Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(94)

But we also brought home yet another victory without Oak and I hooking-up the night before. Which only makes me think what the two of us were doing was doomed from the start.

Too bad my heart doesn’t care about those kinds of details, which is the very reason it got itself all broken and shredded anyway.

I shower on autopilot, drifting and floating between my teammates laughing and jeering in celebration. As they should. Every single guy in here made tonight happen. Brought home this win. But there’s a fine line between celebrating and being a complete idiot because you’re on top of the world.

“I think the Kappas are planning a party tonight,” I hear McGowan mention to my left.

“Oh, hell yes,” Weston says, excitement evident in his voice.

“Just don’t get too rowdy tonight, guys,” I say. “We’ve still got a long way to go before bringing home that trophy. Starting with a morning skate tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

It’s ironic, having these kinds of things come out of my mouth now, especially considering where I was not even a year ago. But a lot can change in a short amount of time.

My attention automatically drifts toward Oakley at that thought, finding him undressing for his shower. He must feel my eyes on him, because his head lifts and he meets my gaze.

A small smile curves the corner of his lips, one barely noticeable to anyone but me, and I swear I can read every thought going through his head right now.

Good job tonight.

You played amazing.

I’m so fucking proud of you.

Or maybe those are the thoughts running through my own head.

The stupid slab of muscle in my chest crawls its way into my throat, forming a knot there. One nearly impossible to breathe around. It’s suffocating, the same way it is to be in his presence, but not be able to do the things I want to.

Like go to him. Talk to him. Fucking celebrate with him, because he’s the only one I want to share this moment with.

I know the ball’s in my court. He said all the things he needed to say the other night, and it’s up to me to forgive him and move forward. But his betrayal cut deep, leaving a gaping chasm behind. One I’m not sure how to bridge yet, no matter how much my heart might want to.

“De Haas,” Coach’s disembodied voice echoes through the locker room, and just like that, all chatter ceases to the point where you could hear a pin drop.

I let out a long-winded sigh, still holding eye contact with Oakley while calling back, “Yeah?”

“Finish up getting changed and meet me out in the hall.”

My brows furrow, wondering why the hell Coach would want to meet with me outside in the hallway rather than in his office. Then again, the last few times I’ve been called into Coach’s office have caused major issues in my life, so I should probably be thankful.

I break away from Oakley’s gaze and pull my shirt over my head. His eyes are still on me as I slip my shoes on, and they continue to sear my back until the moment I exit the locker room.

I miss the heat of his gaze the second it’s gone, and more than anything, I hate how pathetic that makes me.

Shoving thoughts of Oakley to the side, I turn the corner and find Coach down the hall with another gentleman dressed in a suit, who motions for me to come join them.

My blood races, invisible pins and needles pricking across my skin as I close the distance, wondering who the hell this other guy is. As I get closer, I can make out salt and pepper hair, putting him maybe into his fifties. He’s tall, probably about my height and is still fit. But I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Not that I can recall.

Is he the team lawyer? Someone from administration? A representative from the NCAA?

Have they suspended Oakley after all?

I might be fucking pissed about everything that went down, but the last thing I want is to put the team’s welfare in jeopardy during the most important part of the season. All I want out of the whole fucking thing is for it to be done and over with.

A thousand thoughts rush through my head, and none are good. By the time I reach the two men, I feel like I’ve walked into my own funeral.

“Coach,” I say warily. “You wanted to see me?”

He nods, the corners of his eyes creased in a rare smile. “I did. There’s someone who wants to meet you, and I thought this was the right time to make it happen.”

Ah, fuck. Here it comes.

The man steps forward, holding his hand out for me to shake, which I take, albeit a little reluctantly. His grip is firm and intimidating, which only makes my intestines twist and knot themselves more.

“Quinton, I’ve been following you for some time, and would like to formally introduce myself,” he says, glancing between me and Coach. “My name’s Louis Spaulding.”

I release his hand like it was a hot iron, my eyes widening slightly as recognition sets in.

“Like, the NHL agent, Louis Spaulding?”

Coach lets out a bark of laughter, and a grin appears on Louis’s face, popping a small dimple below the left corner of his mouth. “I happen to represent a couple other athletes in the baseball world, but yes. One and the same.”

Holy motherfucking shit.

“I…It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I say, slightly dumbstruck as I fumble for more words.

Coach laughs again, this time more of a bellow, and he claps me on the shoulder before speaking to Louis. “I think this is my cue to let the two of you speak in private. Besides, gotta make sure the guys aren’t throwing a kegger in the locker room after that win.” He looks down at me then. “You played one helluva game tonight, de Haas. Keep it up.”