Page 9 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ B ro, I know I’ve played like a dog’s brekky for two periods, but I’m seeing the puck like it’s a basketball. I’m in the zone. I’m?—”

“Doing what you’re damn well told because it’s for your own good.”

Enraged, I think some really mean things, then drop and sit like the good little boy I am.

“What do you mean, my own good? Not playing is never good. It’s bad.

Really bad. Besides, it’s too early to leave the goals open.

I hate this. It’s not fair.” I’m whingeing like a little bitch, but I can’t help it.

I’m pissed. Sore. And confused. And my head and neck … feel weird.

I feel like I might chuck, too.

When that tit Troye Fucking Becker rode my chest into the boards, my melon head bore the brunt of the impact. I‘m pretty sure I blacked out for a second, and when I came to … Well, let’s just say a concussion is the only explanation for what ever the hell my mind thinks went on.

I’m not sure if Coach is even listening.

That groove between his brows is far beyond anything Botox could smooth out as studies a scrap of paper in his hand.

“Thanks for questioning my judgment—” he eventually replies, eyes still on the paper—“but it’s not too early.

With the way the offense is clicking, an open goal might give us the W.

” Finally he looks up and I almost wish he didn’t.

“Plus you need a concussion test and …” He pauses again, then drops a bomb.

“We’ve got word that you’re being targeted. ”

I swallow the chunks in my throat. “Targeted? What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, the Bulldogs have entered their Mafia era.” The note is passed to me. Blinking, I read it through blurred vision, my stomach making a rapid descent, pooling somewhere around my ankles.

Pollard wants me to take Basse out, and I don’t mean for dinner and drinks. Get him off the ice.

Snatched from my hands before I can read it again, Harris passes it to Assistant Coach White. “When Becker came out of the bin he?—”

“Becker?” Pressing off the bench, I wobble my way to standing, but a giant palm crashes into my forehead, pushing me back onto my ass.

“Yes, Brady. Becker dropped the note over the boards as he passed. A metal-faced, tattooed, daughter-corrupting punk, is not a preferred or a reliable source of intel. This could be nothing more than his sick idea of a joke, but I have no way of proving or disproving that. Even if the doc’s okay it, I could never forgive myself if I let you out there and something happened?—”

“But.”

“No buts. The team needs you, Brady.” He points to the number emblazoned on my jersey. “You’re number one for a reason.”

For a beat or two, his usually intense eyes soften, and the slightest pink colors his stubble-covered cheeks like he’s embarrassed for showing human emotion. “Besides, if you got hurt, Quinn would never let me hear the end of it.” How can I argue with that?

Another beat passes and the dead, blank stare is back. “Go see the doc then hit the showers, kid. Your night is over.”

It’s midnight. I’m exhausted, mentally and physically, and I have a mild concussion. As you’d expect, my head is pounding, and wave after wave of room spinning nausea has my post-game whole chicken and rice, abandoned fork and all, on the coffee table.

Sleep is what I need, but my brain is serving up every random, weird ass thing it can to prevent it.

If it’s not the throbbing skull, it’s a cramp in my calf, an itch at the very bottom of my fucking ear, or a repetitive twitch in my right eyelid.

I also dropped Poppy under my bed, and almost puked when I bent down to retrieve her. It was worth it.

Then there’s the anxiety. That may be the worst, because again, it’s midnight. On a game night. And I don’t have a message from Becker.

There’s no point and wink at the camera. Not a single glimpse of flexing pecs, or washboard stomach. No white-boy Travis Kelce style dancing has been eye rolled.

Troye scored, I know he did. Christian let one slip between his pads seconds after Coach Harris sent me to the locker room, the ground vibrating beneath my feet as the Bulldog’s fans celebrated the metaphorical nail in the Bear’s coffin.

So why no photo?

My thumb caresses Poppy’s hair, flicking out a troll sized dust bunny she picked up from the floor.

This reaction is so me. So … confusing. I should be stoked.

For months I have dreaded the traitorous PING and the lighting of my phone’s screen after each of his games, but in its absence I find my self a little … lost.

Closing my eyes, I roll to my side, fingers sliding over sheets well past needing a wash, snatch my phone and check it’s not on silent.

Thirtieth time’s the charm, right?

I’ve barely touched the screen when the thing begins to vibrate, then ring, the shrill generic tone, a defibrillator supplied shock to the heart.

I know it’s him. I can feel the arrogance. Why is he calling? He doesn’t usually call. I shouldn’t answer. Don’t answer.

“This is Brady, how can I help you?” I say, like a true fucking moron.

“Hi, Brady. This is Noah, friend and all-round studly superstar.”

Fuck.

I’m sure more cocky rubbish is being uttered, but the self-declared super-stud is laughing too hard for me to understand any of it.

Eventually a slow, deep breath calms him enough to speak, and my wish that he just moves on dies a quick death.

“Why the fuck are you answering the phone like you’re running a bank help desk? ”

“Um, maybe because it’s past midnight, and I was asleep?”

“ Or because you were lying in bed moping over the loss, obsessing over a certain coach’s daughter, and her Bulldog boyfriend’s photos?”

I play dumb. “What?”

“Troye, Brades. Troye’s photo. Quinn’s face. You, pining.”

“I’m not pining over Quinn.”

“Sure, and I’m not lying here, dreaming about coming home to Lotte and her massive … heart.” He chuckles. “So tell me. What’s tonight’s pic, and why did you get pulled from the game?”

My stomach flips. Tonight’s pic.

“There is no pic,” I huff. “Just like there’s no explanation for what happened at the game, other than the bullshit one Troye fed Coach. And trust me, it was bullshit. Troye’s little note was just another way to fuck with me ‘cause he’s a fucking wanker.”

This time it’s Noah who drops an elongated, “ What ?”

I don’t want to go over this again, but Noah does have a weird ability to be able to read people and situations. It’s what made him a great captain, and an even better person. “You watched the game, right? You know I got benched, you’ve seen what happened?”

“Only caught the last period after my game, which was awesome thanks for asking. But yeah. I saw your noggin taking a flogging. You okay?”

I’m not. Not at all. But if I admit that, Lotte, or Noah’s sister Claire, will be here within the hour, with soup, a crocheted blanket, and God knows what else.

To be honest, that doesn’t sound too bad, but still.

“That prick Becker gave me a concussion, then flipped Coach a note claiming he was trying to protect me from Pollard. Reckons he ordered him to do it.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, but I can clearly picture Noah’s brow rising as he ponders.

“What did Coach think?” he eventually asks, his tone devoid of its usual humor.

“I’m pretty sure Pollard retired at the end of Coach’s rookie year, so they would have played together.

If Coach thinks he’s a good guy incapable of this shit, there’s no way Troye, of all people, could convince him otherwise. ”

“What is it with you captains? That’s what Shane said, when I tried to storm the Bulldogs bus and get Troye.”

“And what exactly would you have done had you got him, Big D? Give him the frowning of a lifetime?”

“No,” I snap. “I would have punched his stupid face in like I did Ryan’s that time.

” At the memory of a former team mate, now inmate, the incessant thud in my head goes from annoying to crippling.

Alongside killing team spirit with sprinklings of homophobia, violence, and borderline sexual assault, Ryan vandalized Green Line Ice; the rink owned by Conte’s ice tech, Marty.

Ryan sucks … even more than Troye.

“Oh, yeah.” Noah’s sternness disappears in a fit of laughter. “I forgot about that … Killer. You really went to town on that clown.”

“I was defending your now fiancee. You should be kissing my ass, not pissing your pants.”

“You’re right,” he huffs, breathing deep to stem his giggles. “I’m very sorry and eternally grateful to you, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Now, before you hop on a flight and beat the shit out of me too, stop moping and tell me what’s happening to Pollard.”

“Ugh, I’m not …” I stop, ‘cause I am kind of moping. “I dunno. Coach just insisted I rest, and leave it with him.”

“Well in that case, you better go and get your beauty sleep, Killer.”

“And you better shut up.”

Once again I lack the ability to join in on the giggles I hear before the line goes dead.

That fitful kind of sleep where you’re not sure if you’ve been up all night, or just dreamed that you were, ends when Quinn’s melodic voice jolts me from bed.

At least I think it’s Quinn. It’s a woman for sure, one who’s pounding against the front door.

In my eagerness to see her pretty face, I leap to my feet like a bull at a gate and suffer the room-spinning, vomit-rising, vision-blurring consequences.

This is not my first concussion, but it’s easily my worst, forcing me to lean against the wall beside my door as I open it.

“Hi Quinnaaahhhprofessorplum?” I’m not sure if it’s shock or the brain injury that slurs my words.

Maybe it’s a bit of both. “What are you doing here? How’d you know where I live? ”

“It’s Faith, remember? And as for your address, I just checked the school’s database. Easy peasy. Hungry?”

A grease-stained brown paper bag is waved in my face and the nausea that’s been brewing since my head slammed into the wall, is unleashed, coating the legs and the very expensive looking boots of my pretty professor.