Chapter 1: The Cat-astrophe Confrontation

My cat got knocked up.

That phrase stung, like a slap of reality—way too grown-up for my fluffy little furball. Still, there it was. I scooped her up, cradling her like a football, and—after a mental wince and a muttered, "Seriously?"—stormed straight over to the only person on campus who had to be the culprit: the school's resident bad boy, Chase Whitaker. The hallway buzzed with the usual between-class chaos, but I barely remembered to grab my keys before marching on, Cottonball squirming in my arms, my mind racing. No way was I letting this slide.

"She's pregnant. So what now?" I shot at him, the words coming out sharp, practically daring him to deny it.

Chase, always cool and cocky, closed his eyes for a second, like he was running the numbers in his head. His jaw set, sharp and stubborn. Then he snapped, "Tell me—who’s the punk that did it?" He sounded more like a protective big brother than a cat dad, and for a split second, I almost burst out laughing. Almost.

Lately, Cottonball had been acting weird—turning her nose up at her favorite treats, snoozing all day on the windowsill, and her belly was getting rounder by the week. I finally took her to the vet, bracing for the worst. Instead, I got blindsided: she was pregnant. I was stunned. Pregnant. Just like that. Some responsible pet owner I was—I hadn’t even seen it coming. So much for my big plans to get her spayed over spring break... Now who was the clueless one? Me.

Back at school, the more I replayed it in my head, the more my anger spiked. First confusion, then a white-hot frustration that made my ears ring. How could this happen right under my nose? I swore I’d track down the deadbeat tomcat who knocked her up and make him take responsibility—whatever that meant in cat world. (Did they pay kitten support? Send apology mice?) I spent a few days scoping out every stray that prowled around the quad, but none matched. Until one afternoon, I caught Cottonball cozying up to a blue-and-white tom under the dorm building. I couldn’t even look—it was like walking in on your kid sneaking out past curfew. Gotcha, you little punk.

Just as I was about to nab him, the rascal darted into the dorm. Boys’ dorm, of course—right as I hit the threshold, I had to stop. Stupid rules. Good thing I was quick and snapped a pic for evidence, not that I was nervous or anything, even though my phone was shaking in my hand. Guess he’s someone’s pet after all. That complicated things.

"Detective Molly, did you catch the criminal cat?" my roommate Zoe called from the doorway, milking it for all it was worth.

"He got away, but I got a photo," I replied, holding up my phone like a badge of honor.

Cottonball is our dorm’s little princess. Besides me, her real mom, she’s got three godmoms—Zoe, Lauren, and Jess—who spoil her rotten. Zoe leaned in, squinting at the photo, drawing out the moment like she was Sherlock on a big case. After what felt like forever (seriously, I could've finished a coffee), she finally said, slow and careful, "This cat looks just like the one Chase Whitaker posted on his Instagram story last week."

Chase Whitaker? The school's infamous bad boy, the legend with more rumors swirling around him than a high school cafeteria. Zoe found Chase’s post and showed it to me. Not just similar—identical. Especially that goofy little cowlick on his head. The dorm in the background was unmistakable: Building 16—Chase’s building. Suddenly, things started to click together, and my stomach did a little flip.

Zoe tugged my sleeve, her eyes going wide. "Molly, maybe just let it go? That’s Chase. Last semester someone messed with him and ended up with two broken ribs."

Yeah, I was nervous, but there was no way I was letting this drop. So what if he’s the school troublemaker? I’m the victim here—well, Cottonball is. I hugged her tight, took a deep breath, and marched out to find Chase, who was shooting hoops on the outdoor court, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

"She’s pregnant. So what now?" I repeated, voice steady even as my heart pounded. Chase froze mid-wipe, then stiffened, his face locking into that cold, unreadable mask. After a long, heavy beat, he finally said, "Tell me—who’s the punk that did it?" His voice was icy, but you could practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes.

I thought, obviously your little guy did. Seriously, how clueless could he be? But before I could say it, Chase’s tone went razor-sharp, eyes flashing. "I’ll go break his legs." He sounded dead serious, like he was about to go full mob boss on some rival tomcat.

Panic shot through me, and I felt my heart stutter. I tried to play it cool but my hands were already halfway up in surrender. "Fine, forget the legs—what about compensation?" I blurted, trying to sound tough but mostly just panicking.

Chase gritted his teeth, jaw flexing. "Molly, you’re something else," he muttered, half amused, half exasperated.

I handed him my phone, the photo still open. "As her guardian, you gotta tell me what’s up."

Chase glanced at the phone, then at the cat in my arms. "So, she’s the one who’s pregnant?"

I nodded solemnly. "Yep. Your son’s handiwork."

Chase stared for a second, then let out a low, incredulous snort. He dropped onto the bench beside me, legs stretched out, and started teasing Cottonball with one finger. He put on that classic player’s tone: "They were both willing—what do you want me to do?" He shot me a look that said, what’s a guy supposed to do?

Like father, like son. I rolled my eyes. "Getting her fixed would’ve only cost a couple hundred. Now with all the checkups and stuff, it’s at least a thousand."

In short, I’m broke. I barely manage to feed one, now I’ve got a whole litter coming—I’ll starve before they do. Sweetie, your mom’s gotta hustle for that emergency fund. (And yeah, my mom’s always said: "I told you cats bring poverty!" Guess she wasn’t kidding.)

Chase took my phone and scanned my Venmo QR. A second later, my phone buzzed with a transfer—a thousand bucks. My jaw dropped. Hands shaking, I accepted the money before he could change his mind. Did that just happen?

Chase suddenly leaned in close—way too close, so close I could count the flecks of green in his eyes. "Molly, just try deleting me from your contacts again," he whispered, a smirk twitching at his lips.

Chase and I went to the same high school and, somehow, ended up at the same college. A year ago, I was coming back from a late shift at my part-time job and saw Chase take on four guys in a back alley. He beat them until they were all groaning and spitting curses, like something out of a gritty action flick. I freaked out, terrified he’d find out I saw. So I deleted him from my contacts and avoided him ever since, even though he’d never done anything to me.