Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(42)

“—I have a real shot of making it to the NHL?” I supply, my brow arched.

From the way his lips part and brows rise, he’s taken by surprise at my ability to literally take the words right outta his mouth. “Uh, yeah. That.”

I nod as I fiddle with the rubber disk. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from every coach I’ve trained with, your uncle included.”

“Then don’t you think it’s something worth taking to heart?”

And as much as I hate to admit it, he has a point.

“I’m working on it.”

He shifts on the bed, moving to sit beside me again, our shoulders touching against the headboard. “We’ve noticed. Ever since getting back after the whole…” He trails off, clearly not wanting to bring up the suspension again. “The team, Coach, everyone has noticed your attitude shift.”

“Yeah, because no agent is gonna pick up an athlete with a short temper and a history of substance abuse.”

“I’d hardly call a false positive drug test substance abuse.”

“It still made a black mark on my reputation. One a lot harder to change than being a bit temperamental. So I figured, why risk it, you know?”

My attention drifts back to him in time to catch his nod.

“And to think, we’ve uncovered all this deep shit because of a fucking puck,” he muses, lifting it from my palm.

I motion at it in his hand. “Guess it’s more unlucky than lucky after all.”

“Just be happy I don’t make fun of you for cuddling with it every night the way you do my socks. Especially in front of the guys. That’d really make you a black sheep.”

He’s got a point there.

“Ah, see, but then they’d wonder how you got that information. Which would only lead to them inquiring why you’re in my bedroom at all, let alone in my bed.”

A small smirk slides on his lips, and the temptation to kiss it right off is high. But I don’t because the hook-up is over, and the rules are back in place.

“We definitely can’t have that, can we?”

All of a sudden, he freezes and drops the puck back in my palm. “Wait, this isn’t like the stick incident, right? I can touch it and the team won’t be blowing chunks before the game tomorrow?”

A laugh burst from my chest. “You think I would have let you go on fucking with it this long if that were the case?”

“I don’t know what kind of witchy voodoo you could be trying to work on me.”

“Must already be working if I’m getting you in bed with me.”

He lets out a laugh. “Touché, de Haas. Tou-fucking-ché.”





Sixteen

Oakley

Tonight’s game against Cornwall ends in another win, and at this rate, I know whatever is happening between myself and a certain teammate has to be part of the equation. We’ve been playing like stars on the rink these past few weeks, working together seamlessly like never before. Which is fantastic for team morale, on the one hand.

And it also means the sex keeps happening.

The hot, dirty, and downright addictive sex that often leaves us panting harder than any run out on the ice does. But if hopping into bed together is the thing keeping us on this winning streak we’re riding, I’m all for it.

We’ve got another game against Cornwall tomorrow, and if we can take this win back to Leighton, we’re on track to get a solid seeding for tournament play. Something we both desperately want if we’re planning to get to the Frozen Four in Indianapolis this year.

The door to our hotel room barely has time to swing shut before Quinton’s dropping his duffle to the ground and is on me like white on fucking rice.

“You fucking killed it tonight,” he says, grabbing the arm of my suit jacket and hauling me to him until we’re chest to chest. “I think we’re gonna be celebrating more than anything tonight.”

“Oh, really?” I counter, setting my duffle on the desk.

He gives me a you’re kidding me look, brows arched so high, they might as well be in his hairline. “You don’t think your third hat trick of the season is something to celebrate?”

“It definitely is.” My blood heats as he helps me out of my jacket and tosses it to the bed. “But it’s awfully forward to think I’d want to celebrate with you.”

A smirk sits on his lips as he works to open my shirt buttons. “Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t a little too sure of myself, right, Reed?”

He’s got me there.

Hell, he’s been unruffled by this entire thing between us, which is more than I can say for most baby bi’s I’ve known through the years. The couple I’ve been with in the past—and the reason I made it a rule not to get with them anymore—were always hesitant in making moves or acting on instinct, the whole “is this too gay for me” thought usually causing them to falter. And not that I can blame them, but it usually takes away from the whole hook-up.

It’s never happened with Quinton. Not once.

He’s taken everything I’ve thrown at him in stride, unfazed at each turn, and usually ends up asking for more when it’s all over. Which only adds to his ridiculous amount of sex appeal.

“You might have a point.”