Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(69)

However, the way he was wincing at the slightest movement only proves pulling him off the ice was the right call.

Some of the guys are still milling about, but more than half the team has long since showered and gone home. I’m about ready to leave too, when Oakley appears at his stall, tossing his pads into the opening before stripping down and wrapping a towel around his waist.

The skin on his back where his shoulder blade protrudes is red and inflamed, probably due to the trainer’s exam, but otherwise he seems to be moving it better than he was on the ice. But the butterfly bandage on his face to help close the cut on his cheek almost sends me over the edge into another ragey downward spiral.

My fingers twitch with both anger and compassion. With the urge to brush my thumb across Oakley’s cheek, but to also bash Carter’s skull in for daring to touch him.

In the end, I do neither, balling my fists and keeping them at my sides as I continue to give Oakley a once-over from across the room.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he murmurs before shifting his focus to me.

There are so many things I could say, so many things I want to ask, but I know this isn’t the time or place. So instead, I settle for the one piece of information I need right now.

“Are you okay?”

He gives me a tiny smile, but it quickly turns into a wince when he goes to hang his pads. “Yeah, I think it’s just sore. But the trainer’s confident it’s not another break or tear or anything serious. Just a tweak. Some ice and rest for a couple days should make me good as new.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Okay,” is all I can say as guilt sweeps through me.

After all, if it wasn’t for my shit-talking these past few years, Carter wouldn’t have come after me, let alone bring Oakley into the mix. Fuck, if it weren’t for me, Oakley wouldn’t have been injured in the game against Waylon last season either.

As if reading my mind, Oakley cuts through my thoughts. “It’s not on you.”

It sure as hell feels like it is.

“Okay,” I say again, because I don’t have it in me to argue with him. All I really want is to crawl into bed and forget this day happened. Alone, because I can’t handle any company tonight. “Just take care of it. Please.”

He nods. “Of course.”

I can’t stay in here without making it completely obvious to the few guys still milling about that I’m hanging around for him. Which would probably set off some alarms in their heads, therefore going against the stupid fucking no one can know rule I’ve grown to loathe.

So I grab my bag and haul it over my shoulder to head home for the night.

I’m about to exit through the back door of the locker room when my name is called out from behind me.

“Quinn.”

I turn to find Oakley watching me with that penetrating gaze of his. The one that makes my skin tingle with pinpricks whenever I feel it aimed at me.

“Yeah?”

He licks his lips, a small smile forming on them before he says four words I never thought I’d hear out of his mouth. “I’m proud of you.”

From the way he says it, I know he doesn’t mean for scoring the game-winning goal, keeping our winning streak—and the superstition—alive. It’s because I did something I’ve never done before.

I walked away from a fight.

My heart ratchets in my chest, the damn thing pounding against my ribs a little harder at his approval. It’s something I’d never thought I’d get from him, and now knowing how it feels to earn it, there’s nothing else I want.

I want to keep making him proud. Always.

My lips lift at the corner as I smile at him. “I’m proud of me too.”





Twenty-Four

Oakley

The guys at home have been catching on.

Not about Quinton and I specifically, thank fucking God. It’s more like I’ve been distracted lately. If I’m even home, which doesn’t happen a whole lot lately either. And though they might not know why, apparently they’ve taken notice, the fact becoming crystal clear when I shove the front door open after the game against Wynnfield, only to be met with four sets of eyes locked on me from the sectional.

Waiting for me, like an intervention or something.

Slowly, I let my duffle slide off my good shoulder, my gaze flicking from face to face in an attempt to get a read on the situation.

“Someone die?”

“Yeah,” Holden says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the cushions.

His seriousness paired with the quiet tension in the air, hanging there like a storm cloud, causes my stomach to roll with dread. “Who?”

A long sigh comes from him before he says, “Our friendship.”

The rest of the guys chuckle as relief floods through me. My eyes narrow on my best friend, then the rest of them.

“That’s not funny in the slightest.”

“Yeah, well, neither is you being fucking MIA since classes started back up.” Concern lines his features, and he shakes his head. “Where the hell are you lately, man?”

My brows furrow, and I try to play dumb. I play dumb like my fucking life depends on it, because it very well might if these guys discover what I’ve been doing lately. Or who I’ve been doing it with.