Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Killion
How to Use a Kitten as a Wingman
I’m halfway to the elevator, gym bag slung over my shoulder, when I see him. A guy loitering outside Camille’s door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s debating whether to knock or bolt. He’s tall, though not quite my height, with the wiry build of someone who spends more time hunting for vintage band tees than lifting anything heavier than a cold brew.
He’s got dark jeans rolled at the cuffs, boots so pristine they look allergic to dirt, and a tousled haircut that probably required three different products to achieve that “just rolled out of bed” look. Round glasses frame a face straight out of an indie movie, and at his feet is a bulky black bag that could be a duffel, a suitcase, or who the fuck knows.
I stop dead in my tracks, my brows knitting together. “Can I help you?”
He glances up, startled, then immediately checks his phone, like talking to me is an inconvenience. “I’m looking for Camille Ashby. She moved in yesterday.”
“Benedict?” The name slips out before I can stop myself. The regret? Instant and absolute.
He blinks, adjusts his glasses, and nods like he’s pleasantly surprised I’ve passed the first test in some secret society. “Yes, Benedict. So you’re aware. Did she leave you any instructions?”
Instructions? What am I, her secretary?
“No,” I say, crossing my arms, my voice tight. “But if you need help . . .”
Why the hell am I offering to help? I should be telling him Camille moved to France. Hell, I should grab his bag and fling it off the balcony just to establish dominance. Instead, I’m standing here like a moron, watching him check his watch with the air of someone far too busy for this conversation .
“Obviously,” he mutters under his breath. “My flight leaves soon, and I don’t want to miss it, but she’s not here.”
“Flight? I mean, you probably should leave,” I repeat, thrown off by his rushed tone.
Without missing a beat, he steps toward the elevator and jabs the button like it owes him money. “Yeah, the instructions are in the side pocket if you need to wait for her. Just tell her to transfer the rest of the money.”
The elevator doors open immediately—because of course they do when I’m not the one calling it—and he steps inside without so much as a glance back.
“Wait, what money—” I start, but the doors close with a soft ding, leaving me standing there like I’ve been hit by a very confusing train.
I look down at the bag he left behind, the confusion in my head quickly morphing into full-blown suspicion. What the actual fuck just happened?
For a solid minute, my brain spirals into worst-case scenarios. Is this a bomb? Did Camille piss off a sociopath who decided to leave her some deranged parting gift? Or—and honestly, this one feels more plausible—did she hire someone to get rid of me? It’s kind of genius if you think about it. Nobody would suspect her if she outsourced the dirty work to Benedict Indie Movie Extra . And now I’m the only witness. Fucking fantastic.
I crouch next to the bag, my heart pounding like I’m disarming a bomb in a spy movie. Because, let’s face it— my luck is that bad. Just as I reach for the zipper, I hear it.
“Meow.”
I freeze, staring at the bag.
“Meow. Meow.”
Okay. So, this is either the weirdest bomb in history or . . . just a cat. Swallowing my nerves, I unzip the side pocket slowly, half-expecting a trap. Instead, I’m greeted by a pair of impossibly bright green eyes blinking up at me.
An orange ball of fluff lets out another soft meow, and I blink back.
“What the fuck . . .” I mutter, scooping the kitten out of the bag like it’s some kind of alien artifact. It fits easily in my hands, tiny and warm, its soft body nuzzling against my thumb like we’re best friends.
“You’re a little too friendly for a cat,” I say, my voice softening against my will. The kitten purrs, tilting its head like it’s mocking me. That’s when I notice the collar.
“Benedict Cumbercat,” I read aloud, my lips twitching into a smirk despite myself. “So, you’re Ben?”
“Meow.” The kitten sneezes in response, and I let out a long, dramatic sigh. Glancing between Camille’s apartment door and the furball in my hands, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been drafted into some weird cosmic joke. The guy didn’t explain much—just dumped the bag and ran. Now I’m holding literal baggage .
“Guess we both need Camille,” I say, tucking Ben back into his carrier.
From inside, he stares up at me with those unsettlingly bright green eyes, blinking slowly like he knows exactly how much I’m losing it. His nose twitches, and I swear, for a second, he looks smug.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I mutter, pacing my apartment with my phone in hand. “Because otherwise, you’d be on your way to Jerry’s or a shelter right now.”
Ben stretches, curling up inside the bag like he’s royalty. Meanwhile, I’m one minor inconvenience away from throwing my phone across the room. I can’t leave him—not when he’s this small and . . . okay, kind of adorable. But I also can’t miss practice. Not with a game coming up.
“Great,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Now I’m a fucking cat sitter.”
Ben yawns like this is the most boring day of his life, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I have no idea what to do next—with Ben, with Camille, or with any of this. All I know is that this day has already gone spectacularly off the rails.
I scroll through my contacts until I land on Jacob’s name. He picks up on the third ring, his tone far too relaxed for someone whose full-time job is managing my chaos .
“What now?” he says, exasperation laced with just enough familiarity to be annoying. “If it’s about the energy drink sponsorship, forget it. Luc signed the contract this morning.”
“Luc?” I bark into the phone, pacing the kitchen. He seriously has to be a lot choosier about his sponsorships, but that’s his stomach he’s killing, not mine. “Great. He can drink poison while I stick to actual water.”
“Noted. So what’s the emergency?”
I glance at the carrier sitting on my counter, where a tiny orange kitten is blinking up at me like it’s dared me to solve all its problems. “We’ve got a problem,” I say, my voice tight.
Jacob groans. “Define problem.”
“I need you to get in touch with Camille Ashby,” I say, cutting straight to the point.
There’s a pause, then a faint chuckle. “Camille Ashby? You need her to tighten something down there? You watched her videos and want some action?”
“Don’t fucking start with me,” I snap. “She has a cat.”
“A cat?” His amusement is palpable. “Why the fuck do you care about her cat?”
“Because it’s currently sitting in my kitchen,” I grind out. “Some hipster dropped it off and bolted. Something about a flight and a transfer. Now I’m stuck babysitting this thing. ”
Jacob laughs, loud and long. “You? With a kitten? This I have to see.”
“Laugh it up, Jacob,” I snap, rubbing the back of my neck. “I can’t leave him here alone, and I sure as hell can’t bring it to the doorman. Does Camille even have permission for pets in this building? What if the owner finds out?”
“Killion,” he says, his tone turning patronizing. “It’s a kitten, not a ticking time bomb. Calm down.”
“It might as well be,” I mutter, glancing at the carrier. The kitten tilts its head, its green eyes gleaming like it’s enjoying my suffering. “I have practice, Jacob. I can’t just leave it in my house. I don’t have the supplies and I don’t know when she’s coming back.”
“Then take it with you,” he says simply, the grin evident in his voice.
“Oh, sure,” I say, pacing again. “I’ll just waltz into the training facility with a kitten and act like it’s normal.”
“Honestly? Do it. You’re just watching tape today. No one’s going to care.”
I stop mid-step, staring at the tiny fluff ball that’s now yawning like it owns the damn place. “This is insane.”
“It’s temporary,” Jacob says, clearly trying not to laugh again. “Keep it in the carrier, and I’ll work on getting Camille to call you back.”
I let out a heavy sigh, glaring at the kitten as if it’s to blame for this entire fiasco. “Fine. But you owe me for this.”
“I owe you nothing. You pay me to deal with your shit,” Jacob fires back.
I hang up, muttering curses under my breath as I grab the carrier and my gym bag. The kitten meows softly, like it’s saying, Good luck, sucker.
By the time I walk into the training facility, the kitten is meowing again, louder this time, like it’s trying to make a scene. Great. Just great.
The receptionist gives me a long, raised-eyebrow look as I stride past her desk, a carrier in one hand and my gym bag in the other. “Don’t ask,” I mutter, not breaking stride.
Inside the film room, the guys are already gathered, their conversations dying the second I step in. A few heads swivel toward the carrier, and then the comments start.
“Uh, Killion?” one of them asks, barely stifling a laugh. “You realize that’s not a football, right?”
“Congratulations,” I reply dryly. “Your observational skills are unmatched.”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the room, and I ignore them, setting the carrier down in the corner and pulling out a chair. The kitten meows again, its tiny voice cutting through the chatter like a knife.
“Is that . . . alive?” another guy asks, half curious, half horrified.
“No,” I deadpan. “It’s animatronic. ”
The coach walks in a moment later, pausing just long enough to glance at the carrier. His expression is unreadable, but he shakes his head like this is just another day dealing with my bullshit and starts the tape without a word.
I sink back in my seat, grateful for the distraction. The kitten quiets down, curling into a little orange ball in the corner of the carrier, blissfully unaware of the chaos it’s caused.
“Camille,” I mutter under my breath, barely loud enough for myself to hear. “You fucking owe me for this.”
But deep down, I know it’s not just about the kitten. It’s about her. I have something that belongs to her and maybe she’ll have to talk more than leave me the fuck alone if she wants the kitty back.