Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(7)

And with the first punch thrown by Quinton, the hockey arena has turned into a boxing ring.

Utter pandemonium breaks out as Quinton continues to land blows on Adams. The team boxes clear, everyone moving to the ice to either help break up the fight or start one of their own. The officials do their best to block anyone from getting closer, meanwhile a couple of our guys attempt to stop de Haas from using Trenton’s center as a punching bag.

Adams must get a shot in on Quinton too, because when Cam and Rossi pull Quinton away, his eyebrow is split, blood starting to spill down the side of his face.

That doesn’t seem to faze him though, because he shoves our guys away from him and surges toward Adams all over again, who’s only just gotten to his feet.

Okay, that’s enough.

I skate toward the hotheaded idiot, grabbing him by the collar yanking him away from Adams.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, my teeth bared as I back him against the glass.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Rossi and one of the wingers for Trenton both holding back Adams, doing their best to keep the two from going in for a third round. Meanwhile, Quinton’s still seething in my grip. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, looking to take a massive bite out of Adams.

“He had it coming,” Quinton bites, his eyes still two furious balls of blue fire. The hottest flame there is.

“That might be, but you don’t need to escalate the situation,” I hiss, pushing against the boards harder as he fights against my hold. “You might’ve just cost us the damn game with this shit.”

A sneer paints his face. “Nah, Reed. You’re the one who doesn’t want to play like a team, needing to be the star of the show. Telling Coach I never pass you the puck? Turning it over when I finally do? That’s not a team player.” He scoffs. “If we walk away tonight with a loss, that falls on your shoulders. Not mine.”

He’s kidding me, right? I’m the one not wanting to play as a team? I’m the one costing us this win?

“You’re delusional.”

He arches his brow as if to ask but am I?

My voice comes out in a snarl. “You’re the one in charge on this ice. Not me. So instead of worrying about what I’m doing, why don’t you start showing some qualities of an actual leader?”

His brows clash together, nose wrinkling back in disgust. “I think it’s time you get over the fact that your last name wasn’t enough to get this position for yourself.”

Wow. He actually went there. Again.

“You’re unbelievable, de Haas. Classy as fucking ever.” I nod over toward the penalty box. “Enjoy watching me lead this team to victory while you’re in time out.”

He glares at me, wiping away the blood from his eyebrow with the back of his hand.

I’d hope getting punched in the face might teach him a lesson, but if history has proven anything, it won’t make a damn bit of difference.

“Captain material, my ass,” I mutter under my breath as I watch him skate his ass over to the sin bin and plop his temperamental ass down on the wooden bench.



Unfortunately, I’m full of shit by saying I’d lead the team to victory.

It’s actually the complete opposite of what happens when we get smoked during the five-minute power play, thanks to Quinton’s temper. And to make it worse, his absence on the ice makes it possible for Trenton College to score not one, but two goals.

Giving them the win.

The atmosphere in the locker room afterward is somewhere between abysmal and depressed, especially since we haven’t lost a home opener in years. Since well before any of us came to play at Leighton.

After the dressing down we get from Coach in our post-game meeting, most of us keep to ourselves, either jumping in the shower or ice baths to get cleaned up, as if that’s enough to wash away the stench of loss.

Braxton, who is one of my roommates, sidles up beside me as I redress. Both of us are aware of the way de Haas is banging around at his stall like the petulant child he is, still unable to get ahold of his rage, though we do our best to ignore it.

It’s embarrassing.

“Am I actually seeing this?” I mutter more to myself than anyone, but from the way Braxton nods in agreement, I know he heard me.

“I wish we weren’t.” He pauses, and we trade a quick glance. “We gotta do something about this, man. Or we’re gonna be in for a long season.”

“Like what? It’s not like we can just impeach him or something. Hockey isn’t a democracy.”

“It fucking should be.”

He makes a point.

I’m at a complete loss here, just like I bet half the team is. Because this sure as hell isn’t the way a captain should act or perform on the ice. Or off it.

“If we were still in high school, we’d just have to plant some weed or booze in his locker and he’d be done for.” I sigh, slipping into my shoes. “If only it were that easy now.”

“You’re telling me,” Braxton grumbles, falling in step beside me as we head for home. “But we’ll get him outta here. One way or another.”





Three

Quinton

Helmets and pads bang and clack against wooden stalls as the team strips down after practice. We’ve been gearing up for our first away game series at none other than our rival school—also in the Chicago area—Blackmore University, and despite the hiccups in our first two games at home, I’m feeling good about how the team is meshing.