Page 54 of Faking the Goal

It's a stuffed cat.

A little white kitten with soft fur, a pink nose, and blue plastic eyes.

"Fuck!"

I shove the box away from me on instinct, harder than I mean to, and it falls off the coffee table. The tissue paper spills onto the floor along with the stuffed kitten, which rolls across the rug and lands facing me.

My whole body goes rigid.

I know it's stuffed. I know those eyes are plastic and the thing lying on my floor isn't alive, but knowing that doesn't stop my heart from pounding or my palms from turning clammy. I pull my legs onto the couch and press myself farther into the cushions, unable to take my eyes off it.

The white fur is suddenly all I can see.

My chest tightens until every breath feels too short, and the harder I try to tell myself it's only a toy, the worse the panic gets. My fingers tremble against my mouth, my thumbnail slipping between my teeth as I bite down hard enough to hurt.

Why a fucking cat?

Of all the things this person could have sent me, why did it have to be that?

I don't even know why cats scare me this badly. They just always have. Seeing one sends this immediate, irrational fear through me before my brain has a chance to remind me that the damn thing probably weighs ten pounds and couldn't give less of a shit about my existence.

But this isn't some random cat I happened to see outside.

Someone deliberately left this at my door.

My eyes shift back to the birthday card on the table.

My little kitten.

I rack my brain for anyone who could be doing this. I've slept with enough men that the possibility of one of them getting attached or deciding our night together meant more than it did isn't exactly impossible, but none of them ever called me kitten. None of them ever gave me dahlias either.

And I'm certain now that it isn't Kirk.

Kirk was never subtle when he wanted my attention. He used red roses, calls, texts, whatever would make damn sure I knew it was him. And he never called me kitten. Not once.

Which means whoever left this knows where I live, knows when my birthday is, and somehow knew that putting a harmless little stuffed cat inside that box would scare me more than any threatening message ever could.

*****

Kentaro skates backward in front of me while I make my way across the rink, his hands hovering close enough to grab me if I lose my balance but no longer holding mine unless absolutely necessary.

"Don't rush the push. You're putting too much force into it and throwing yourself off balance."

"I'm trying to create momentum."

"You're trying to launch yourself across the rink."

"Same concept, different level of ambition."

He gives me the usual unimpressed look before demonstrating the movement again, and I try to copy him. I'm doing considerably better than yesterday, which isn't saying much considering yesterday involved spending more time grabbing Kentaro than actually skating, but at least today I can make it several feet without needing him to rescue me.

The problem isn't really my balance anymore.

It's my brain.

I've been trying to act normal since I got here, throwing out the occasional smart-ass comment whenever Kentaro corrects me and pretending I'm paying attention, but I barely slept last night and my thoughts keep wandering back to that birthday card.

My little kitten.