Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(3)

He’s right about one thing. My roots in hockey made it an easy path to follow, but I’ll be damned if it makes the blood, sweat, and tears to get to where I am any less real. The grueling practices any less tiresome. Plus, I’m also forging my own identity while attempting to carry a legacy. Finding my place within an industry and world that’s already slapped a label on me.

Which is a lot fucking harder than it might seem without assholes like Quinton thinking I’ve been handed a throne and crown with no idea how to rule a kingdom.

“I’ve worked just as hard as you have,” I grit, my jaw ticked with effort as his words claw at my carefully crafted facade of the hockey god he claims me to be.

But even solid gold can scratch and dent. Tarnish in the wrong hands, or even break.

“I’m sure you have, just like I’m sure you’ll get the pick of the litter when it comes to hockey programs next year.” He pauses, a venomous sneer on his face. “Right after Daddy signs a blank check to the university, of course.”

On a dime, all the tension coiled inside me just…snaps.

I knew there was a chance this conversation would start with words and end with fists. With Quinton, the odds are always high.

I just never bet on being the one to throw the first punch.





One

Quinton

October—Four Years Later

“De Haas. You’re late.”

Coach’s penetrating stare is aimed at me the second I burst through the locker room doors, having just dashed across campus like a madman to avoid this very scenario from playing out. But hopes that I’d be able to sneak in unnoticed rather than be a dead man walking right into my own funeral seem to be in vain.

Well, shit.

“It won’t happen again,” I murmur, meeting his gaze with the appropriate amount of remorse he’s looking for. Just enough to not get a verbal smackdown unleashed on me before the first game of the season.

As the team’s captain and the person expected to set an example for the rest of the team, I’d be lying if I wasn’t anticipating a full-out reaming regardless. Even if I’ve been a lot better about managing my time this season.

Until today, that is.

Today, the hockey gods decided I would oversleep by an hour, making me the run-across-campus-like-crazy-to-not-miss-faceoff kind of late. Which is just a fan-fucking-tastic way to start my morning. It’s the only reason I wait, ever so patiently, to get chewed a new asshole. Yet I’m surprised when all I get is a firm nod and a see that it doesn’t grumbled back at me.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I scoot by him and head toward my stall to suit up. After all, being late means I’ve got only five minutes to dress before we’re due out on the ice for warm ups.

The locker room is bustling, a buzz vibrating in the air the way it always does before a game. Something I attribute to all the nervous excitement radiating off everyone inside. But the buzz only makes me anxious, and that’s why I’m doing my best to zone in mentally as I dress in the bottom half of my uniform.

Until a voice startles me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more jacked for a game in my fucking life.”

My eyes lift from where I’m lacing up my skates to find a fully-dressed McGowan, one of our sophomore defensemen, taking a seat on the bench in front of me. He’s still green as shit, not getting a lot of ice time his first season on the team. But he’s on my line this year after really proving himself these last few weeks, earning a starting spot on the ice. Something he’s never experienced before.

So jacked could mean a couple things in this situation.

Arching a brow, I ask, “In a good way, or…”

He gives a sheepish sorta grin, his blond hair flopping down on his forehead. “I mean, I feel like I’m David, ready to pound the shit outta Goliath. But I also wanna upchuck everything I’ve eaten in the past twelve hours. So…both?”

I let out a bark of laughter, not at all surprised. “Let’s not barf on the ice, unless you wanna be the one to clean it up.” I pause. “But the David-pounding-Goliath-to-a pulp bit, I’m a fan of. Channel that shit, Danny.”

He nods, but I swear the guy gets even paler as he does it. “Channel it. Right. I can do that.”

Let the record show that he definitely does not sound like he can. But I smile, placing my hand on his shoulder pad and giving him a few pats.

McGowan’s been under my wing since he came in as a freshman last season. It’s the way Leighton University runs a lot of their athletic programs; sort of how frats have Bigs and Littles, only spaced out two years instead of one. It’s supposed to help the team bond more and let the younger guys have an upperclassman that can help keep them on the straight and narrow. Help give them the tools they need to succeed at the collegiate level.

So Danny is…well, my Little, I guess.

Why the hell anyone would ever trust me to keep someone else’s head firmly on their shoulders when I can barely manage that on my best day? I have no clue. Yet, here I am anyway, with Danny looking to me for support.

And while I don’t think I’m all that good at it—I’m more of a tough-love kinda guy than the nurturing type—I can’t help the feeling of wanting to help him keep his shit together instead of losing his lunch. So I give out the only piece of reassurance I can.