Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(47)

Lucky socks, per his superstition.

I’d seen them a couple weeks back online when I was scrolling through one of my socials. Apparently, my phone did that creepy thing it does, listening in on one too many of my conversations with Oakley about his damn socks. So lo and behold, I had ads for socks plastered across my feed. When I found these on the site, they were too perfect to pass them up.

One pair is all black with white writing on it reading, “00 FUCKS GIVEN”, with the zeros looking like the timed out clock of a scoreboard. The second pair are white with a ton of eggplants on them and says, “I give the best blow jobs” down the sides.

The last pair is covered in suns and rainbows. Near the top in bold letters, it reads, “It’s a beautiful day” and then “Don’t fuck it up” on the bottom of the foot.

They’re my favorite.

“You…got me socks,” he says again, and this time, it hits me square in the chest.

“Yeah.” My shoulder lifts in a shrug when he looks at me again. “It’s not a big deal. Like I said, I just thought of you when I saw them.”

He doesn’t say anything, instead tearing my favorites out of the package and holding them up in front of him.

“If you don’t like ‘em—”

“They’re perfect,” he cuts me off, his voice ragged like he’s just run a marathon.

A sense of awkwardness falls over us, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I wasn’t expecting a couple goofy sets of socks to get him all in his feels, or maybe because he feels guilty for not getting me anything. Whatever it is, it sticks to the air like cling-wrap, and it’s stifling.

Enough to remind me why I rarely do things like this for people.

He lifts the other two pairs up, turning them over in his hands and reading them again before a small smile forms on his lips. “These all seem like they’re meant for you.”

He’s got a point there. Because I laughed my ass off when I picked every pair out.

“Maybe, but I don’t wear lucky socks. It’s your thing.”

“My lucky socks don’t have profanity on them,” he counters. “Just like…ducks and donuts and shit.”

I give him my winningest grin. “Perfect time for an upgrade.”

An eye roll is aimed at me. “We’ll have to see how well they work before we can call them an upgrade.” He pauses, then adds, “But…thank you.”

The temptation to blast this moment to smithereens—ruining any emotion still lingering between us—hits me like a ton of bricks. But for once, I choose not to give into the self-destructive part of my nature and just smile.

“You’re welcome, Oak.”

He holds up the eggplant pair for me to read. “And at least you can finally admit I give the best blow jobs.”

I wrinkle my nose up at the sentiment. “Absolutely not. They were just funny, so I got them.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, not at all believing me, while setting the box back on the coffee table.

His eyes heat as he crawls toward me, forcing me to lean until my back hits the leather seat cushions of the couch. Dipping his head toward my neck, he peppers kiss after kiss to my throat before rocking his hips into mine.

I’m hard instantly.

His lips trail up to my ear, and he nips at the lobe. “Maybe I need to take some time and remind you before our next game.”

God, I want that. I want to say fuck the rules and do it right now, actually. But it’s not what we agreed to. Sure, I could bring up altering the rules, like I was ready to before. After all, he’s become far more physically affectionate with me as of late.

But something inside me…can’t be the one to broach the topic. Not anymore.

Maybe because I’m wanting more than the steamy hook-ups and stolen moments neither of us want to end.

I want more moments like today. Seeing a different side of him—one more open and vulnerable with his emotions—only creates a hunger for more. I’m yearning for more pieces and layers of him I never knew existed, still waiting for me to discover, unwrap, and learn.

And it’s terrifying, wanting that.

But what scares me more is how much I want him to see those parts of me too.



Christmas passes quickly in typical de Haas fashion.

An obscene amount of cash stuffed in a generic Christmas card, not even signed by either of my parents, was left on the table for me Christmas morning. They were both already gone or busy by the time I made it down there; Dad at work, Mom overseeing our staff in preparing for when the caterers arrived. Then the opulently decorated house was filled with loads of people, all gathered in our massive living room, none of which were family. And as promised, most of Christmas dinner was spent talking business. Mostly about this new deal made with some Key whatever Holdings company out of New York.

I don’t think I said more than five words the entire time, unless it was to Marta, who used to be my au pair, but my parents kept her on the staff as a cleaning lady after I was old enough to take care of myself.

When I go up to my room to escape, I find a small package and card waiting on my bed. Inside is a note from Marta, along with a keychain of a little hockey player she had personalized with Leighton’s school colors, my last name, and the number 19 on the back.

I hastily added it to my BMW keys, trying to keep the knot in my throat from growing any larger as I did, and after thanking her, I spent most of my time in my room to avoid any conversation with my father.