Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)

So, despite the way I bolted like a dickhead after our first hook-up…Quinton’s theory actually works.

I shouldn’t be surprised, seeing as I’m also a firm believer in superstitions—at least when it pertains to hockey. But I’m still in complete shock when the scoreboard at the end of the game against Fall River shows we won. In a shutout.

And then later the same night, after I apologized quite a bit for my hasty exit the night before, we went for another round testing this superstition. Only this time, I took my turn learning every inch of Quinton’s dick with my tongue.

We won the game the next day, four to one, and I got a fucking hat trick out of it.

At first, I thought it was coincidental—maybe the team was finally starting to form into a cohesive unit and play well together—and had nothing to do with this little arrangement Quinton and I created. But as more time passes and we keep winning, I know it’s time to put some stock in this little superstition.

We’ve racked up six more wins in the past three weeks, and it’s safe to say our plan has turned the entire season around. We even have the eyes of the entire NCAA on us, and thankfully, it’s got nothing to do with PED or steroid use anymore. Nope, we’re being called the comeback kids, and the whole team is eating it up, using it as a driving force to continue competing at an elite level.

Now we’re to the point in the season where we only have a few more games before winter break starts, and it might be strange to admit, but I’m kind of worried about it. With the roll we’ve been on, I’m terrified we might lose this momentum going into the new year and the second half of our season.

But we still have another week and a half of classes, practices, and games to go, so I’m refusing to let my thoughts linger on it.

Instead, I shift my focus to the present and the naked man in front of me, about to redress after our latest roll in his sheets. My eyes trace over the sculpted muscles of his back, covered in intricate artwork, until I reach his smooth, bare ass. I can still see the faint imprint of my palm from where I was squeezing one cheek earlier while he fucked my face.

Yeah, I’m definitely gonna miss this view.

A classic side effect of really good sex. The top-tier, mind blowing kind of sex that can only happen when the chemistry between two people hits just right. Everything about the person becomes addicting.

Plus, this little theory has made us a lot more fluid with each other—both on and off the ice. It’s like we thought; we’re literally fucking out our aggression with each other, and now we can sort of get along.

But only sort of.

“I can feel you staring at me like a piece of meat,” Quinton chides, not even sparing me a glance as he slides a pair of athletic shorts on, sans underwear. Something he does a lot, and it’s far sexier than it should be. Or is fair, when he turns, and I catch the way the waistband hangs low on his hips, revealing the damn V that never fails to get my dick stirring.

And the tattoos.

Those. Fucking. Tattoos.

I’ve never been into tatted guys, at least to the extent Quinton has covering his body. In fact, I used to think they made him look like a delinquent, only adding to his reckless attitude and persona. Now, after getting to see each piece of art up close and running my tongue over each line inking his skin, I realize I was wrong, and tattoos are now my new kink. At least with him.

The ram’s skull across the top of his back and shoulders is sexy as hell. It’s more of a sketched style of artwork, the linework messy but the shading and depth created in it is impeccable. And as for why a ram…well, it’s because he’s an Aries.

Sometimes it really is that simple.

Maybe it’s why I like them, though. Because I can see little pieces of who he is through the artwork painted across his body. Tiny snippets into who he is inked on his skin for the world to see.

Out of them all, my favorite is the piece on his thigh. It’s a fractured old-fashioned clock—the kind with Roman numerals for the numbers. All the inner workings, the gears and mechanics hidden within, peek through the gaps of broken pieces, and the little shards were made to look like they’re piercing his skin.

I’ve never asked him about it, but I can tell there’s a meaning to it every time I touch or trace over it.

A sock hits me in the face out of nowhere, interrupting my eye-fucking session.

“I’m not a piece of meat,” he says again, but the playfulness in his voice tells me he doesn’t give two shits about me ogling him. From the way I see him flex his ass, he’s actually enjoying it.

“Mmm,” I hum, the rumble coming from deep within my chest. “Disappointing because you look good enough to eat.”

“Glad to know you really are attracted to me.” He chuckles. “I was worried there for a second.”

My brows knit as I continue to watch him move around the room. “What? Of course I am. Why would you think I wasn’t?”

He glances up at me from where he was bending to grab a shirt off the floor, giving me one of those get real, Reed looks. Brows raised and all.

“It’s not like you made this whole”—he waves his arms around—“situationship easy. If anything, the roles should have been reversed and you should’ve been the one chasing me, since you knew you were into dudes. At least, that’s the way it happens in the movies and shit. The gay guy falling for his straight friend—”

“No one’s falling and we’re not friends.”

His face hardens slightly before the snark comes out. “Ah, yes. See, this is exactly what I mean. Why would you ever give me something like affection when you can keep being hostile?”

I smirk and give a single nod. “Now you’re catching on.”

That earns me an eye roll. “As I was saying…I had to practically beg you to get in bed with me, and even when you agreed, you still almost bitched out at the last minute.” He pauses, shrugging his tee on over his head, leaving his hair a tousled, sexy mess. “I thought maybe you weren’t attracted to me. You know, the whole he’s just not that into you thing.”

“Definitely not.” I lean back against the wall, grinning. “Guess I just needed a bit more convincing.”

A returning grin appears on his lips, and it’s filthy. His eyes are heated as he stalks over to where I’m sprawled on his bed, not stopping until he’s climbed over me and straddling my waist. My dick takes immediate notice of this new positioning, and even though it hasn’t been more than twenty minutes since he came all over Quinton’s chest, he’s definitely a fan of getting a round two in before going home.

Too bad it’s probably against the rules. My rules, but still.

“Or,” he says, palms landing against the wall on either side of my head, “you just wanted me to work for it.”

“Oh, absolutely. I wasn’t about to be one of those puck bunnies that just jumped into bed with you on a whim, looking for a good time.”

“Why do you continue to make me out to be a total manwhore?”

My brows furrow. “Uh, because you kind of are? Exhibit A being the way you’re currently grinding down on my cock like a stripper giving a lap dance.”

And he is. I didn’t notice when he first straddled me, but somewhere between now and then, he must’ve felt my dick perk up and decided to play games. The devilish smirk on his face only proves it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhmm, sure you don’t,” I mutter before shoving him off me to adjust my erection. “Now I have to wait for this to go away so I can leave.”

He laughs, his stupid dimples peeking out in his cheeks as he leans against the wall beside me.

“Tell me something real, then. To pass the time ‘til he decides to behave.”

My brows crash together. “What do you mean?”

“You say I’m all fun and sex and surface level, but it’s not like you’ve shown me anything deeper either.” He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “So if you’re gonna talk the talk, you better—”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

But the thing is, I’m not sure I want to.

This is supposed to be just sex. Not sharing feelings and all that crap. Hell, I probably shouldn’t have gotten in the habit of hanging around afterward. Yet I did because the way he looked at me when I rushed out of here after the first time made me feel all kinds of disgusting.

“Earth to Oakley?”

I shake my head free from the thoughts plaguing me, flicking my gaze to him. “Yeah?”

“Pick something to tell me.”

Ugh. “What’s the point? My dick’s calmed down, now I can go.”

He ignores me, maintaining his focus on wiggling some information out of me instead. “Pick something easy. Like…why did you care about being captain so much?”

My brows arch. “Why did you?”

“Because it pissed you off,” he says, a wry smirk sitting on his lips. “Nice deflection, though. Your turn. Why’d you want to be captain so bad?”

Goddamnit.

I have no interest in doing this. It’s not why I’m here. And I’m about to say that too, to make my point known that it’s useless for us to get to know each other on this level when we’re just…enemies with benefits.

But then that expression crosses his face. The same one he had the first night when I was leaving, and it hits me square in the chest all over again.

Rejection.

And I just can’t let him feel it. Not anymore, and not because of me.

Fucking hell.

“I…” I trail off, not knowing where to start. “I guess it was just something I expected from myself.”

“Because you’re Coach’s nephew?”

There’s no hate or inflection behind the question, but it still pricks at my nerves the same.

“Not in the way you might think. He and my dad have been grooming me to take the place as a role model and captain since I was a kid. It’s literally in my blood, a legacy I wanted to continue.”

“So it was for them, not for you?”

“It was still for me, because it’s in me. I’ve built my career on being the teammate who picks up everyone else, to put our success as a whole above my own.” I shake my head. “It sounds stupid—”

“It doesn’t,” he says, cutting in. When I meet his gaze, I find honesty in it. “I swear, it doesn’t.”

His understanding keeps me talking, diving in a little deeper.

“I just want to build on it, I guess. I don’t want to keep being the son of Travis Reed or the nephew of Trevor Reed. I want to make my own name, put my mark on the league as Oakley Reed, badass hockey player. With whatever accolades and titles I earn on my own.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a third eyeball in the middle of my forehead, and it puts me on edge.

“What?”

“I’m just trying to figure you out.” He licks his lips, clearly piecing together what he wants to say in his head first. Something I’ve noticed him do a lot more lately, and I think it’s to keep from saying something that’ll irritate me.

“Continue,” I try coaxing, albeit begrudgingly.

“It’s just…” He pauses. “You say you don’t want all these things because of your family, but it’s the exact same reason you do want them too. And it’s confusing.”

“I want them if I’ve earned them,” I correct him. “I want to feel like everything happening in my career is because I’ve made it happen for myself, not my last name.”

Suddenly, it’s like a lightbulb turns on in his brain, and he sits up straighter.

“Oh my God. That’s why you decked me when we were back in high school, isn’t it? Because I was talking trash about you only getting places because of your name when it’s actually the last thing you want.”

Bingo.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I say with a sigh. “Wasn’t too hard to keep adding fuel to the fire after that.”

“Well, shit.” He shakes his head before letting out a wry laugh. “My mouth really does cause more problems than it should sometimes.”

“You’re just figuring this out now?”

He nods. “How’s the saying go? The first step to change is awareness?”

“And you expect me to believe you wanna change? Really? You?”

“Hey, I haven’t gotten in a fight since we started following through on this superstition,” he protests.

It’s true; he’s reined in his temper a lot in the past month, though I’d chalk it up to regularly getting laid and tasting victory, not because he’s a changed man. But I still give him the benefit of the doubt, if only to placate him.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a real pacifist now, de Haas.”

“Takes one to know one, right?”

I can’t stop my eyes from rolling. “Sure.”

I swear he gets off on me giving him a clipped or sarcastic response, because he always grins at me like an idiot whenever it happens. Dimples and all.

Probably because I’m feeding him exactly the reaction he’s hoping for. Always looking to get under my skin.

But his grin slowly fades as he continues staring, studying me the way he would a playbook. I’m not sure what he’s looking for when he does it, only that he must find it when a solemn expression crosses his features.

“Oak?”

I try not to let the nickname burrow its way into my chest the way it wants to, but it manages anyway, nestling up behind my ribs. “Yeah?”

“I just want you to know…I’m sorry.” He pauses and clears his throat. “You know, for all the shit I said back then.”

The sincere tone he uses is enough to set me on edge. Because this isn’t how we act together, all soft-spoken apologies and deep, meaningful conversations. Which is exactly why I shift the energy back to teasing.

Where it’s comfortable. Where we’re supposed to keep it.

“Just back then?” I ask, raising a brow. “Not for the past three years on top of it?”

A smirk plays on his lips, breaking through the heaviness. “I mean, we both know you had some of it coming.”

Just like that, we’re back to our regularly scheduled programming as I shove his shoulder, almost causing him to fall off the edge of the bed. It makes us both burst out into laughter.

“And there goes your chance of me apologizing for decking you. Because you definitely had it coming.”