Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(24)

After a few more seconds of watching me, he smirks and shakes his head. “You almost had me there, de Haas.”

Well, fuck. I’d imagined him laughing in my face, but because he thought the idea was as insane as it truly is. Or because he can’t stand me on my best day.

But I never imagined he’d think the offer was anything less than genuine. It kind of pisses me off.

“I’m not kidding about this. It wasn’t exactly the way I planned to ask you, but I guess—”

“Hold the fucking phone,” he says, cutting me off with a raise of his hand. “What happened to our agreement about this never happened?”

I close my eyes and sigh. “I agreed at the time. But it was before we won our first game all season.”

The confusion written in his expression lifts, and I see the second he realizes what I’m clearly struggling to put into words. “You think…us hooking up has something to do with us winning?”

Yeah, I do.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I hedge, sinking my teeth into my lip. “All I know is we were looking like the Bad News Bears of hockey until then. You and I were on two completely different pages on and off the ice, and I swear some of those guys were playing like it was the first time they’d ever held a stick. And then the bathroom happened and everything’s suddenly taken a complete one-eighty.”

He’s silent for a second before coming back with, “What happened wouldn’t contribute to the way everyone else is playing.”

“No, but the way we play would,” I point out. “You know as well as I do, when one person on the line is having an off game, the rest of us feel the effect too. Well, you and I were having an off season until I wrapped my lips around your dick. Completely out of sync on the ice, and the rest of the guys notice shit like that.”

He scoffs out a laugh. “So that automatically means we just keep doing it? Fucking around? Sucking each other off in semi-public places until the season is over?”

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

“You’re delusional.”

My teeth sink into my cheek to keep from snapping back at him, but it still doesn’t keep the iciness out of my tone.

“No, Reed. I’m superstitious. Just like plenty of the guys on the team are. Like you are,” I remind him. “We hooked up the night before a game, then we won. For the first time all season, we tasted victory. And you and I both know you don’t fuck around with what’s working when it comes to routine before games. So that’s why I think we need to keep doing it.”

A long, awful silence falls over us as Oakley continues to stare at me like I’ve grown two heads and he doesn’t know which he wants to chop off first. That alone tells me this is a lost cause, and I’ll just have to find a new way to keep playing well the rest of the season.

I know when to cut my losses, and I can tell this is one of those times.

Running my hand through my hair, I sigh. “Look, it’s fine. Just forget I said anything, okay? I knew the chances of you saying yes were slim, so let’s just…” I trail off with a shake of my head. “Let’s just stick with this never fucking happened.”

I make a move to turn and walk away—already trying to figure out if there’s some other way to keep my game going well without my off-the-wall idea about Oakley and I jumping into bed together—when a firm grip on my wrist halts me.

He doesn’t use any force to stop me, doesn’t even tighten his hold on me. Like he knows the heat of his skin touching mine is more than enough to keep me here. I fucking wish it wasn’t, but it’s like tasting him the other night was the key to awakening this stupid, hot, achy feeling I get around him.

When I turn and meet his gaze, I catch a glimpse of something similar written in his expression. Just not enough of it to completely erase the wariness also present.

He narrows his eyes at me into near slits. “You’re being serious.”

I blink, nodding once. “Superstitions are pretty much the only thing I take as seriously as hockey. And this could be my last season. Yours too. I just wanna come out on top.”

Or bottom. If he’d prefer it that way.

He gives me a measured look, then lets out a short laugh of disbelief. “You have to understand, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Especially when we”—he motions between us—“basically hate each other.”

That’s putting it mildly.

“I wouldn’t say hate,” I object, weighing my words. “More like severely dislike.”

“Because that’s so much better,” he mutters, releasing me and crossing his arms.

I shrug. “Who knows. Could be fun.”

A whole lotta naked fun, to be exact.

“I think we have different definitions of fun, de Haas.” He pauses, another laugh bubbling out of him before turning into an uncomfortable cough. “And also, it might not really be my place, but I…I thought you were straight.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I am, but something inside makes me rethink it. Holds me back from saying the words that have defined my sexuality for the last almost twenty-two years of my life. Now, they seem inaccurate. Yet, so does saying I’m anything else.

I shake my head, a low chuckle slipping past my lips at this ridiculous situation I’ve found myself in. Of course it’d be him—the one person I generally can’t stand on my best day—that my dick would have to suddenly take an interest in. Or be the reason we played like all-stars this past weekend.