Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(4)

“I’ve got your back out there, D-man. We all do.”

Diverting his gaze to the floor, he nods. “Thanks, Cap.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Probably embarrassed, though I don’t know why he would be, considering he’s one of the few members of the team who actually likes me.

Maybe he’s left to vomit in one of the toilets instead.

I’m banking on the latter as I chuckle and shake my head, all the while something he said makes my stomach feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Cap.

As in captain.

It’s been months since I was selected as captain at the end of last season, but the title hasn’t sunk in. Maybe because I’ve tried not to let the title go to my head too much, but I can’t help it. And honestly, there’s no real reason I shouldn’t, at least today.

Because this is it.

My last first-game-of-the-season as a member of Leighton’s hockey program. And more than anything, I want this to be the season the Timberwolves bring home a Frozen Four trophy. A championship title for the first time in five seasons, and with me leading the team to victory.

While we’ve had our share of hiccups in practices and scrims, I’m feeling confident about our chances this year. Hopeful, even.

But all my hopes come screeching to a halt the moment I look up to find Oakley fucking Reed walking right toward me. Also known as the one person on this damn team I really don’t get along with.

Though, as much as I hate to admit it, the fault of this beef rests squarely on my shoulders.

Even if he is the one who decked me first—an extremely out-of-character reaction from him—I was still the one to start our little squabble after the city championships senior year. And that moment would forever etch me into Oakley Reed’s mind as his biggest rival. Maybe even a straight-up enemy.

At the time, we didn’t know the unthinkable would happen.

That we’d both stay in Chicago and end up here.

At Leighton.

For four fucking years.

Together.

“De Haas,” he mutters, already suited up like the rest of the team, save for his helmet. “Seems you decided to join us after all.”

I try not to let his voice get my hackles to rise, but when Oakley takes opportunities like this to toss out little barbs, it’s hard to keep from reacting. It seems like no amount of self-work and reeling in my anger seems to help with him around. It still seeps through the cracks to get the best of me, no matter how hard I try to garner some sense of control.

But can I be blamed when he eggs me on just as much as I do him?

“As if I’d be anywhere else right now?” I bite out, shoving my duffle into my stall before rising to stand.

A fake smile is plastered on his lips. “Never know with you, especially when you’re the last one to show up on game day.”

I grit my teeth as I grab for my chest and shoulder pads, not daring to walk straight into the trap he’s baiting for me. But man, it’s hard. He’s the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.

“Don’t you have better things to worry about?” My eyes take a second to evaluate him, running from his head of golden-brown hair all the way to his toes before returning to his legs. Then I make a show of leaning down and staring at his shins, even tapping against them. “Like maybe the fact that your stupid lucky socks are showing through your team-issued ones? Are those…kittens? Pretty sure that goes against regulation.”

Truthfully, I can’t see jack shit other than the white fabric, and even if I could, the shin guards would be in the way from seeing whatever pair of wacky socks he’s wearing beneath them. But it doesn’t make it any less fun to poke the bear.

I think I even catch his eye twitch as he does his best not to look down and double check.

“Hilarious,” he deadpans, not a hint of amusement in those chocolate-colored eyes. “But you should know better than to make fun of someone else’s juju. It’s bad luck on you.”

That is true.

Plenty of athletes are superstitious as hell during the season—myself included, though that is confidential information no other living soul knows about. And it’s an unwritten rule that you don’t fuck with a teammate’s ritual, superstition, juju, whatever. Throws the entire fucking vibe outta whack.

Just ask Justin Parsons, our goalie from my freshman year. One of the starting wingers that season tried catching his lucky stick as it was falling over in the locker room after a morning skate.

But Justin had a rule. No one touched the lucky stick unless he handed it to you.

It sounds hilarious to someone who doesn’t get athletes and their superstitions, but I’m not kidding when I tell you eighty percent of the team got the stomach flu a couple days later, causing us to forfeit not one, but two games.

And I can honestly say I’ve never been more sick in my entire life. I shudder just remembering it.

“I’ll take my chances,” I tell him, sliding the pads over my head and going back to minding my own business. Except the jackass is still right here, looking to pick a fight.

“Why am I not surprised? You clearly don’t give a flying fuck about anything at this rate if you’re showing up an hour late.”

I stop what I’m doing, tilting my head as I stare at him. “You seem awfully concerned about my whereabouts, Reed. Trying to keep tabs on me? Miss me too much when I’m not around?”