Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(41)

The corners of his lips lift. “And the other?”

I hesitate before more secrets spill, darker ones this time. But no matter how much I might want to, I’m helpless to stop them.

He’s carving out chunks of who I am and taking those tiny pieces for himself.

“I…know you overheard that shit with my dad earlier this season. After the first game I was back after the drug test shit.”

Oakley stiffens beneath me, so slightly, it wouldn’t have been noticeable if my body wasn’t plastered to his at every point. His head turns away, something like embarrassment written on his face until I tilt it back and force him to meet my eyes.

Once again, sympathy is etched into them as he meets my gaze. “I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I’m not mad about it or anything.”

He opens his mouth to object, and I retract my statement.

“Okay, I’m not mad about it now. When it happened, I guess I was embarrassed or pissed. Or both, honestly. Knowing you heard him lay into me, especially after I played like garbage and had to appeal my suspension for something I truly didn’t do.” I sigh and rest my chin on his chest. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to hear that conversation with him, let alone my pain-in-the-ass rival. And I didn’t know how much you heard of what he said either, which only made it worse.”

“I think I caught the gist of it,” he murmurs. His hands leave my hips, fingers moving to glide through my hair instead. Two brown irises soften even more as he searches my face. “So this has to deal with the puck because he doesn’t want you playing hockey?”

I nod, my jaw ticking with effort not to lean into Oakley’s touch while the countless times my father’s attempted to remove hockey from my life over the years run through my thoughts. And believe me, there are plenty.

“Ever since I started college, it’s become more of a reminder of why I started playing in the first place. For the love of the game and the thrill that comes with it.” Pausing, I roll my teeth over my bottom lip and offer yet another secret. “I can list only a few things in the world I love as much as being out on the ice. It’s something I wanna hold on to as long as I can, even though I know the odds are stacked against me.”

He nods, a wave of understanding passing over his expression. “I get what you mean. Though I don’t think the odds are at all stacked against you.”

“You say that, but…”

He studies my expression before rolling me to my back, his turn to hover over me. “But what?”

But do you actually mean it?

I don’t say it though. For once, I keep something to myself rather than spilling my guts to him, lifting my shoulder in a shrug instead.

Oakley’s expression hardens fractionally, and he leans away from me into a sitting position. I follow suit, sliding up to rest against the headboard. My fingers slip beneath the pillow, rubbing against the rubber puck in a way of comfort while he continues eyeing me.

“How is it possible for you to have so much confidence all the time, yet you don’t seem to grasp just how talented you are?”

“I know I’m talented—”

“Do you?” His brow arches in challenge…and I relent.

“It’s like…I know I have the talent and the skill to make this something I could do for a long time. I’ve worked my ass off to get here, and I’m determined to make it happen. But I still constantly feel like the team’s black sheep. Normally it doesn’t get to me, but then there are moments where those doubts worm their way in, and I just feel like an imposter.”

The look of sympathy he’s giving me grows, if it’s even possible.

I should not have said that.

“We make you feel that way, or your dad does when he tries to force you into his version of you?”

Both.

I just give him another shrug and pull the puck out to play with it some more, wishing we could just end this conversation. Or better yet, go back in time before I offered the information up when I knew I shouldn’t have.

He lets out a sigh at my lack of engagement. “Look, you’re good at what you do, Quinton. Don’t let your dad, or anyone else, convince you otherwise.”

My eyes flick to his face, and I give a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“I’m being serious.” His gaze takes on a more imploring look, and it makes me sit up a little straighter. “I’ll deny ever saying this, but you’ve got far more raw talent than I do.”

I snort. “You’re born to hockey royalty. That’s not even possible.”

“Maybe I am, but I also know we grew up loving the same game in two different ways. You excel on the ice because you were born to be out there. Whereas my talent was trained into me since I could walk. It wasn’t something I was just gifted through genetics. It took a lot of work and coaching to get me here.”

“For real?”

He nods. “Yeah. You can ask Coach. He and my dad made me run drills every day for three straight summers when I was in elementary school to get better control on the ice. Something…I’m sure you never had to do.” When I don’t immediately negate his point, he continues, “See. You fit in a lot better than you think you do, and you’re only the black sheep because of your temper. Now, if you’d just learn to keep your head on straight—”