Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(5)

Oakley’s nostrils flare with anger, dark brows drawn down over narrowed eyes. His typical death glare. A look I’ve been on the receiving end of far too many times for it to instill fear anymore.

“Hardly, Captain. I just figured, since you’re in charge now, you might make some effort to act like you care about this team. Make us a priority. But I can see I was mistaken. Instead, you’re planning to lead us right into the damn ground.”

The venom behind the word captain doesn’t hit the mark, though I can tell he’s hoping it would. But the sensitivity toward that topic is his issue, not mine.

I never asked to be considered for captain; I was just chosen. But again, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I graciously thanked Coach for naming me, took on the damn title, and ran with it. Shit, maybe it would actually be enough for some guys on the team to stop looking at me like a fucking leper half the time just because hockey’s golden boy doesn’t like me.

Of course, naming me as captain only added more fuel to the fire already blazing between myself and said golden boy that started all the way back in high school. And then growing more at the end of last season, when Oakley got taken out with a broken collarbone from a hit that was meant for me.

And then there’s also every other combative conversation in between, continuously stoking the flames.

Hell, I’m surprised Coach didn’t just give Oakley the damn title to prevent this very thing from happening. And I’m sure Oakley did too, seeing as he’s Coach’s nephew. Plus, he was pretty much a shoo-in for the position.

But it’s not my fault Oakley thought nepotism would secure the spot for him.

Stick and helmet in hand, I give him an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, well, at least I’m leading.”

Fire burns in his eyes, his jaw ticking with effort to keep his temper reined in. And that’s how I know I won tonight’s little pissing match. When he’s so fucking pissed, he can’t even come up with another witty, dickish retort.

It’s actually a fun little game I like to play—see how many digs it takes for him to shut down. Sometimes, I even try to beat my own record.

Going for a low score, like in golf.

Right now, I’d say I’m two under par.

Arching a brow, I give the jackass a winning, plastic smile. “See you on the ice, Reed.”





Two

Oakley

I stare after Quinton’s retreating form, still fuming from the verbal sparring match he coaxed me into having. Or maybe I started it this time. Honestly, it’s hard to tell anymore with every single shitty encounter leading into the next.

For the life of me, I wish I knew how to let his crap just roll off my back. Yet somehow, he bends and twists me in all kinds of knots every time he opens his damn mouth, forcing me to engage.

He’s the only person who’s ever been able to get a rise out of me.

You’d think after four years of playing together, I’d be immune to it by now. The taunts and the jokes and the straight-up insults. But nope, it still works to his benefit. Maybe even easier now, with having to spend so much time around each other.

No part of me wants to spend more time than necessary with him. Ending up on the same team with him was so far outside my plans for college, it’s laughable. So imagine my fucking horror when I was getting suited up for my first day of practice freshman year and he walked in.

If I was the violent type, heads would have rolled.

But we’ve reached the point in this stupid beef where the only thing I truly want is one day where we aren’t at each other’s throats.

Who knows, today might be that day. Starting…now.

Here’s to hoping, right?

Needing to channel this frustration into something a lot more useful, I head out to the rink after the dickhead, knowing one thing’s for certain.

I’ll feel better once I’m on the ice. I always do.



As far as the first game of the season goes, I can’t complain about how the team is performing as a whole. The chemistry is there, most lines working together seamlessly, both offensively and defensively.

The problem is Quinton…and me.

We don’t mesh on the ice. Never seem to be on the same page, and sometimes, it feels like we don’t even play on the same team. Then again, with all that time we spent as opponents rather than teammates, I guess it’s a little hard to train out of us.

All I can do is hope that the kinks get worked out as the season goes. Or we figure out how to stay out of each other’s way while being on the ice at the same time. And that appears to be working well, actually.

Except that Quinton’s version of staying out of my way entails acting like I don’t exist altogether. And by doing so, he also ignores me when I’m open to take a shot on goal, instead taking it himself—which only ends up being blocked by the goalie—or turning the puck over to the other team before he gets the chance. Either way, we miss out on a chance to score. Something kinda important to, I don’t know, win a game.

And it doesn’t just happen once, either. There are multiple occasions over the initial forty minutes of game play, and by the time we’re skating our way off the ice for a second intermission, I’m frustrated beyond belief.

And here I thought hockey players outgrew being a puck hog by now.

He goes to skate by me after the rest of the team, and in my irritated state, I make an irrational move, grabbing his arm to stop him in his tracks.