Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(99)

A few stray hoots and hollers come from my teammates at the mentions of celebrating the win, and I think I hear a couple younger D-men in front of us mention a party the Deltas are throwing in honor of the big win.

By now I’ve realized the frats at Leighton are just looking for an excuse to throw a rager. And this happens to be a perfect one.

Coach hushes us, waving his hands in a downward motion before continuing. “Please be careful tonight, whether you go out or just go home. But for those of you going out, make good choices. Don’t do anything that will land you in jail or—”

“Your office,” a chorus of us finish for him.

He smirks and taps the back of the seat. “Seems you know the drill. Now, off you get.”

Quinn and I wait for most of the bus to clear out before climbing out of our seats. Our bags are already unloaded and waiting for us by the time we’re off, Coach waiting with the trophy in hand beside them.

I grab Quinn’s bag and hand it to him before shouldering my own. “Looks pretty good in your hands.”

“It certainly does, but it’ll look even better inside.” Coach looks between us. “Figured the team captain should be the one to carry it in, though. But I’ll leave you two to fight over who that is. Just…don’t break it. And bring the key back on Monday.”

Instead of handing it to one of us, he sets it on the ground with the key to the trophy case and heads to his SUV in the player lot.

Six months ago, I have no doubt the two of us would’ve gotten in a scuffle over the damn thing. But now we just stare at it, then each other, like we’re afraid to even touch it.

“You should bring it in,” he says first, breaking the silence. I lift my gaze to collide with his, and he continues, “You were captain for most of the season, not me.”

“You should have been the entire season if I hadn’t…” I trail off.

He grabs it from the ground and holds it out to me. “Okay, but if it wasn’t for your injury last year, the spot would’ve been yours in the first place and we both know it.”

What?

“That’s got nothing to do with this. It wasn’t even your fault,” I say, pushing it back toward him.

“He was aiming for me, you just got in the way.” Then he jams the trophy right back in my arms, and I realize we’re about to play the most backward game of tug-o-war with this fucking thing.

“Still doesn’t count.” Press.

“Well, then you should take it because it’s your legacy.” Push.

“Maybe, but you earned it.” Thrust.

“Quinn—”

My words are cut off when he shoves it against my chest and steps back, leaving him out of arm’s reach. “Just take the stupid thing, Oakley, before I use it to bash your skull in instead.”

I laugh, holding it out in front of me to examine for any damage. “Well, that’d be one helluva way to end the night.”

Key in hand, Quinn starts for the entrance, and I fall in step beside him. “And would go exactly against Coach’s wishes for us to stay out of jail.”

“Eh, I’d make bail.”

I scoff, opening the door to let him through. “I know you’ve got money and an army of lawyers, but I don’t think you’d make bail on a murder charge.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says as we make our way down the hall toward the trophy case. “I don’t have either of those things.”

His words cause me to stutter-step as a pained smile crosses his face. And I don’t even need to ask what he means. The answer, as much as I hate it, is glaringly obvious.

His dad cut him off. Just like he threatened to over break.

“Quinn—”

“I knew it was coming,” he cuts in, his eyes taking on a slight sheen. “It was only a matter of time.”

The hatred I have for these two disgusting people rises to an all-time high.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now.” Quinn clears his throat and makes an attempt to lighten the mood again. “But now you know why I wouldn’t murder you, just severely injure.”

My heart aches for him in my chest, especially knowing this must’ve been weighing on him for a while. But if he wants to keep the heavy shit for a later day, that’s okay. We have plenty of time to talk about it.

The rest of our damn lives, if I have anything to say about it.

“Well, I’m flattered you only want to maim me.”

“It’s a far step above wanting to kill you a few weeks ago,” he points out, bending to unlock the case before sliding the glass door out of the way.

I know he meant nothing by the comment, but I can’t help but feel the twinge of guilt rushing through me.

My teeth roll over my bottom lip while I push one of the other trophies over to make room for ours, and then set it in the empty space. “I’m not complaining at all, but can I ask what made you…”

Glancing up, I find his brow arched as he waits for me to continue. When I don’t, he supplies, “Forgive you?”

I wince at the casual way he says it. “Yeah. That.”

A noncommittal shrug lifts his shoulders as he slides the glass back in place and locks it. “I got your present.”