Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)

There ain’t no rest for the wicked, even coming off the high of winning for the first time this season. Then again, how can there be?

We took five losses before we finally tasted victory, and in my book, five losses are too many. We have a long-ass way to go to turn our season and record around in order to make the playoffs. Which is why Coach has us back in the weight room on Monday morning before we hit the ice this afternoon for a regular practice.

Most of the team is still riding the high from our win, and I’d include myself in that category too. But unlike the rest of the team, I seem to be the only one with my mind focused on something other than pumping iron or making sure I don’t drop dumb bells on my own damn feet.

Which I’ve almost done. Twice.

I could say it was something like jitters, adrenaline, or excitement. But in reality, I’m on edge being in the same room as Oakley. Because the stupid, insane, and obscenely superstitious side of myself thinks our goddamn hookup with him in the frat house on Thursday night was the key to our success during Friday’s game.

My success, because it was by far the best I’ve played all season.

Maybe even last season too.

And the only thing that changed before the game? The only shift in my otherwise standard routine for nights before a game?

Blowing his goddamn dick from the dirty floor of a frat house bathroom.

As much as I wish it’s coincidence alone, I’m the kind of athlete—along with plenty of other guys around here, Oakley included—who just doesn’t believe in those kinds of things.

As the saying goes, if something ain’t broke, don’t go trying to fix it.

And more importantly, if something causes you to play the best game you’ve ever played? You do not, under any circumstance, change, alter, or breathe differently until the streak is broken.

It sounds insane, I know. Even to my own ears, it’s nuts.

But come postseason, I’m not the only one around here who takes them seriously. There will be a range of guys who do things from not shaving until we lose to wearing the same unwashed pairs of underwear or socks for each game. Some go as far as eating the exact same meal at the exact same time every single day until the season is over.

Athletes are a rare sort of breed.

Which is why I catch myself staring over at Oakley far more than I should, trying to figure out if I’m going fucking insane by having these thoughts in my head. Because I might be, and I’m sure the second I approach him to tell him my theory, and then my solution?

Well, he’ll either laugh in my face and tell me to fuck right off.

Or…

He’ll agree to go along with my idiotic plan.

And let’s be clear, it’s without a doubt the dumbest, stupidest, most hairbrained idea I’ve ever had. I know it is.

Truthfully, I don’t know which would be worse, but after I spend about ten minutes watching him doing his squats with Braxton, finding out where he’ll fall with my idea is starting to seem like the only option. So my feet carry me toward him when his partner steps away to grab some water.

He watches me approach, brown eyes giving absolutely nothing away. Which is unsettling. Normally, the guy’s easier to read than a picture book, at least when I’m pissing him off.

“We need to talk,” I tell him as I come up beside him, fiddling with a twenty-pound plate to keep my hands occupied.

He looks amused as he watches me, a stupid little smirk on his lips. “Don’t sound so ominous. I might piss myself.”

I roll my eyes. Why would he make anything simple?

Of course, Braxton has to make it even more difficult by choosing that moment to start walking back toward us, cutting this conversation off before it can even begin.

Goddamnit.

My attention flashes back to Oakley, and I give him the most imploring look I can muster. “Just meet me outside the back doors to the locker room once you’re done here, okay?”

He blinks, flattening his lips into a thin line. And he stays like that for a few seconds, clearly in debate as Braxton reaches us.

“All good, Reed?” Braxton asks, a frown creasing his forehead when he notices me. Ever since the whole debacle with the damn drug tests went down—and I came out of the whole thing clean as a whistle—he’s been leery of me.

“We’re good,” I answer for Oakley, still pinning him with my stare.

Five minutes, I tell him with my eyes. Just give me five fucking minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity and the world’s most uncomfortable silence, he nods before giving me a clipped fine. Then he just walks away, Braxton in tow, like the whole thing never happened.

God, he’s such a fucking asshole.

Even if he does have a major lapse in judgment by saying yes to this, one of us is sure to end up dead before it’s all over.

Following his lead, I head in the exact opposite direction and do my best to garner some focus for the rest of our training session to work off some of my irritation, along with the new sense of anxiety floating through my nervous system.

From Ashes to New’s “Light It Up” blares through my AirPods as I grab a seat in front of the cable row machine, going through the last of my reps for the day. The muscles in my back are on fire with every pull of the bar, but it’s nothing compared to the searing sensation I feel on the back of my head from Oakley’s eyes burning a hole right through me.

I’m still feeling them until the moment he leaves for the locker room over an hour later.