Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(22)

I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m not doing anything but attempting to have a civil conversation with you.”

His nostrils flare and his eyes lift to the sky, as if to say a silent prayer to the heavens for strength not to murder me right here for the whole student body to see. Even a pacifist has their limits. As we both know.

When his gaze collides with mine again, it’s hard and unyielding.

“Fine. You wanna talk about it? Get the stroke your ego so desperately needs? Make sure I can never forget it happened? Great. It fucking happened.”

For the sake of this conversation, I choose to leave the whole stroking thing untouched.

“That’s not—”

“But let’s get one thing crystal clear, de Haas. No matter how good it was, it will never. Happen. Again.” He bridges the gap between us, clearly using his proximity as an intimidation tactic.

Too bad all it does is remind me more of last night.

His body pressed to mine as I pinned him to the sink. Which lead to his strong, powerful thighs beneath my palms as I took his cock deeper down my th—

“Quinton,” he snaps, pulling me from my thoughts. The frustration on his face tells me I missed something he said while I was off daydreaming about his dick.

“What?”

The way his jaw ticks lets me know he’s just about at his wit’s end with me. “I asked if you understand what I’m saying.”

Oh. “Absolutely.”

“Good,” he mutters, and I think I watch a hint of relief cross over his features for the briefest moment. Stepping back, he puts a bit of much-needed distance between us and glances around the quad. “Now why don’t you channel your energy into something more useful? Like being on top of your game tonight.”

I raise my arm and give him a mock salute. “Can do, Cappy.”

A shake of his head is all I get in response before he brushes past me to continue wherever he’s going. I’m about to do the same and turn back toward my class, but my brain won’t allow my feet to move, instead latching onto a tiny little detail he let slip.

One very tiny, important detail.

“So you thought it was good, huh?”

He doesn’t turn around; just flips the bird over his shoulder and keeps walking away.





Nine

Quinton

There ain’t no rest for the wicked, even coming off the high of winning for the first time this season. Then again, how can there be?

We took five losses before we finally tasted victory, and in my book, five losses are too many. We have a long-ass way to go to turn our season and record around in order to make the playoffs. Which is why Coach has us back in the weight room on Monday morning before we hit the ice this afternoon for a regular practice.

Most of the team is still riding the high from our win, and I’d include myself in that category too. But unlike the rest of the team, I seem to be the only one with my mind focused on something other than pumping iron or making sure I don’t drop dumb bells on my own damn feet.

Which I’ve almost done. Twice.

I could say it was something like jitters, adrenaline, or excitement. But in reality, I’m on edge being in the same room as Oakley. Because the stupid, insane, and obscenely superstitious side of myself thinks our goddamn hookup with him in the frat house on Thursday night was the key to our success during Friday’s game.

My success, because it was by far the best I’ve played all season.

Maybe even last season too.

And the only thing that changed before the game? The only shift in my otherwise standard routine for nights before a game?

Blowing his goddamn dick from the dirty floor of a frat house bathroom.

As much as I wish it’s coincidence alone, I’m the kind of athlete—along with plenty of other guys around here, Oakley included—who just doesn’t believe in those kinds of things.

As the saying goes, if something ain’t broke, don’t go trying to fix it.

And more importantly, if something causes you to play the best game you’ve ever played? You do not, under any circumstance, change, alter, or breathe differently until the streak is broken.

It sounds insane, I know. Even to my own ears, it’s nuts.

But come postseason, I’m not the only one around here who takes them seriously. There will be a range of guys who do things from not shaving until we lose to wearing the same unwashed pairs of underwear or socks for each game. Some go as far as eating the exact same meal at the exact same time every single day until the season is over.

Athletes are a rare sort of breed.

Which is why I catch myself staring over at Oakley far more than I should, trying to figure out if I’m going fucking insane by having these thoughts in my head. Because I might be, and I’m sure the second I approach him to tell him my theory, and then my solution?

Well, he’ll either laugh in my face and tell me to fuck right off.

Or…

He’ll agree to go along with my idiotic plan.

And let’s be clear, it’s without a doubt the dumbest, stupidest, most hairbrained idea I’ve ever had. I know it is.

Truthfully, I don’t know which would be worse, but after I spend about ten minutes watching him doing his squats with Braxton, finding out where he’ll fall with my idea is starting to seem like the only option. So my feet carry me toward him when his partner steps away to grab some water.