Chapter 10 Winston
WINSTON
Perched high on my cat tree one morning, I look down like the emperor I am, tail twitching with satisfaction. Below me, Jerk-face howls in horror, tearing through his hockey gear bag like a man who just found a dead rat inside.
Not a rat. Better. A carefully placed deposit, delivered with precision and malice. Right between his skates and gloves. The stench of victory wafts upward, sweet as salmon treats.
“Are you kidding me?” he groans, holding up the soiled gear like it’s evidence at a crime scene. His face is priceless—disgust, frustration, defeat—all rolled into one.
Too bad Holly had already left for her hair appointment and didn’t get to see this.
He curses at me, storming off toward the laundry room, something about having to hurry or he’ll be late to practice. Words, words, words.
I yawn and stretch luxuriously, kneading the perch with my claws. A giant scoreboard flashes in my mind: Cat 2, Scott 2.
The game continues.