Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(15)

My brows raise as I give him an incredulous look. “You expect me to believe you aren’t here looking to get some? Really, Hold? Did you forget I’ve lived with you for the past three years?”

At least he has the decency to look a little sheepish, if only for a second. “Okay, okay, you got me. Lucky for you, I’ve already laid all the groundwork with this one. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

I snort out a laugh, watching his golden head bob and weave through the crowd as I take a swig from my cup of foam. Tracking him through the crowd, I’m surprised to see him stop beside none other than Kason Fuller. A good ole semi-closeted southern boy built like a brick shithouse with more muscle than should be legal. Also one of the best tight ends this school has seen in a long time.

But he’s also Holden’s teammate.

Cue my endless sigh of disapproval.

He might be my best friend, but I’ve never said he was smart. Call it too many hits to the head, or a general lack of giving a fuck, but it doesn’t matter. Messing around with a teammate will only lead to issues later, especially when shit goes south. Which it always does with Holden, seeing as monogamy is a word he doesn’t seem to know the definition of. But that’s something he has to figure out on his own, no matter how many times I could tell him not to.

Removing my eyes from Holden, I watch the bodies on the make-shift dance floor moving and grinding to the beat of Breathe Carolina’s “Blackout” pounding through the speakers. Everyone’s having a great time, not a care in the world as beer sloshes out of solo cups, coating the dance floor in a slippery sheen of liquid and foam.

My gaze drifts over them all, taking in a scene straight out of American Pie. I’m surprised to find several teammates here tonight, either looking for a pretty girl to lick their wounds from our loss or maybe even trying to drink away the memory of it altogether. I can’t blame them, but it makes me a little uneasy all the same, what with another game against Lakewood Heights tomorrow night.

All I want for this season is to see the Timberwolves bring home a Frozen Four victory…and I’m not sure how we’ll achieve it if half the team is out at all hours the night before a game.

But the last thing I want to be after this loss is more of a buzzkill. So rather than say a damn thing to any of them, I head up the stairs to keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t do anything more stupid than they already are. Like get in a drunken brawl.

I start typing out a text to Holden, letting him know where I’ll be when he’s ready to dip, and make my way to the loft overlooking the living room. There are far fewer people up here, at least compared to the chaos downstairs. Mostly ones smoking weed or looking for a place to shamelessly dry hump each other before finding a bedroom for some actual privacy. Not at all my scene, but from this spot looking over the railing, I have the perfect view of everything happening below.

I’m about to hit send on the text when someone bumps into my shoulder, causing the foamy beer in my cup to slosh over the rim and onto my hand.

Fucking great.

Irritation seeps through me as I wipe my hand dry on my jeans and pocket my phone. It’s what happens at gatherings like this; people bumping and brushing into each other due to so many bodies being jam packed in a single, confined space. But it’s not hard to apologize either.

Only, when I glance to my left and see who bumped me, understanding hits me like a Mack truck.

Quinton.

He’s leaning against the railing, eyes locked on the scene taking place below. But I know he saw me. That’s why he bumped me. Anything to get under my fucking skin.

Dressed in his signature jeans, tee, and leather jacket makes it obvious he brought his bike tonight. As if drinking and driving isn’t bad enough as it is. Which he’s clearly planning to do, if the solo cup in his own hand is any indication.

He’s the last person I expected to see here. Not just because I assumed he would lay low with the PEDs drama still following him around like a stench that won’t go away.

But then there’s the shit with his dad earlier tonight.

If it were me, and my father spoke to me the way his did? I’d be buried in my bed for weeks. Absolutely destroyed by the lack of support coming from the most important person in my life.

Yet here he is, beer in hand, partying it up without a care in the world.

Rather than letting him win this little game he’s trying to start by popping off at him, I go another route and ignore him. The same way he did me when I tried to talk to him a few hours ago after the game.

Thoughts of his brush off stir the idea of restarting the conversation I wanted to have, but this is hardly the time or place. The last thing I want is to be overheard. Sure, the entire school is well aware of Quinton being pegged for drugs, but they don’t know what I know.

Well, what I’m pretty sure I know.

The real question here is, does Quinton know? Which is exactly what I wanted to find out earlier tonight, before he shoved me against the wall and bit my head off. But if he had any suspicions, he would have aired them by now. Made some snide comment in passing. And Braxton would be long gone from the hockey program if Quinton suspected his involvement.

So instead of bringing it up and risk planting a seed, I just keep my trap shut, take another swig of the disgusting foam in my solo cup, and throw away the worry altogether.

But my refusal to acknowledge him quickly becomes something of a frustration to him. I can tell by the way he keeps tapping his cup against the railing restlessly. It’s why I’m not at all surprised he’s the first one to break the silence.