Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(14)

Even if they are my parents.

When I turn the corner, I’m met with a sight even more unfortunate than my parents waiting for me a few minutes earlier.

Because there’s Oakley, plastered against the wall, looking like he was caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The second he registers my face, his complexion goes sheet-white, and I don’t even have to ask how much of my father’s crap he heard. All that matters is he heard enough to look at me in a way I’d never dreamed he would. Not with anger or disdain or irritation.

Instead, all I see etched in his features is…pity.

“Quinton.”

It’s my name. Only my fucking name leaving his lips. But it’s the way he says it, the softness of his tone, that gets me. He’s never spoken to me that way before.

I fucking hate it.

I hate everything about this entire day, and I’m ready for it to be over.

Moving to shove past him works, but he falls into step beside me.

“Quinton,” he says again, this time with a little more conviction. But I still don’t stop, nor do I look at him. I just keep my eyes locked on the door ahead of me. My only means of escape.

He grabs for my arm, and I do my best to brush him off. But this fucker isn’t anything but persistent, wrapping his hand around my wrist.

The feel of his skin against mine instantly makes me volatile, and I rip my arm from his grip before shoving him up against the wall. I pin him there, forearm across his throat, and snarl in his face. “Don’t fuck with me right now, Reed.”

“Too bad, I need to talk to you.”

It’s at this moment I realize they’re the same; my father and Oakley. Not in looks or stature, but the way they carry themselves. Like they’re kings in this world, and the rest of us, mere peasants. Lowly servants who should lap up their attention, or come with the drop of a hat at beck and call.

And then there’s the way they look at me. Like I’m nothing more than scum of the Earth. A problem in need of fixing. A disappointment that only manages to get in the way.

Until five minutes ago, Oakley’s never looked at me any differently.

But then he overheard things he had no business hearing. And the sympathy written on his face right now because of it does nothing more than piss me off.

I don’t need his pity, and I sure as fuck don’t want it.

“Whatever you have to say doesn’t matter.”

“Look—”

“What did I just fucking say?” I growl, pushing away from him. “I’m leaving. Don’t fucking follow me.”

The lack of footsteps other than my own as I hustle down the hall lets me know he can actually listen to what I say; something that sets him apart from my father.

Gold star for the golden boy.

“Quinton!”

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek, tasting the faint hint of copper as I ignore him. And no matter how many times he shouts my name, I’ll continue to ignore him.

All the way to the exit doors.

Without looking back.





Six

Oakley

Why I’m at a frat party after the ass-kicking we just received on the ice—for the fifth time this season—is beyond me. I sure as hell don’t want to be here with the way I played like absolute trash tonight, and especially when I know I shouldn’t be here at all. Not when we have another game tomorrow night, where we can hopefully get our heads out of our asses long enough to bring home the first win of the season.

But the thing about being best friends with a guy like Holden is that he’s always down to party—even on a Thursday night, apparently—and will rarely take no for an answer when he wants you to come along for the ride. Tonight is the perfect example of that, because instead of letting me go home and crash in bed, he’s dragged me out here.

To let loose and have some fun, he’d said.

He’s not the one with a game tomorrow, though.

It wouldn’t matter if he did. He always wants to party his damn ass off at every available opportunity, no matter if he’s in the middle of football season or not…and still plays like the first-round draft prospect he is every Saturday.

I’d be in awe of him if it wasn’t so irritating.

“Drink this,” he orders, handing me a red solo cup full of foam. And I do mean full of it, because whoever poured this beer has no fucking clue how to do it correctly.

Just as well, though. I don’t have to drink the damn thing once Holden finds his conquest for the evening. Hopefully, I can sneak out of here as soon as he disappears to some dark corner of the house to fuck around with whichever lucky girl—or guy—he chooses.

My gaze collides with his golden honey one, and I grimace. “Why do you insist on torturing me?”

He laughs before clapping me on the shoulder. “Because you make it so fucking easy, Oak. Now drink up. Decompress a little. We’ll leave before eleven, I promise.” His smirk is devilish when he adds, “I know you need your beauty rest.”

“Oh, fuck off.” I chuckle and shove his shoulder playfully. “Now go get laid so I can go home and sleep. I have a game tomorrow.”

“Ah, see,” he says, pointing at me. “Your little omission proves my theory to be correct! But who said I’m here to get laid?”