Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)

“Quinton!”

The booming voice of my father catches my attention as I’m about to round the corner toward the player exit of the arena after my first game back from my suspension. My undeserved suspension, since the second one came back negative because—in a shocking turn of events—I don’t use drugs. Of any kind.

Like. I. Said.

Though my test came back negative, Coach said the likelihood of me having to provide random drug testing for the rest of the season is high. And while I guess I can understand the reasoning—the NCAA needs to make sure we’re running a clean program here—it doesn’t make the entire situation suck any less.

My name’s called again with a stern authority I know better than to ignore, no matter how much I want to.

Fucking hell. I don’t need this right now.

I already played like a heaping pile of garbage tonight. There’s no need to add to the shit storm with a visit from good ole Dad.

Too bad there’s no escaping it now, so I paint a smile on my face as I turn to see not just my father, but my mother too. Both dressed impeccably—as expected when out in public representing the de Haas family name—and looking more out of place than a nun at a brothel.

“Mom. Dad. I didn’t expect you to be here,” I say in a way of greeting as I approach them, stopping short a few feet away.

I do my best to keep my hackles from rising the second I catch a whiff of my father’s Tom Ford cologne, but it doesn’t work.

“Of course we’re here, darling,” Mom says, though from the almost pained expression on her face, she’d rather be anywhere but. She’s completely void of emotion; just a hint of a fake smile on her lips.

Then again, it could be all the Botox.

But my father’s stone-cold expression? Well, that’s just his face.

“Yes, of course. We wouldn’t miss a chance to watch you throw down in a controlled setting. Remind me again why you didn’t just take up boxing if you’re so interested in using your fists for sport?”

My jaw ticks at his dig, not wanting to feed into his appraisal by letting my temper take over.

After all the years I’ve been playing, I should come to expect some sort of comment after a game he attends. Even one we win, since my love for hockey is the thing he despises most. To the point where I don’t know why he let me start playing in the first place.

I can’t fault him for his assessment, though. Not when I was tossed in the sin bin twice tonight. Once for a hit that—I’ll be honest—was a little harder than necessary, and sent one of the defensemen for the other team crashing to the ground face-first.

Half the officials in the league wouldn’t have called anything on it, but luck wasn’t on my side with the set we had tonight.

The other time was for a fight, and hell if I’ll apologize either. Not when a winger checked me straight into McGowan, sending us both to the ground. Under normal circumstances, that’d be enough to get my temper boiling, but when he skated past me after scoring the winning goal and spat the words cheating juicer at me, I was done. I don’t regret a single punch I threw at him after that. Fucker deserved the bloody nose. Honestly, part of me even hopes it’s broken. It’d serve him right for running his mouth about shit he has no business in.

Plastering a plastic smile on my face, I reply, “You know me, always the over-achiever. Why play one sport when you can combine them?”

“Why play any at all when it’s just a childish game and a waste of time?” he counters, stony eyes narrowed on me.

And there it is again. His never-ending disapproval for my decision to play hockey.

“I guess knowing it makes me happy isn’t reason enough?”

“Really? Because you don’t look very happy right now.”

Observant as ever, Dad.

“Hard to be when we racked up another loss,” I snap, momentarily forgetting myself. But I’m already on edge from missing out on the two games last week against Blackmore, and adding this loss tonight isn’t helping.

“Losses happen all the time, son. In any aspect of life. They shouldn’t make you look this miserable.”

It almost sounds like he understands where I’m coming from, but I know him. I can tell he’s working out ways to use my words against me. Twist them to fit his version of how this conversation should go, all to make his point.

“Maybe this loss is meant to be a wake-up call. One saying it’s time to focus on a real career path, rather than skating around chasing after a rubber disk.”

And there it is.

“Not like you have to come watch me do it.”

“No, I don’t,” he murmurs, his tone low and measured. “But I do have a business. One you’re meant to be groomed to take over down the line. Preparing yourself for when the time comes would be much more appropriate.”

My teeth clamp together tightly, somehow knowing this would, once again, be the subject of discussion. Lately, it’s about the only thing my father wants to talk about. When I’m planning to call it quits on my own dreams and aspirations to make it to the NHL, all so I can follow the life plan he wants for me.

If being sidelined for almost a week, not even able to step on the ice for practice, has taught me anything? It’s that I’m miserable without hockey in my life. And doing whatever he does would only make it worse.

Watching my team get their asses handed to them in two more consecutive losses—both of which were complete shut-outs—and not being able to do anything about it was maddening. The worst of it is I can’t help but feel it’s partly my fault for being benched. Even when none of the blame actually falls on my shoulders, because I didn’t do anything wrong, I still feel the pang of guilt.

“It’s one more season. My team needs me,” I grind, teeth still clenched.

I don’t miss the subtle arch of his brow. “Didn’t seem like it tonight.”

It’s a low blow, but unfortunately for me, he’s not entirely off base. Because the loss tonight is one that can’t be blamed on my lack of appearance on the ice, but rather because I was on it.

Something was just off with the energy in the locker room when Coach told the team I was able to suit up—clearing the air about my test actually being negative. I thought that’d make it so nothing ever happened, and we could get back in the groove of things as a team.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

I could feel it when anyone would look at me tonight—teammate or opponent. The judgment and the disbelief. That I’d be so careless to have ruined the namesake of Leighton’s program. Like my reputation—what little good there is of it—has been tarnished by what happened. Doesn’t seem to matter much to anyone that the results were actually negative and I was proven innocent; I’m still stuck with the stigma.

In their eyes, I’ll always be guilty of a crime I never committed. One I’d never dream of committing.

And now I’m being iced out for it. Like a fucking pariah.

Surprisingly, the only one who seems to give me any benefit of the doubt is fucking Oakley. Though, I must admit, it’s probably just because he got my title as captain when there was no actual reason for it to be taken. Which only makes me feel like I’ve lost pretty much everything I’ve earned. The captain spot and the respect of my team.

The last thing I need right now is my father digging the knives in deeper.

“Is that all you needed? To let me know, once again, of your disapproval in my decision-making? Remind me I’m not necessary?” I hiss, willing my temper to ease off. “Because if it is, I’m gonna go.”

I don’t stick around to hear what either of them have to say, hauling my bag over my shoulder and moving toward the exit. Continuing even after I hear both my parents call after me.

With a glance over my shoulder, I catch my father furiously pacing in place, which is far better than him chasing after me to continue this pointless conversation. I’ve got nothing left to say, no more fight left in me. Not for them, not for anyone. So I’ll take the easy way out and let another set of people think I’m sucking air where I don’t belong.

Even if they are my parents.

When I turn the corner, I’m met with a sight even more unfortunate than my parents waiting for me a few minutes earlier.

Because there’s Oakley, plastered against the wall, looking like he was caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The second he registers my face, his complexion goes sheet-white, and I don’t even have to ask how much of my father’s crap he heard. All that matters is he heard enough to look at me in a way I’d never dreamed he would. Not with anger or disdain or irritation.

Instead, all I see etched in his features is…pity.

“Quinton.”

It’s my name. Only my fucking name leaving his lips. But it’s the way he says it, the softness of his tone, that gets me. He’s never spoken to me that way before.

I fucking hate it.

I hate everything about this entire day, and I’m ready for it to be over.

Moving to shove past him works, but he falls into step beside me.

“Quinton,” he says again, this time with a little more conviction. But I still don’t stop, nor do I look at him. I just keep my eyes locked on the door ahead of me. My only means of escape.

He grabs for my arm, and I do my best to brush him off. But this fucker isn’t anything but persistent, wrapping his hand around my wrist.

The feel of his skin against mine instantly makes me volatile, and I rip my arm from his grip before shoving him up against the wall. I pin him there, forearm across his throat, and snarl in his face. “Don’t fuck with me right now, Reed.”

“Too bad, I need to talk to you.”

It’s at this moment I realize they’re the same; my father and Oakley. Not in looks or stature, but the way they carry themselves. Like they’re kings in this world, and the rest of us, mere peasants. Lowly servants who should lap up their attention, or come with the drop of a hat at beck and call.

And then there’s the way they look at me. Like I’m nothing more than scum of the Earth. A problem in need of fixing. A disappointment that only manages to get in the way.

Until five minutes ago, Oakley’s never looked at me any differently.

But then he overheard things he had no business hearing. And the sympathy written on his face right now because of it does nothing more than piss me off.

I don’t need his pity, and I sure as fuck don’t want it.

“Whatever you have to say doesn’t matter.”

“Look—”

“What did I just fucking say?” I growl, pushing away from him. “I’m leaving. Don’t fucking follow me.”

The lack of footsteps other than my own as I hustle down the hall lets me know he can actually listen to what I say; something that sets him apart from my father.

Gold star for the golden boy.

“Quinton!”

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek, tasting the faint hint of copper as I ignore him. And no matter how many times he shouts my name, I’ll continue to ignore him.

All the way to the exit doors.

Without looking back.