Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(40)

So…I said sure. And to my surprise, it wasn’t weird. We ordered a pizza, I quizzed him with his flashcards, and I learned a disturbing amount about Kant, Hume, and Marx in the process.

No arguing or bickering, and also no hooking-up, per the rules we agreed on. Which was fine with me…until Oakley stretched out and I got a peek at his abs. Then I had to rein my dick in from getting too many ideas.

But honestly, the best part of the night was when Hayes walked in after his night class to find us on the living room floor—notebooks, flashcards, and pencils strewn out around us—only to ask us who died.

We both got a good laugh out of it, though I understand why he’d ask that. He’s been privy to this little feud Oakley and I have longer than just about anyone.

But it was nice to see we could spend time together fully clothed and still not want to rip each other’s heads off. It’s progress.

“At least get dressed though,” I tell him, throwing his underwear at him. “In case Hayes decides to make an unexpected appearance.”

“True,” he says, and not even two minutes later, he’s cleaned up and fully dressed.

I’m at my desk on the other side of the room, reading through another chapter of this damn economics book, when he collapses back on my bed, stomach first, and shoves his arms beneath my pillow.

I shake my head and go back to reading; a comment something along the lines of “make yourself at home, why don’t you?” on the tip of my tongue.

I don’t get to say it, though, because he breaks the silence.

“What the hell?”

When I look up again, I find Oakley pulling the familiar disk out from under my pillow. Holding the puck in the air between us, he asks, “Were you missing this?”

I smirk and join him on the bed before plucking it from his grip. Rolling to my back beside him, I turn it over in my hand a few times. “No, it’s where it’s supposed to be.”

“What?” He laughs. “You’re being serious?”

I nod, still fiddling with the rubber, flicking it between my fingers like one of those fidget spinners a few times, wondering why I didn’t just lie and say it made it there by mistake. It’d save me from giving him more ammunition to use against me, should this whole thing between us end poorly.

Yet instead, I end up giving him the truth.

“It’s my version of socks,” I reply before placing the puck into his waiting hands.

“Socks?”

His eyes flash to my cheeks when I grin, popping my dimples. “You know, your crazy sock thing? The ones you wear every game under your uniform socks?”

A look of surprise flashes over his face for a moment. “You have a superstition too?”

“Seems so, doesn’t it?” When he says nothing, I roll to my side, propping myself on an elbow. “You think I would’ve brought up us sleeping together if I didn’t believe in superstitions too?”

“I figured you did, especially after the whole debacle with Justin freshman year. I just didn’t realize you had your own.”

The pinch between his brows is kind of cute, and it takes a good amount of self-control—an amount I didn’t know I possessed—to keep my thumb from smoothing it back out.

“Because no one knows,” I murmur. His eyes flick to me, and I continue, “Apart from you, I guess.”

His attention moves back to the puck in his hands before giving it back to me. I roll my body over his, trying to place it beneath my pillow again while his head’s still on it. My chest brushes his as I do, causing every nerve of my body to stand on end. Which is why I shift to move away again as soon as it’s back where it belongs.

Only Oakley’s hands catch my waist and hold me against him, locking me in place.

“So how does it work?”

Our proximity is too much for me to handle, and a lie catches in my throat, begging to fall from my tongue. If only to save myself from giving away a secret part of me in a moment far too intimate for enemies-with-benefits to share.

But the truth still slips free.

“I sleep with it under my pillow for the entire season. Every single night, no matter what. It goes with me on the road and it’s the first thing I unpack when we get to the hotel when you’re not looking. And it’s the first thing I pack again in the morning before you notice it’s there.”

“You take it for away games?”

I nod.

“So it’s going with us tomorrow night?”

I nod again.

“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly working through the information I’m throwing at him. “And what’s so special about it?”

“It’s the puck I scored my first goal with. All the way back when I was a kid and just discovering my love for hockey. Scoring that goal…I guess it cemented the love for me more. Putting it under my pillow turned into a superstition pretty quickly after that, thinking it was good luck. My team lost, or I had bad games, obviously. Plenty, over the course of my career so far. This season being the perfect example.”

His brows furrow. “So then…why keep using it if it doesn’t work?”

“There’s two actually,” I say slowly, measuring my words. “One, because it’s a habit at this point. I doubt I’d get much sleep knowing it’s not there, you know?”