Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)

There are days I really wish I was less of a manwhore.

It’s not often, seeing as the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks when everyone involved is on the same page.

But today?

As I’m shoving my way out the door of the frat house?

Well, let’s just say I wish I would’ve mastered the art of self-control. And willpower.

My only saving grace in this whole scenario is that I bolted before Oakley had a chance to: A, make himself presentable again. And B, follow me. Not that I think he’d follow me, necessarily. From the way he stared at me—somewhere between pure bliss and abject horror—when I told him he could get a repeat if he played well tomorrow, I don’t think following me would’ve been high on his list of things to do.

Unless it were to kick my ass for the stunt I just pulled. Either way, I wasn’t about to stick around and find out once his orgasm high wore off.

Fuck, what the hell was I thinking?

I wasn’t. That’s the problem.

My brain was all over the goddamn place. The shit with my parents after the game hung over me like a storm cloud, souring my mood, even when I was doing my best to let loose before heading home and sleeping the shitty day off.

But then finding Oakley at the party after he’d bore witness to it all only made it worse.

The verbal smackdown between us was the fucking cherry on top of a shit sundae.

And that only led my instincts in the exact wrong direction. The one where the obsessive need to prove him wrong took over, feeding this stupid competitiveness I have with him. Building inside me more and more until I just…snapped.

Or blew, considering the circumstance.

I don’t know whether I’m proud of the way I got him to lose his mind with my mouth or if I’m terrified about what this means going forward in this so-called rivalry we have. Because I can only imagine that licking him like a lollipop will make things much, much worse between us.

I round the corner of the house and take off at a jog down a couple blocks, making a beeline for my Indian Scout. Not bothering to throw my helmet on, I bring the bike’s engine roaring to life and hightail it toward my apartment.

Normally the wind whipping around me while I ride is enough to cool any building anger or tension within me, but nothing is enough to get me out of my head right now. Not for more than a minute or two at a time. All my brain seems to want to do is replay what happened in the bathroom.

My dick twitches at the thought of tasting him again, and I’m floored by the realization I wasn’t kidding when I offered a repeat. I mean, sure, it was said as a taunt—half the things I say to him are—but I’d do it again without thinking twice.

And I’m not even into dudes.

Right?

After pulling into the garage at my apartment, I burst through the front door, so caught up in my tormented thought process, I don’t even notice Hayes sitting on the couch in our living room.

“Jesus, where’s the fire, Q?”

The sound of my roommate’s voice momentarily causes me to halt in my path toward my bedroom, and I turn to him. “What?

His dark brows hitch up, and he motions to me with his chin. “You seem a little out of sorts. Everything good?”

Hayes knows me better than pretty much anyone in the world.

We’ve been friends a long time, an entire decade between our time at Centre Prep and here. I’d tag along on vacations with him to the beach or the mountains, seeing as my parents never took us anywhere during the holidays. We’d stay up at all hours of the night, binge watch horror movies or trash talk to each other while playing video games. Hell, I even helped him sneak out of his parents’ house so he could get laid for the first time.

If all that doesn’t make him my best friend, I don’t know what would.

So this is something I should be able to trust him with, right? To talk about with him while I try to get my head on straight?

Or not-so-straight?

Scrubbing my hand over my face, I decide to keep this to myself. For now, at least. There’s no use in telling Hayes I got on my knees for the one guy in the world I can’t stand and blew him—to completion—when I doubt it’ll ever happen again.

With Oakley, or with anyone else.

“I’m good, yeah. Sorry. Just realized it’s late, and I need to get some shut eye so I don’t play like garbage again tomorrow night.”

His blue eyes—more royal blue compared to my icy ones—narrow on me, searching for my lie. But thankfully, if he finds it, he chooses not to call me out.

“Okay. I’ll still be out here for a while, as long as that’s cool.”

I nod, seeing as he’s such a quiet roommate, he might as well be a mouse, and start for my room again. As I’ve reached the door, he hollers for me again.

“Hey, Q?” When I turn, I find him looking at me from over the back of the couch. “Don’t be so hard on yourself about the game tonight. You’re fucking good at what you do, no matter what anyone says.”

Hayes doesn’t know a ton about hockey, even if he is my best friend. He’s got just enough knowledge to come to games whenever he’s not busy being the wicked smart, always studying, lives-in-the-library nerd he usually is. And I say those things with all the love in the world.

But the knowledge he lacks when it comes to hockey, he makes up for with knowing me. My life, my history, my family. Hell, Hayes is my family more than the two people who brought me into this world.

Which is why, when he says anything like that, I know I should take it at face value.

“Thanks, man,” I tell him. “Have a good night.”

Once I’m locked inside my room, I strip down to my underwear and slide between my sheets, ready for this day to be over. But while my body is exhausted, my brain is wired. Under normal circumstances and it being the night before a game, I’d be able to crash immediately once my head hit the pillow. Yet tonight, the only thing I can do is stare at the goddamn ceiling and contemplate what made me lose all sense of reason the second Oakley said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I love to prove him wrong and make him eat his words, all in the name of this damn rivalry he won’t let go of. But blowing him has to be taking it a step or eighty-four further than normal.

So, what? Am I bi now? Does sucking one dick make me bi?

I let out a tortured sigh, because in reality, I know that’s not how sexuality works. Like if I would’ve kissed him, it wouldn’t make me bi either.

Sexuality is about so many other things, but most of all, it’s want. Desire. Attraction.

So…am I attracted to Oakley? Do I want and desire him the way I’ve only ever wanted females in the past?

From the tent pitching my briefs just thinking about this, I’d say yes.

“Fucking hell,” I groan absently, because this is the last thing I need. Literally dicking around with Oakley is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. Which is saying something, because I love to think up stupid shit. And follow through on it, apparently.

First with letting him shove his dick down my throat and swallowing his cum like it’s a fucking Slurpee. Then again, as I yank my dick free from my underwear, spit in my palm, and start stroking.

All with two brown eyes full of hatred rolling around in my mind, the star of the show.

My fist shuttles faster as images of tonight come flooding back to the forefront of my mind, this time, without me trying to stop them.

The closeness in the bathroom, the anger in his eyes. The breathy sounds, the bites of pain from him gripping my hair tight enough to yank it right from my skull. The ruthless way he held himself deep in the back of my throat. The intoxicating scent of his woodsy body soap in my nostrils as he filled my throat with his length, then again with his cum.

I welcome each and every thought; their presence bringing me closer and closer to a desperately needed release.

But then they take a turn, and just like that, Oakley and I have traded places.

He’s the one on his knees, taking my cock all the way to the back of his throat.

He’s the one swallowing down my cum, milking me for all I’m worth.

He’s the one who’s left a panting, breathless mess on the floor.

He’s the one who can’t get enough.

He’s the one destroyed by what we just did.

Him.

My feet dig into the mattress below me, a mixture of memory and fantasy swirling and blending in my mind. Building my climax until the only thing left to do is to fall over the edge…and I come.

I come harder than I have in my entire fucking life.

I come with the taste of his still on my lips.

Not allowing myself to linger in a blissful, post-orgasmic state, I make a move to clean up the remnants of my release still coating my hand and stomach, all the while a low, churning feeling settles low in my stomach. One I recognize as frustration.

Climbing back into bed, I yank the sheets over me and slam my head against my pillow with enough force, I’m able to feel something hard beneath it.

My lucky puck.

My superstition.

I shift, shoving my arm beneath my pillow until I find it. My fingers travel along the cool, smooth rubber disk, allowing the texture to calm the countless overwhelming emotions ebbing and flowing through me.

Taking a deep breath, I fiddle with it more until my racing heart subsides into slow, steady beats. And it works. Soon enough, I’m relaxed again. As much as I can be, focusing on the things I know and have control over rather than all the unanswered questions lingering in my brain to torment me.

What I don’t know is if my dick likes all dudes, some dudes, or what.

But I do know he definitely likes the one person he really fucking shouldn’t.

And I don’t think a dump truck full of lucky pucks would be enough to help me work through that unfortunate fact.

The last thing I needed this morning was to be running late. Again.

But here I am, barreling my way across campus to one of my economics classes when I almost run smack dab into the last person I thought I’d see. And probably the last person who wants to see me.

“Jesus Christ,” Oakley grumbles, a glare aimed my way as he steps out of my way and continues down the path the opposite way. “Watch where you walk much?”

At first, I don’t think he notices it’s me. Hell, I know I would’ve completely missed him if I didn’t recognize his voice. But I’d know the sound of pure contempt anywhere.

“Good morning to you too, Oakley,” I call after him in a sugar-sweet voice.

I expect him to turn around and say something—even a grumpy, smart-ass comment—but instead, he keeps walking away from me.

There’s a brief second where I think I might’ve imagined it to be him, and it was some other random student. But the navy-blue duffle bag over his shoulder—an exact replica of my own—clearly emblazoned with a huge, white #33 is a dead giveaway.

So I do the only logical thing.

I follow him.

Why is it logical in my messed up, sleep-deprived brain? I don’t have the slightest clue. Which is a real fucking problem when I grab his shoulder, spin him around to face me, and get a vicious what? snarled in my face.

I pause for a second, and for once in my life, I’m at a loss for words. Because I’ve seen Oakley mad. Hell, I’ve made Oakley so fucking angry, he might as well have been steaming out his ears.

I made the guy punch me, for fuck’s sake, and he claims to be a pacifist.

But I’ve never seen him as ragey as he is while glaring at me right now. The kind of glare capable of making lesser men drop dead on the spot if only to escape it.

“I…just wanted to make sure you got home okay last night.” I wince as soon as the words come out.

Jesus Christ, really, Quinton? That’s all you could come up with?

If the way the crease between Oakley’s brow deepens is any indication, now all I’ve managed to do is piss him off and make myself look like a fucking idiot.

And even more late for class, on top of it all.

“Seriously?” he seethes, stepping toward me. “That’s what was so important you had to chase after me in the quad? You wanted to make sure I got home okay last night?”

Once again, I have nothing to say.

He continues to glare at me for a second before turning his head, as if to look around to see if anyone caught us speaking to each other. That’s when I catch the edge of a hickey just barely peeking out over the collar of his shirt. In the exact same spot where I bit him last night.

Instantly, all thoughts of getting to class on time are out the damn window. In its place is the sound of his pants as I took his cock down my throat and groans of pleasure as I brought him to release.

Even though those things supposedly didn’t happen. Something he’s quick to point out.

“What happened to you agreeing with this never fucking happened?”

And now I’m the one who’s getting all raged up.

“There’s a difference between acting like something never happened and avoiding someone like the fucking plague. Which is exactly what you were doing by acting like I don’t exist.”

He steps back, crossing his arm over his chest and tilting his head to the side. “Would we be having this conversation any other day of the week? If last night had truly never happened, would we even be speaking to each other outside the confines of the arena?”

“No, probably not, but—”

“Exactly. So just drop the shit and get on with your day.”

Another wave of irritation ripples through me, and I let out a heavy sigh. “I’m just saying us ignoring each other isn’t exactly good for team morale.”

“Oh, and us hashing out the details of our hook-up is?”

That makes me smirk. “I never mentioned anything about the details. But if you wanna go into them, be my guest.”

He glares even harder at me, if it’s even possible. “Cut the fucking shit, Quinton.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m not doing anything but attempting to have a civil conversation with you.”

His nostrils flare and his eyes lift to the sky, as if to say a silent prayer to the heavens for strength not to murder me right here for the whole student body to see. Even a pacifist has their limits. As we both know.

When his gaze collides with mine again, it’s hard and unyielding.

“Fine. You wanna talk about it? Get the stroke your ego so desperately needs? Make sure I can never forget it happened? Great. It fucking happened.”

For the sake of this conversation, I choose to leave the whole stroking thing untouched.

“That’s not—”

“But let’s get one thing crystal clear, de Haas. No matter how good it was, it will never. Happen. Again.” He bridges the gap between us, clearly using his proximity as an intimidation tactic.

Too bad all it does is remind me more of last night.

His body pressed to mine as I pinned him to the sink. Which lead to his strong, powerful thighs beneath my palms as I took his cock deeper down my th—

“Quinton,” he snaps, pulling me from my thoughts. The frustration on his face tells me I missed something he said while I was off daydreaming about his dick.

“What?”

The way his jaw ticks lets me know he’s just about at his wit’s end with me. “I asked if you understand what I’m saying.”

Oh. “Absolutely.”

“Good,” he mutters, and I think I watch a hint of relief cross over his features for the briefest moment. Stepping back, he puts a bit of much-needed distance between us and glances around the quad. “Now why don’t you channel your energy into something more useful? Like being on top of your game tonight.”

I raise my arm and give him a mock salute. “Can do, Cappy.”

A shake of his head is all I get in response before he brushes past me to continue wherever he’s going. I’m about to do the same and turn back toward my class, but my brain won’t allow my feet to move, instead latching onto a tiny little detail he let slip.

One very tiny, important detail.

“So you thought it was good, huh?”

He doesn’t turn around; just flips the bird over his shoulder and keeps walking away.