Chapter 13 Blue #3
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not comparing my situation with Liza to Ollie’s marriage.
Hell, Liza and I have only just entered the stage where we can be in the same room together without her wanting to kill me, and I’m completely aware that the only reason my life has been spared is that I’m the orgasm fairy.
I know my place, but I also know that watching her unravel is a goddamned privilege.
And it’s something I want to do again and again and again.
I clutch my side when Dutton elbows me in the ribs and that’s when I realize Ollie’s done crowdsourcing date ideas and everybody’s moved on with their workouts.
Except me. I think I’ve been staring off into space like a cockstruck asshole, because that’s basically what I am.
I give my head a mental shake to get myself back on track, and I follow Dutton to a weight bench so I can spot him.
The weight room is quiet for a while, except for the sound of the machines.
It’s a steady hum and clang that we’re all used to, so it easily fades into the background as we each work through our assigned circuits.
I’m counting down the minutes until I can meet up with Liza because I’m dying to know what else is on that list of hers for the study she’s doing.
Ollie Jablonski is the kind of guy who can’t stand silence for too long, so he starts up a conversation.
I’m the same way, so I never mind. He often asks ridiculous questions, like if we’d rather bathe in cereal or swim in a pool filled with soup.
But today, he has a very specific question, and it’s aimed at me.
“Hey, Gramps,” he says, using the moniker he proudly bestowed upon me the night I told the guys Hazel was expecting kittens.
“When’s the kitty shower? You gotta give us time to shop.
And you sure as shit better have human food, too.
Obviously, as the mama-to-be, Hazel gets to set the menu, but none of the other guests eat cat food, so be considerate. ”
The guys are staring at Ollie as though he’s suddenly started speaking in tongues, but I get where he’s coming from. I should be spoiling my girl in her hour of need, but all my time is consumed with school and hockey and placating my dad and trying in vain to stop fantasizing about Liza.
I’m a busy man.
“Jesus Christ,” our captain mutters. “I guess I have to do everything around here. But I do plan the best parties, so I’ll take it from here.” He takes a swig from his water bottle and grabs his phone, presumably so he can start ordering whatever you need when you’re throwing a cat a baby shower.
“Hey, Blue,” Mickey calls from access the room where he’s doing medicine ball squats with Deano. I cringe inwardly because this is a conversation I’ve been dreading.
“Dude, it’s fine,” I say, because when I first found out that my cat and his cat were…
friendly, I was pissed. Mr. Tittles is half feral, for shit’s sake.
But I can’t be pissed at Mickey because my cat likes bad boys.
The heart wants what it wants. And I can’t even be pissed she’s expecting kittens because I thought she was spayed, so that’s on me.
“I just want you to know that Mr. Tittles is a stand up guy, okay?” he says, catching the ball with his fingertips before shooting it toward Deano.
“He’s not a guy,” Dutton interjects. “He’s a fucking cat.”
“He’s a very misunderstood man, and he’s carrying around a lot of childhood trauma,” Mickey says, not joking in the least. “But he’s gonna do right by his woman and their kids.”
Oh, hell. I mean, it’s a nice sentiment, even if it is weird as fuck that Mickey treats Mr. Tittles like an old buddy from high school instead of a stray cat.
But it’s also awkward because I really don’t want Mick to feel like he has to contribute financially.
He’s here on scholarship, and I doubt he has the extra funds for vet bills.
My dad, however, does. And I have zero qualms about charging all of Hazel’s expenses to a card my dad pays off monthly.
Maybe that seems immature or entitled, but I look at it this way: I’ve basically sold my soul and given in to his demand that I pursue a career in finance.
I figure my soul is probably worth a few thousand bucks, so I’m not worried about it, especially since neither my dad nor his wife could be bothered to let me know that Hazel never even went to the vet in the first place.
That information would have been helpful.
“Don’t worry about it, Mick,” I say easily. It feels douchey to flaunt my dad’s bank account, but I also don’t want my friend to think he’s on the hook for a lot of cash. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Dude, Mr. Tittles is no dummy,” Dime crows. “He went uptown looking for a sugar mama, and that’s where he found Hazel. That girl’s got money.”
I start to laugh, but Mickey looks ready to throw hands. Shit. We don’t need an all-out brawl in the middle of conditioning, and especially not one that started because one guy seemingly insulted another guy’s cat.
“That’s enough,” Mickey fumes. “I’m done with you shitheads trashing Doug like he’s the scum on the bottom of your shoe.”
Ollie does a double-take. “Who the fuck is Doug?”
Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s counting backwards from ten and praying for patience. “Doug Tittles. Hazel’s baby daddy. What the hell, Ollie? Did you think his first name was Mr.? What is wrong with you?”
I’m still processing this new information, but Mickey’s not done with his rant.
“For your information, Doug’s got his own money, and he wants to contribute both financially and emotionally.
He may not fit your closed-minded little mold of what a partner should be, but he loves Hazel, and he is fully prepared to step up. ”
“You work in a pizza shop every summer,” Dutton points out. “How the hell does Doug have the cash to help out? Oh, wait, lemme guess. Doug owns the pizza shop, right?”
Mickey glowers at the man who will most likely be his brother-in-law someday, and I begin to think we might really have a fistfight on our hands before the day is over.
“Fuck you, Sparky,” Mickey volleys back, deliberately pissing Dutton off. “Of course Doug doesn’t own a pizza shop. That’s ridiculous. He could never pass the ServSafe test. He licks his own asshole, for shit’s sake.”
“Does he run drugs?” Dime asks. “How does your smelly feline friend have money?”
Mickey clenches his fists. “Doug doesn’t smell bad.
He had a few unfortunate run-ins with the trash cans at our old place, but those were isolated incidents.
And he’s got money because of his social media following.
It’s fucking bananas that you can actually get paid once you hit a certain number of followers. ”
“Let me get this straight,” Dutton says, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt.
“You started feeding a stray cat a couple years ago. You named him Doug Tittles for reasons I can’t fathom, and you talk about him like he’s an actual person, right?
Then, on one of his sleepovers at the hockey house, he gets Hazel pregnant, and now they’re expecting kittens.
And it’s all okay because Doug the feral cat is a good guy and also a social media influencer with a healthy bank account?
Holy Jesus, did I hit my head on a barbell or something? ”
Mickey thinks for a minute. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“Dude,” Dime says, piping in, “quit the pizza shop and let Doug rake in the cash for you.”
“I don’t feel right about that,” Mickey says, taking a drink from his water bottle.
“Doug’s a good friend and money can ruin relationships.
I don’t want that to happen, but I do take a small cut just to cover props and stuff.
That camera equipment is not cheap. And when we did the Christmas Tree challenge?
Damn. That one was expensive. Doug still has glitter in his fur. ”
“Wait a fucking second,” Ollie says, halting his work on the leg press. “Mr. Tittles is Doug the Ginger?! How the hell did I not know this? That cat has half a million followers! I love that guy.”
Mickey just nods. “Yeah, he is, and you would have known that if you’d have ever tried to have a conversation with him instead of just talking shit behind his back.”
And with that, Mickey sets the medicine ball back on the rack, gives us a half-hearted wave, and heads for the shower.