Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(30)

A smirk sits on my lips when he realizes I’ve seen him checking me out, and a slight blush colors his cheeks before he quickly looks away.

That just won’t do.

I wanna see the embarrassment tinting his face after being caught eye-fucking me in the locker room with all of our teammates around. It adds another layer to this rivalry between us, at least in my mind. Instead of how much I can piss him off, I’ll see how red I can make him turn.

Don’t get me wrong, I can still feel the hatred from him when he looks at me, along with what’s sure to be an unhealthy dose of animosity. But now, there’s something else too.

Interest, maybe.

Sexual tension, definitely.

Whatever else besides that is only making this newfound thing between us much more complicated. Even if it’s a friends-with-benefits situation. Or enemies.

That’s why I know this could end one of two ways.

This might be the best idea I’ve ever had, and we could keep riding this wave—and each other’s faces—all the way to the Frozen Four. Or this could cause shit between us to get even worse, possibly more awkward, and could implode.

Either way, the anticipation is higher than a pothead on 420.



A hand lands on my shoulder as I attempt to dig my keys out from where they’ve played hide and seek in my duffle. It startles me, almost making me jump out of my skin since I thought I was the last one here.

I was counting on it to give Oakley some time to drop off his shit at his apartment before coming over so I wouldn’t be pacing around while I waited for him to show up.

Anticipation has turned out to be a real fucking bitch.

But as I spin around to find him standing here scaring the shit out of me instead, I realize my plan is screwed—and not in a fun way.

Once my heart stops pounding a mile a minute, I raise my brow at him. “I thought you were meeting me at my place?”

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, he shrugs. All sheepish-like, matching the guilty expression he has painted on his face. It has my hackles rising. Spidey-senses tingling. Aggravation surging through me.

My arms fold over each other. “Just say it.”

Two brown eyes sink closed, and he sighs. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. On some level, I knew this was coming. That this would never make it past the planning stages. But it doesn’t lessen my disappointment…or frustration. Neither of which make any fucking sense, but they’re there nonetheless.

My jaw ticks with clear irritation as I hike the duffle strap over my shoulder. “You’re backing out.”

I don’t ask it as a question, because it’s not one. It’s simply the truth, and it’s written clear as day on his face. In the hesitancy in his eyes, the way his lips curl down into a frown.

Whatever tension, sexual or otherwise, radiating off him in waves earlier, is gone now, leaving behind…whatever the hell this is.

Regret, maybe?

But regret for what? For cutting this thing short? Or for even letting it get as far as it has? Either way, I don’t need to know.

“Look, I—”

“Just save it.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose to keep from flipping a lid on him. “I really don’t wanna hear it.”

He doesn’t listen, though. Of course. Because this is fucking Oakley, and heaven forbid he listens to a damn thing I say.

“It’s better this way. For everyone involved.”

“Nah, Oak. The only person this is better for is you. Because you don’t have to break any of your stupid fucking rules.” The anger’s blazing at full force now, and instead of backing off, I feed the flames. “That’s what it is, right? What it’s all gonna come back to? Your incessant need to control the situation?”

His eyes harden, going from melted chocolate to cold, hard stone.

“Fuck you, Quinton.”

“That was the plan.” I shrug, scoffing. “Then you decided to bitch out.”

The comment lights a fire under his ass too, and soon he’s right in front of me, in my face, and pissed to hell.

“It’s not bitching out; it’s called thinking something through. Weighing consequences.” He seethes, baring his teeth at me. “Something I know you don’t do very well, Mr. Throw Fists First.”

A quick shove against his chest has him stepping back a few paces, giving me some much-needed distance. Because yeah, the nickname he gave me is more than accurate. My short temper has gotten me into shit more times than I can count, and yeah, it’s because I hit first and think later.

But this isn’t some bullshit call on the ice or a dirty hit I’m retaliating against.

It’s so much more than any of that.

And him insinuating this is remotely close is fucking bullshit.

“How can you say I haven’t thought this through?” I shout, tossing my arms out. “You think I just up and decided to go gay for a little bit? See if I like the grass on this side of the pasture instead? Figured it might be fun to bat for the same team for a while? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” My fingers rake through my hair haphazardly. “Jesus Christ, I think I’ve thought about what this means more than I thought about what college to go to or what I want to major in, which was a path in life basically decided for me.”