Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(21)

I come with the taste of his still on my lips.

Not allowing myself to linger in a blissful, post-orgasmic state, I make a move to clean up the remnants of my release still coating my hand and stomach, all the while a low, churning feeling settles low in my stomach. One I recognize as frustration.

Climbing back into bed, I yank the sheets over me and slam my head against my pillow with enough force, I’m able to feel something hard beneath it.

My lucky puck.

My superstition.

I shift, shoving my arm beneath my pillow until I find it. My fingers travel along the cool, smooth rubber disk, allowing the texture to calm the countless overwhelming emotions ebbing and flowing through me.

Taking a deep breath, I fiddle with it more until my racing heart subsides into slow, steady beats. And it works. Soon enough, I’m relaxed again. As much as I can be, focusing on the things I know and have control over rather than all the unanswered questions lingering in my brain to torment me.

What I don’t know is if my dick likes all dudes, some dudes, or what.

But I do know he definitely likes the one person he really fucking shouldn’t.

And I don’t think a dump truck full of lucky pucks would be enough to help me work through that unfortunate fact.



The last thing I needed this morning was to be running late. Again.

But here I am, barreling my way across campus to one of my economics classes when I almost run smack dab into the last person I thought I’d see. And probably the last person who wants to see me.

“Jesus Christ,” Oakley grumbles, a glare aimed my way as he steps out of my way and continues down the path the opposite way. “Watch where you walk much?”

At first, I don’t think he notices it’s me. Hell, I know I would’ve completely missed him if I didn’t recognize his voice. But I’d know the sound of pure contempt anywhere.

“Good morning to you too, Oakley,” I call after him in a sugar-sweet voice.

I expect him to turn around and say something—even a grumpy, smart-ass comment—but instead, he keeps walking away from me.

There’s a brief second where I think I might’ve imagined it to be him, and it was some other random student. But the navy-blue duffle bag over his shoulder—an exact replica of my own—clearly emblazoned with a huge, white #33 is a dead giveaway.

So I do the only logical thing.

I follow him.

Why is it logical in my messed up, sleep-deprived brain? I don’t have the slightest clue. Which is a real fucking problem when I grab his shoulder, spin him around to face me, and get a vicious what? snarled in my face.

I pause for a second, and for once in my life, I’m at a loss for words. Because I’ve seen Oakley mad. Hell, I’ve made Oakley so fucking angry, he might as well have been steaming out his ears.

I made the guy punch me, for fuck’s sake, and he claims to be a pacifist.

But I’ve never seen him as ragey as he is while glaring at me right now. The kind of glare capable of making lesser men drop dead on the spot if only to escape it.

“I…just wanted to make sure you got home okay last night.” I wince as soon as the words come out.

Jesus Christ, really, Quinton? That’s all you could come up with?

If the way the crease between Oakley’s brow deepens is any indication, now all I’ve managed to do is piss him off and make myself look like a fucking idiot.

And even more late for class, on top of it all.

“Seriously?” he seethes, stepping toward me. “That’s what was so important you had to chase after me in the quad? You wanted to make sure I got home okay last night?”

Once again, I have nothing to say.

He continues to glare at me for a second before turning his head, as if to look around to see if anyone caught us speaking to each other. That’s when I catch the edge of a hickey just barely peeking out over the collar of his shirt. In the exact same spot where I bit him last night.

Instantly, all thoughts of getting to class on time are out the damn window. In its place is the sound of his pants as I took his cock down my throat and groans of pleasure as I brought him to release.

Even though those things supposedly didn’t happen. Something he’s quick to point out.

“What happened to you agreeing with this never fucking happened?”

And now I’m the one who’s getting all raged up.

“There’s a difference between acting like something never happened and avoiding someone like the fucking plague. Which is exactly what you were doing by acting like I don’t exist.”

He steps back, crossing his arm over his chest and tilting his head to the side. “Would we be having this conversation any other day of the week? If last night had truly never happened, would we even be speaking to each other outside the confines of the arena?”

“No, probably not, but—”

“Exactly. So just drop the shit and get on with your day.”

Another wave of irritation ripples through me, and I let out a heavy sigh. “I’m just saying us ignoring each other isn’t exactly good for team morale.”

“Oh, and us hashing out the details of our hook-up is?”

That makes me smirk. “I never mentioned anything about the details. But if you wanna go into them, be my guest.”

He glares even harder at me, if it’s even possible. “Cut the fucking shit, Quinton.”