A frown creases his too-handsome face and his dark eyebrows knit. It’s complicated. Lana wasn’t happy about me rescuing this little guy. Not that I blame her, tonight was important to her… His voice trails off.
Yeah, but you can’t just leave a kitten outside on a night like this, I blurt before my shut-up filter can turn on.
He nods emphatically. That’s what I thought too. But I’ve been told that I’m overzealous when it comes to animals.
I don’t need three guesses to figure out who told him that—his Barbie girl. That’s what he gets for dating someone that fake. This whole disaster is his own fault.
So, you guys must have had a big fight if she left you stranded, Becks speculates.
What the fuck, Becks? Is she being nosy or hitting on him?
Uh, yeah. His jaw tightens. But it’ll be fine.
Even the shameless Becks doesn’t keep asking questions after this. Instead, we start talking about the women’s hockey season. I’m surprised at how knowledgeable he is; most guys don’t pay attention to our games, and that goes double for the egomaniacs on the men’s team.
Have you guys played at Hoover yet? Becks asks. They’re renovating the dressing rooms, and it’s a shit show right now. Well, at the least the visitor room was.
We’re there next month. I’ll warn Coach, he says.
When I look over my shoulder, the kitten is curled up in Mats’s lap and fast asleep. He can’t be more than a month old and looks tiny next to Mats’s large hands.
He notices me staring. Would you be interested in adopting her? His voice is deep and chocolatey, but I’m not falling for his bullshit. Everyone thinks Roy is such a nice guy, but I know the truth.
Her? I thought you said he was a male? Becks says.
The truth is that I have no idea. He lifts the little stick of a tail. If he is a male, then it’s not obvious.
Mats is trying to suck us in. We’re female, so he thinks we’ll be all female solidarity, I say.
Becks laughs. Really? Wouldn’t a male be better, then? Some poor victim we could train and boss around.
He laughs. Good luck training cats. We have one, and she rules the place.
I’m surprised that there’s a cat in his hockey house. It’s an element of homeyness that’s unexpected. Usually, those places are all testosterone, with uncleaned bathrooms and notched bedposts.
What’s your cat’s name? asks Becks.
It’s Neko. Probably the lamest name ever. It means cat in Japanese.
Mats is half-Japanese. He has dark hair and eyes, but a squared jaw and defined cheekbones that look almost Scandinavian. Sure, he’s good-looking, but he’s too aware of his appearance. Fancy clothes, hair product, and once his girlfriend posted a photo of the two of them doing sheet masks. What kind of hockey player does shit like that?
That gives me an idea. I sneak out my phone and check Lana Hillier’s Insta. Holy shit. She’s already gotten rid of all her photos with Mats! Whatever he might think, they’re done-zo.
Meanwhile, Becks is still talking about cats.
Having a cat would be fun, but Woolly might have allergies. We’d have to ask everyone first. There’s five of us in our house.
Same as our place, says Roy, as if the whole campus doesn’t already know that half the men’s team lives in three houses on the main street of St. Viola. It’s like they’re freaking celebrities. I can’t deal.
How’s your brother’s hockey going? Becks asks, since Mats’s other claim to fame is that his brother plays in the NHL.
Adrian’s doing great. He got called up from the AHL just before Christmas and it seems like he’s going to stick this time.
Amazing. He’s living the dream, right? She turns to me. You okay?
Yes? Why are you asking? And in front of the last person I’d ever reveal anything personal.
I don’t know. Because you’re a non-stop talking, moving machine, and you’ve been so quiet. She looks in the rearview mirror at Mats. Our deal is that I drive and Nellie keeps me entertained.
