Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(68)

I’m aiming a returning grin at him, seconds away from thanking him for the assist, but I don’t get the chance, thanks to one of the jackass defensemen, Jake Carter, from Wynnfield. Carter slams into me out of nowhere, the unexpected blow knocking me off my feet and sending me barreling straight into the boards headfirst.

It takes a second for me to catch my breath, the angle of the hit knocking the wind out of me. From the way my neck hurts, I can already tell I’ll have major whiplash. Probably a killer headache for the next couple days too.

The way players from both teams surround me lets me know the play has been stopped—a card probably pulled on Carter for an illegal hit—to check me for injury.

Oakley’s in front of me a second later, arm outstretched to help to my feet. I reach for it, but I never get the chance to grab a hold because Oakley’s shoved away by the defenseman who rammed into me.

“What the hell, man?” Oakley rights himself, a scowl marring his face as he glares at the asshole.

But this doucheface has no interest in talking, instead shoving Oakley again—crushing him against the glass too—before coming after me. His arm slams down over my throat, holding me against the boards that way. And when he leans in, his facemask colliding with mine, I recognize him as one of the many players I got handsy with last season after running my mouth for a little too long.

My damn mouth, always getting me in trouble.

“Not such a tough guy with your back against the boards, are you, de Haas?”

“Bite me, Carter,” I snarl, teeth bared.

“Not really my kink. How ‘bout I deck you instead?”

He’s seething now as he jams me harder against the boards, the forearm locked over my throat grinding down against my Adam’s apple painfully.

I can barely breathe, let alone speak, when Oakley grabs him out of nowhere just as he goes to rip my helmet from my head—probably to throw his fist into my face.

“Get off him,” he snaps, shoving the defenseman away from me.

But it only makes the D-man even more pissed off.

He’s after Oakley now, meanwhile pandemonium breaks out on the ice, all the players and officials doing their best to call off Carter’s attack. It’s no use though, because Carter is an animal on the hunt for blood. Except as he rips Oakley’s helmet from his head and raises his fist, I realize it’s no longer my blood he wants.

He lands a blow on Oakley’s cheekbone before bashing him back against the glass. And when I watch him crumple beneath the hold Carter has on his shoulder—his bad fucking shoulder—I see red.

And something inside me snaps.

The feral, carnal side of myself breaks free as I wrap my arms around Carter’s waist, yanking him away from Oakley. I’m ready to give him a taste of his own medicine, the rage inside me about to be unleashed.

He can come after me all he wants if he’s got a beef needing to be settled, but leave my teammates out of it. No one else needs to be injured because of me. Not again.

So if a fight with me is what he wants, a fight he’s gonna fucking get.

Except I don’t even have the chance to do a damn thing, because Oakley’s right there to put an end to this squabble once and for all.

“Hey, stop. He’s not worth it.” His palm presses against my chest pads as two Wynnfield players work to separate me and Carter. But no amount of space or holding back can stop me from wanting to smash in this doucheknuckle’s face.

And that’s all I want right now, because how fucking dare he.

But Oakley presses fractionally harder.

“Quinn, he’s not worth it,” he says again, his tone soft yet firm.

The blood boiling in my veins demands release, but as I lean into Oakley’s touch—even if I can’t directly feel it through the pads and uniform—my rage tamps down. Cooling to a low simmer, and eventually, it’s enough to remove my eyes from Carter to give Oakley my full attention.

A tiny amount of blood leaks from the cut below his eye, and I can tell from the way he’s positioned, with his arm held up awkwardly toward his chest, this jackass somehow fucked with Oak’s shoulder. It pisses me off more.

But still, Oakley’s hand and imploring gaze are enough to ground me in the moment, keeping my rage from getting the better of me.

“You’re right,” I snarl, baring my teeth at Carter. “He’s not.”

And then I do something I’ve never done before during a confrontation on the ice.

I turn around, and I skate away.



I’m honestly surprised I was allowed to play the remaining few minutes, but since Carter was the one to clearly incite the violence instead of me, he was the only one tossed in the sin bin. Which was a weird experience for me, all things considered.

Things turn in our favor after the brawl on the ice, and thanks to the power play for the remaining time of the game, we pull a W out from all the chaos. Rossi, McGowan, and I are able to work together with Wynnfield down a man, sneaking a goal in with about thirty seconds left.

My third goal of the night, giving me a hat trick to end the game along with the win.

But the celebrations are cut short in the locker room when the team trainer pulls Oakley into a separate room to take a look at his shoulder before he even has the chance to shower.

Coach benched him the rest of the game after the incident with Carter, wanting to have it looked at before the game ended. But Oakley wasn’t having it and said it could wait until the clock zeroed out, much to Coach’s and my displeasure.