Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(12)

“What’re you talking about? This was all on Quinton. How did you have my back?”

A sly smile creeps onto his face, but he simply shrugs and plays with a lock of Kinsley’s hair.

But my nerves are set completely on edge; a cool prickling feeling taking over every inch of my skin as dread fills my gut. Because he definitely knows something. Or worse, maybe even played a part in this whole fucking mess.

“Brax. Spill,” I demand slowly. “Did you do something?”

His eyes lift to meet mine. “I didn’t do shit.”

The thing about being friends with Braxton as long as I have—I know when he’s being a bold-faced liar. And I’m damn near positive he’s being one right now.

“Braxton,” I hiss, this time a little more harshly. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“Look, man. You’re captain now. You need to keep your hands clean.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Keep my hands clean?

“How is it possible the more you talk, the less you actually say?”

He keeps grinning. “God given talent, obviously.”

My teeth grit, the sinking feeling in my gut stirring and swirling unpleasantly. Because I’m pretty sure I know what happened.

Braxton somehow fucked with Quinton’s test to get him suspended. Maybe even kicked from the program. And I’m willing to bet Braxton didn’t think about that being his fate if this gets out.

It could too, depending on what de Haas’s second test results are. My bet is they’ll come back clean this time, because why would anyone who is guilty ask to prove they’re more guilty?

Which leads to a whole new problem. Him coming back after all this happened.

Shit.

I didn’t think about it when Coach told me about Quinton’s second test, but now it’s the only thing in my brain. Which means I need to see where his head is, if only to make sure when he comes back after this garbage, he’s not even more explosively violent than he is now.

That’s the last thing the team needs.

Braxton’s stare is hard as he watches me mentally work through all the loose ends of this hairbrained plan he probably set into motion. I can tell the moment he sees I’ve caught on to enough, because he removes his arm from behind Kinsley and leans toward me, clapping me on the shoulder. He holds my gaze as he does, a warning look in his eyes. The kind telling me to stop asking questions before I find something out that I can’t unlearn.

Which is all the confirmation I need.

I don’t need the words, and I sure as hell don’t need the details of how he pulled it off. All it does is make me more of an accessory than I am right now.

“I took care of you, bro. That’s all you gotta know.”





Five

Quinton

November

“Quinton!”

The booming voice of my father catches my attention as I’m about to round the corner toward the player exit of the arena after my first game back from my suspension. My undeserved suspension, since the second one came back negative because—in a shocking turn of events—I don’t use drugs. Of any kind.

Like. I. Said.

Though my test came back negative, Coach said the likelihood of me having to provide random drug testing for the rest of the season is high. And while I guess I can understand the reasoning—the NCAA needs to make sure we’re running a clean program here—it doesn’t make the entire situation suck any less.

My name’s called again with a stern authority I know better than to ignore, no matter how much I want to.

Fucking hell. I don’t need this right now.

I already played like a heaping pile of garbage tonight. There’s no need to add to the shit storm with a visit from good ole Dad.

Too bad there’s no escaping it now, so I paint a smile on my face as I turn to see not just my father, but my mother too. Both dressed impeccably—as expected when out in public representing the de Haas family name—and looking more out of place than a nun at a brothel.

“Mom. Dad. I didn’t expect you to be here,” I say in a way of greeting as I approach them, stopping short a few feet away.

I do my best to keep my hackles from rising the second I catch a whiff of my father’s Tom Ford cologne, but it doesn’t work.

“Of course we’re here, darling,” Mom says, though from the almost pained expression on her face, she’d rather be anywhere but. She’s completely void of emotion; just a hint of a fake smile on her lips.

Then again, it could be all the Botox.

But my father’s stone-cold expression? Well, that’s just his face.

“Yes, of course. We wouldn’t miss a chance to watch you throw down in a controlled setting. Remind me again why you didn’t just take up boxing if you’re so interested in using your fists for sport?”

My jaw ticks at his dig, not wanting to feed into his appraisal by letting my temper take over.

After all the years I’ve been playing, I should come to expect some sort of comment after a game he attends. Even one we win, since my love for hockey is the thing he despises most. To the point where I don’t know why he let me start playing in the first place.

I can’t fault him for his assessment, though. Not when I was tossed in the sin bin twice tonight. Once for a hit that—I’ll be honest—was a little harder than necessary, and sent one of the defensemen for the other team crashing to the ground face-first.