. Apart from fucking around with Quinn, messing with Brady Basse’s head has been the highlight of my year.

Even before Quinn, I’d taken one look at the Bear’s intensely focused, routined, hot but bat shit-boring import during his first US game, and knew he needed to relax. Who better than me to loosen him up?

It took a bit of creative thinking, but at each home or away game since, a crisp twenty has fallen into the palm of Terry, a geeky PR team photographer, resulting in dozens of photos of me, weeks of torturous messages for him.

And it’s not just the weekly texts. Winding him up while he’s guarding the net, seeing his cheeks flush red in real time, is even better.

If I was truly concerned for his sanity, I could stop at any time. But it’s just too much fun, honestly, I could kanga this roo forever. Shit, Coach is eyeballing me.

“Becker, are you even listening.?” I am not, and he knows it, so he follows up. “What did I just say?”

“Pucks deep. Pound the D.”

Of course my festering turd of a coach is so predictable, I guessed right, and he moves on.

“There’s only a handful of games before the end of the season, and this is the Bulldog’s last game against these BC fuckers.

Agents and scouts for both AHL and NHL teams will be watching, so treat every minute on the ice as your personal audition tape. Give it everything.”

Wait. Shit. Something this blowhard said is actually sinking in.

Obviously, the NHL bit, ‘cause, duh. I want to play in the big leagues, the NHL.

But an AHL career would be a dream come true, too.

Not only because I live and breathe hockey, but because for an undrafted kid like me, hailing from a family like mine, the Goddamn AHL is an oasis in the no-hoper desert, and I am one thirsty son-of-a-bitch.

But that’s not what has my stomach twisted.

This is the Bulldog’s last game against these BC fuckers

I am a senior. Like Quinn, Brady is a junior. Unless the Bears and the Bulldogs progress to the Frozen Four, this will be the final time I can poke this particular Bear. Not only this season, but forever.

Fuck.

I jump the boards and line up for the puck drop.

Having Brady Basse’s glistening blue eyes trained on me shouldn’t consume my thoughts.

And when I hold the puck behind the net, slowing down play, I definitely shouldn’t be watching his hulking frame effortlessly glide across his crease.

I am, though, because there’s a very real chance that my fun, and his misery, will be over in thirteen minutes.

Damn, I don’t feel so good.

Chris skates up beside me, tapping my helmet with his stick. “You look like you’re going to hurl. Don’t let Pollard and his agent talk get to you.”

Hey. Yeah, that’s probably why I feel kind of … sick? Yeah, those golden locks peeking out from beneath his helmet have nothing to do with it. It’s uncertainty and pressure that have an ominous dread following me around like my own personal storm cloud.

Yeah. Must be.

“You really think there’s agents here?” I say, trying to convince myself.

With a shrug, Chris taps my ass and points towards the stands. “Forget them and Pollard. Focus on that.”

‘That’, is Quinn. The one ray of sunshine capable of breaking through my gray.

As always, that girl has jumped and cheered and clapped every time I’ve been near the puck. Which is a lot ‘cause as I said, I am on fucking fire. I may not have scored a goal, but I’ve racked up four assists and created plays that will give Coach a boner when he watches the replay tonight.

Eww. What the hell, brain?

I take my mind off geriatric erections and focus on causing mayhem on the ice, laying three hits and making two dirty shots on goal before the end of my shift. The minute I take my set on the bench, Coach Pollard leans in till his face is within an inch or two of mine.

“Becker,” he almost whispers. “Their backup goalie is a freshman twig, so I want you pushing on Basse every chance you get. He’s been the key to their success since Petterson left.

They can’t possibly make the Four without him, and right now, he’s low in confidence.

From what I hear, you’re the annoying smart-ass that’s worn him down, so you’re also going to be the one to finish him off. ”

No further instructions are given. None are required. I know what he wants.

Supplied by the usual dicks, a smattering of snickers breakout beside me, while Chris and I remain silent and stony-faced.

Pollard was a dirty player and his coaching career is equally on the nose.

Still, ignoring the hatred I have for him, his filthy minion Jordan, and my increasing general mistrust of authority isn’t right.

He’s my coach, and as his player I should do what I’m told.

Then again. “That’s bullshit. We’re three-zip.

The game is ours. We don’t need to cheat. ”

Coach’s face turns a similar shade to the Bears maroon jerseys. “Save the pity party for someone who gives a shit, Becker. Physical. Mental. Illegal,” he spits, marking each on fat, crooked fingers. “I don’t care what you do, just do whatever it takes. If you won’t. Foxman will.”

With that, Jordan high fives fellow fuck wit and line mate, Lucas Moroni, and we’re jumping the boards to resume play.

“Don’t forget what Coach said,” the former sneers. “Take Basse out, or I will.”

Huddling on the blue line, Chris and Dan shoot me matching looks of concern as I approach. “You’re not going to do it … right?” Chris asks, eyes shifting to Brady who’s pulling some weird-ass goalie stretch, his arms stretched across his net, his legs almost parallel.

“The fuck if I know. I could give two shits about messing up the golden number one’s pretty face, but I need a contract at the end of this season, or I’m back to picking apples with my Moms.” Not a euphemism.

My parents actually bought a tiny apple farm when we left the trailer park. “Suspension is not an option.”

“Right,” Chris nods. “So, I repeat, what are you going to do?”

From the corner of my eye I see Quinn waving at Brady before her eyes seek and find mine. A kiss is blown in my direction and it takes all of my strength not to jump in the air, catch and hold it to my heart. Instead, I ignore it as I tell myself it’s for her own good.

“Whatever I need to.”

Someone must have lit a match in Brady’s ass during that last time out, because five minutes of game time remain and it’s a different man before those pipes.

He’s stopped everything that’s come within a foot of his pads. BC have scored twice off his rebounds. And I am running out of time.

Tired of my own lack of action, each time Foxman approaches the net he’s tossing gloves, his stick, his brains in an attempt to start something with anyone, and draw Brady in.

He’s swept Brady’s feet out, is one bitch slap away from straight up belting the shit out of him, and the ref’s seem oblivious.

I, more than anyone, get that physicality goes with hockey like peanut butter does with jelly, but this is getting out of hand.

Brady may well be covered in pads till he resembles the Michelin man, but the kid is going to be black and blue tomorrow, and that thought takes up an abnormally large, irrationally uncomfortable space in my chest.

At this point I don’t even care about the W, or how I look for betraying my team. I need to protect their goalie.

But how?

The ‘ what’ comes to me when Bears D-man Paul Osam’s sloppy hands allow me to pluck the puck from his stick, causing a turnover and breakout that has me dangerously close to offside. Lucky for me the refs have swallowed their whistles, and it’s just me and the giant goalie.

Calls of teammates and fans are a distant dull roar as I close in.

Boldly, he leaves his crease when I’m still a stride or two away. Even from here, with the blur of movement and a metal cage shielding his unfairly pretty face, I can see those crystal blue orbs tracking the puck, widening when he realizes I ain’t slowing down.

“What the fu—” And an explosion of air, as loud as thunder, cracks throughout the arena as our bodies collide, the force of which takes out Brady, and the net.

As a threesome we slide, me practically riding his massive frame into the boards.

The second we still, I toss my gloves, take hold of his jersey and shake, hoping it looks more violent than it is.

“You’ve got to get off the ice, Skip. They’re trying to hurt you … Skip.” For several sickening beats, there’s no reply. “Basse, they want to hurt you.”

Panic sets in, time grinding to a halt when he fails to respond, or fucking move, but then. “You’re hurting me you fucking wanker.”

I huff a startled, relieved laugh. “Yeah, well you scared the shit out of me?—”

“Do not touch my goalie!” And we’re back in real time. Incensed by my crossing of the ultimate hockey line, I’m hauled to my feet by little Cory Malkovich, the smallest guy on the ice, and given the standard, warning-both verbally, and by fist.

“I’m trying to save your goalie.”

With Dan and Chris on the bench, and none of my other teammates backing me up, I’m besieged by Bears, squished against the boards and pummeled.

When the dust settles, some asshole’s left teeth marks are in my arm, I’ve taken a couple of head butts, a shit ton more punches, and I’m in the bin. Malkovich, Shane and Osam are sent to theirs, and switch to an enthusiastic, chirped takedown of me through the glass.

I don’t partake, not ‘cause I don’t want to, but because the instant the door slams shut, I pounce on the unsuspecting time keeper. “Sir, do you have a pen and paper?”

“What the hell do you need a pen and paper for, kid?” He huffs, observing me as though I’ve taken one too many blows. “You writing your last will and testament?”

“Something like that.”

My arms feel weighed down, my movements slow and unnatural as I shove my hand through my hair and keep my eyes on the Bears’ bench.

As expected, Skip’s surrounded by trainers, most likely being assessed for a concussion.

In the same breath I pray that he’s okay, and remind myself that I’m not supposed to care.

Even if I hate my coach, and a majority of my teammates—which I do—what I’m doing is a betrayal of every Bulldogs practice, every game, every tradition.

I know that, but after the longest 300 seconds of my life, I exit the box, knowing I’m about to get the living shit beat out of me, and part of me welcomes it.

With a sweat-stained note clutched in my glove, I skate by the Bears’ bench, causally tossing it over the boards as I’m sprayed with water, spit and insults.

“Keep your trash to yourself, Becker,” A defender I can’t remember the name of, grunts.

For one hot minute, I fear he’s going to throw it right back at me.

But the player next to him is curious, and nudges his arm till he yields.

Brows pinched, he hunches over and finally, finally un-crinkles the post-it, studies it like I’ve handed him the meaning of life, then stares at me and mouths. “Are you fucking kidding me, Becker?”