Iced Out (Leighton U, #1)

by C.E. Ricci

It’s a sense of belonging. Of purpose, going back to the first time I ever put on a pair of skates, and it only continues to grow with time. It’s a feeling, deep in the marrow of my bones, confirming this is what I was called to do. Not because of the legacy my name carries, but because of the unchecked joy vibrating through my body every second I’m on the ice. That feeling…it’s everything I could ask for. And I want nothing more than to chase it to the ends of the earth.

For the life of me, I wish I knew how to let his crap just roll off my back. Yet somehow, he bends and twists me in all kinds of knots every time he opens his damn mouth, forcing me to engage. He’s the only person who’s ever been able to get a rise out of me.

I’m damn near close to getting on my knees and begging at this point. Because this can’t be the way my hockey career ends. No team in the NHL would dare touch me if this catches wind and I’m suspended for drug use. Drugs I didn’t even fucking use to begin with. That won’t matter to them, though. This would be a black mark on the resume I’ve been building since the first time I put on skates as a kid.

And there it is again. The nagging feeling that I’m missing something. Though I was ready to put the subject to rest and enjoy the rest of the evening, there’s something about his words and the tone he says them with. It doesn’t sit right. Like he knows something I don’t.

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.

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.

But what’s simmering beneath the surface is something far more dangerous. Attraction. One I’ve never allowed myself to place on him before, or at least notice. But now it’s at the forefront of my mind, and I can’t unsee it.

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.

Because my brain refuses to register the word. It’s not in my damn programming. Which is something I’m sure Oakley’s had to have noticed in the years we’ve known each other. Just like I know him well enough to realize I’m never gonna live this shit down. He might not be mad or popping off at me for suggesting this, but I know he’ll use this as ammo in what’s sure to be another six months of torment, bickering, and fights between the two of us.

Because, even though I rationalized this entire plan to make it about hockey and for the good of the team, it’s not just about that. Doing this—us messing around together—was also for all the things I could learn about myself. My sexual preferences, being one of them. And it fucking sucks, seeing the answers to your questions at the end of a path standing right in front of you, but you can’t take it.

It’s never happened with Quinton. Not once. He’s taken everything I’ve thrown at him in stride, unfazed at each turn, and usually ends up asking for more when it’s all over. Which only adds to his ridiculous amount of sex appeal.

It’s my every intention to move to my own bed once I know he won’t wake again. But my intentions are damned to hell when the warmth of his body pressed to mine sends me off to sleep too.

Everything about him. To the point where the urge to kiss him is overwhelming. Stupidly so. And even though I know there’s no reason to act on the urge other than pure desire, I still want to. I ache to.

It feels great to laugh and joke with him, and even exist peacefully in a way I didn’t know our relationship could be. Two people who finally found common ground, and as it turns out, it’s all we needed to understand each other.

I don’t want to stop until I know what it’s like to be shattered by him. Dismantled piece by piece until I’m just a messy heap on the floor only he can put back together.

But I don’t want to escape. Not now, not ever. I want to bottle this entire moment up into a single heartbeat and cherish it in all its glory. Because come morning light, one of two things are bound to happen.

I mean the way he’s the first person I look for a text from in the morning, or how much my anticipation grows as I set foot into the arena, knowing I’m about to see him for the next hour or two. He’s become the high I’m constantly looking to chase, and with that, he’s integrated himself into my life almost seamlessly.

And while we might’ve tossed out rules left and right, I doubt this is something we can overlook. Not for long, or I’ll risk shattering my own heart for a few minutes of temporary bliss. So I keep those naughty, errant thoughts locked up tight and do my best to throw away the key before they ever see the light of day.

His touch still manages to light my skin on fire the same way that dimpled grin sends my heart into a tailspin. The same way his eyes tell me he loves me, even if the words don’t leave his lips.