Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(90)

And then me and Quinn?

My eyes sink closed. A knot forms in my throat as the image of him with that pill bottle in hand comes barreling back into my mind.

During this season, he’s gone from the person I despised most in the world to the person I never want to live without. The one who makes me laugh harder than anyone else. The one who brings out my reckless side, because life shouldn’t always be so serious.

He’s the one I should’ve protected at all costs.

Not Braxton.

“No,” I tell him, shaking my head.

“No?” he repeats, his dark eyes hardening. “Are you really gonna sit here and choose some good dick over me?”

“And that right there proves my point exactly.” I scoff, my lips curling back into a snarl. I can barely look at him right now. “You might’ve thought you were doing me a favor with all this, but all you’ve actually accomplished is costing me the trust of the person who matters most to me.”

Braxton shakes his head before waving me off. “Whatever, man. Give it a couple days and you’ll be over it.”

Yeah, considering the way I just tried to bolt after the guy in my underwear after letting him fuck the daylights out of me, I sincerely doubt that.

My eyes sink closed again, and I pray to whatever God exists for the strength to not lose my ever-loving shit on him.

“Get the fuck out, Braxton. It’s over. We’re done here.”

“Are you really gonna—”

“OUT!” I snarl, grabbing him by the neck of his shirt and shoving him out the door. I don’t think I breathe again until I slam it in his face and lock him on the other side.

Which only makes me realize one of my other roommates really did put a fucking bell on the door as a signal, because I can still hear the faint jingling of metal when I storm back over toward my bed.

Seeing as I’m not going anywhere with that wonderful little thing on my door, I strip back to my underwear and crawl into the bed, praying for sleep to take me quickly and end what might be the worst day of my life.

But instead of sleep granting me reprieve from reality, I only find more torment. Because my sheets still smell like him. Even after only setting foot in this room one time.

A knot forms in my throat, and I shove my arm beneath the pillow, attempting to get comfortable. But the second I make the movement, I brush against a familiar object.

One that makes the knot impossible to breathe around.

His puck.

I don’t need to pull it out to confirm; the way my heart lurches, aching and throbbing in my chest with every painful beat it takes, is enough. My hand wraps around the damn thing, squeezing it so hard, the rounded edges actually dig into my palm.

He was so worried about getting the hell out of here, he left it.

His superstition. The piece of his history keeping him out on the ice every day.

All the things he’s told me over the passing months come rushing to the forefront of my mind as my fingers coast over the smooth rubber disk. The hidden secrets and truths I would have never uncovered if I didn’t change my mind about following through with this superstition. So many parts of himself he willingly handed over without looking back. Entrusted me to hold and safeguard, thinking I’d done the work to earn them.

Deserve them.

And God, how I want to be deserving of them.

But I’m not.

I don’t think any amount of wishing and praying is going to change that.





Thirty-Two

Oakley

March

Outside of hockey, I’ve had zero interaction with Quinton in three weeks.

Three fucking weeks. Twenty-one days.

An obscene number of hours, minutes, and seconds ticking by without knowing where he is or what he’s thinking.

Even with the team still winning despite our superstition coming to an abrupt halt, he’s said nothing. Hasn’t made a joke or jab or so much as looked at me in those three weeks.

He didn’t even say anything the day after our blow out, when I’d left his lucky puck on the wooden shelf in his stall. I watched him pick it up. Turn it over in his hand when he thought I wasn’t looking. I saw the way he swallowed as he squeezed it in his palm before putting it safely in his bag.

The sight tore me apart from the inside out.

Nor did he speak to me after Coach pulled him into his office before the game that same day, giving him back the title of captain, but also letting him know Braxton and I would be reprimanded for our involvement in tampering with his test and resulting suspension.

However, seeing as my role wasn’t nearly as significant as Braxton’s, I was let off fairly easily. A hearing with some committee put together by the university, which nothing came of. After all, an idea is just an idea until it’s put into action, and since I didn’t participate in messing with the test, they threw out the case pretty soon after.

Braxton, however, is no longer a member of Leighton University’s hockey program. He was suspended at first, but soon after, he was booted altogether. Once that happened, it didn’t take long for him to move out, letting the rest of us know he was transferring to another school for next year. Just as well, though. No one—on the team or at home—trusted him after hearing about what he did.

Hell, everyone is just now starting to trust me again.

Too bad the only person whose trust I actually want won’t even look at me.