Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)
Iced Out: Prologue

One of the few times I ever let myself feel free and at ease is with blades on; ice beneath my feet. It’s difficult to describe, considering how fast-paced hockey can be, but a sense of peace takes over every inch of my being, and it’s like I become one with my team and the puck.

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.

This fact solidifies in my bones every time I fly up and down the ice after a loose puck, or score a shot on goal, seeing the lamp light up before my eyes. When every accomplishment and milestone I reach sets me further apart from my predecessors, letting me finally be seen outside the shadow they cast.

And it’s in the adrenaline rush, the intoxicating high, the all-consuming pride that comes from bringing home a hard-fought and well-earned win.

Which is why it’s understandable that I’m still on cloud nine when I’m on my way to board the bus after not only playing the best game of my high school career, but also winning Chicago’s city championship game against our biggest rival, Centre Prep. Even though the title is not nearly as prestigious as state champions—one Centre managed to snatch from our grasp last month—it still feels amazing to not only up the ante with a rematch, but to come home with the win.

Makes the victory all the sweeter.

Their star forward for the past four years, Quinton de Haas, leans against the wall about ten yards down the hallway. His gaze lifts to collide with mine, finally noticing me as I’m about to pass by.

“Good game tonight,” I tell him, because he did play well. Minus the parts where he was tossed in the sin bin for blatant penalties, playing more like a youth player than a top-tier recruit for numerous collegiate hockey programs. But I’m not about to hand him a backward compliment and cause a blow up, seeing as once his fuse is lit, it’s only a matter of time before it explodes.

Too bad for me; he detonates anyway.

A hand is fisted in my shirt and I’m being slammed against the wall before I have a chance to blink, let alone react. Once my brain registers what just happened, I lock eyes with him.

“Don’t start with that bullshit, Reed.” He’s seething, fury written all over his face. Bubbling below the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

His rage is nothing new, especially on the ice. He’s one of the most ruthless opponents I’ve played against in the past thirteen years. Hell, I’ve seen that fury come to life firsthand a few times; the anger he plays with building and building inside him until there’s no room left.

And then he snaps.

Just like right now.

My hand wraps around his wrist, and I try to break free of his hold. It’s no use, so I just dig my fingers into the tendons there and glare at him. “What the hell’s your problem?”

His forearm presses against my sternum as he crowds me more, ice-blue eyes full of unchecked rage. “You’re my fucking problem. Hockey’s little golden boy, coming out here with your good game tonight, acting like you own the sport.”

He’s trying to get under my skin, but it won’t work.

Unlike him, I don’t let my temper control me, and I definitely don’t toss hands at the drop of a hat whenever I can’t rein in my feelings.

Which is why he doesn’t get the reaction he was hoping for, and I snort out a laugh. “Seriously? It was a compliment. One I meant, so just take it and move the fuck on.”

“Move the fuck on?” he echoes, the incredulity in his voice apparent. Dark brows, the same color as his hair, slash down, and the frown on his face shifts into a snarl. “You want me to move the fuck on when we both know that win belonged to Centre?”

This time, I really can’t help the sharp laugh that bursts past my lips. Because, seriously? That’s the hill he wants to die on?

Aware that I’m tempting fate by taunting a loose cannon like de Haas, I lean in closer. “A win only belongs to the team that earns it.”

“Or it goes to the team that pays off the refs.”

His comment takes me aback. “What?”

“Yeah, you heard me,” he continues. “Bet Daddy made a little donation to the pockets of those officials. Just make sure you didn’t completely tarnish the Reed family name this season by losing to us at State and here.”

My spine stiffens as his words fall between us like a damn guillotine.

Nepotism is real, but damn if I’ve ever been on the receiving end. In any capacity, but certainly not in the way he’s implying.

There have been plenty of times in my life where I wish I wasn’t a legacy to not one but two hockey legends. Being taught the game from two greats was amazing. But sharing a last name with them causes complications when you’re only trying to make a name for yourself.

Finding a way to shine on my own seems impossible most days. Forever being labeled as the son of ten-time all-star forward Travis Reed or the nephew of Trevor Reed—record holder for the most shut-outs in a single season by a goalie—isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I’d much rather be me. Oakley Reed. Future forward to the Leighton University Timberwolves. And whatever else comes after that.

Quinton running his mouth about my family only proves the point.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “If that’s what you need to believe to sleep tonight, fine. Think what you will. Nothing I say is gonna change that.”

“Oh, is that an admission?”

“No, it’s you pulling some bullshit out of your ass and reaching for a reason for the loss when it’s simple.” I pause, sure to staccato every word for emphasis. “You. Didn’t. Play. To. Win.”

If he wants to try digging under my skin, two can play at that. And by my count, I’m up, as I watch the flames in his eyes ignite at my barb.

“Or our team played the better game, meanwhile yours got lucky with a bunch of bullshit penalty calls against us.”

And just like that, I see right through him.

“Against your team, or against you? Because I think the real problem here is that you were too busy playing dirty to actually play the game. And that cost your team the championship.”

It’s true. I think we had five total power plays in the second period alone, and two were because of Quinton either running his mouth or taking cheap shots at my teammates, landing him in the sin bin to sit and watch.

Sure, there were a few calls that could’ve gone either way; I’ll give him that much. But the same thing happened to our team. Doesn’t mean we paid off the refs to make it happen.

“Oh, that’s right, because you’ve never been tossed in the penalty box before, right, Oakley? Tell me, what’s it like, being perfect all the time?”

He hits his mark with that one, and my irritation sparks.

“It’s got nothing to do with being perfect and everything to do with playing the game the way it’s meant to be played. That’s how you win. Now, would you just give it a rest already?” I give him an exasperated shove, tired of the crap he’s spewing about not just me, but my family too. “Take your participation trophy and go home. Listening to your sore loser nonsense is pathetic.”

“I’m pathetic?” He bares his teeth, stepping into me again, so close his nose brushes mine. “What’s pathetic is getting everywhere in life because of your last name rather than your own merit.”

There it is again, the twitchy, burning sensation from his accusation. It radiates from my core, twisting and curling all the way down my extremities until I’m wound so tight, I might burst at the seams.

A vise that tightens around my self-control with every mention of my last name or family.

Because I am not my uncle, nor my father.

And I’m fucking sick of the world playing this little comparison game.

“I was the one out on that ice tonight, de Haas. Not any other Reed.”

“He’s still the reason you’re out there playing at all. Still the trailblazer for your path to success,” he growls, voice nothing more than a vicious whisper. “Which is a path most of us are forced to carve out for ourselves.”

He’s right about one thing. My roots in hockey made it an easy path to follow, but I’ll be damned if it makes the blood, sweat, and tears to get to where I am any less real. The grueling practices any less tiresome. Plus, I’m also forging my own identity while attempting to carry a legacy. Finding my place within an industry and world that’s already slapped a label on me.

Which is a lot fucking harder than it might seem without assholes like Quinton thinking I’ve been handed a throne and crown with no idea how to rule a kingdom.

“I’ve worked just as hard as you have,” I grit, my jaw ticked with effort as his words claw at my carefully crafted facade of the hockey god he claims me to be.

But even solid gold can scratch and dent. Tarnish in the wrong hands, or even break.

“I’m sure you have, just like I’m sure you’ll get the pick of the litter when it comes to hockey programs next year.” He pauses, a venomous sneer on his face. “Right after Daddy signs a blank check to the university, of course.”

On a dime, all the tension coiled inside me just…snaps.

I knew there was a chance this conversation would start with words and end with fists. With Quinton, the odds are always high.

I just never bet on being the one to throw the first punch.