Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)
Iced Out: Chapter 12

Anticipation has been churning inside me at an all-time high this week, and not just because of the games against Fall River the next two days. It should be the main reason for my intestines doing somersaults as I lace up my skates for practice this afternoon, but nope.

It’s the stare I feel firmly fixated on my ass as I bend over that’s got my blood thrumming in my veins.

Lifting my shoulder slightly, I peek behind me from under my arm in time to catch Oakley’s gaze locked on my back side. No doubt thinking about all the dirty things he plans to do to me later tonight, the same way I am with him.

A smirk sits on my lips when he realizes I’ve seen him checking me out, and a slight blush colors his cheeks before he quickly looks away.

That just won’t do.

I wanna see the embarrassment tinting his face after being caught eye-fucking me in the locker room with all of our teammates around. It adds another layer to this rivalry between us, at least in my mind. Instead of how much I can piss him off, I’ll see how red I can make him turn.

Don’t get me wrong, I can still feel the hatred from him when he looks at me, along with what’s sure to be an unhealthy dose of animosity. But now, there’s something else too.

Interest, maybe.

Sexual tension, definitely.

Whatever else besides that is only making this newfound thing between us much more complicated. Even if it’s a friends-with-benefits situation. Or enemies.

That’s why I know this could end one of two ways.

This might be the best idea I’ve ever had, and we could keep riding this wave—and each other’s faces—all the way to the Frozen Four. Or this could cause shit between us to get even worse, possibly more awkward, and could implode.

Either way, the anticipation is higher than a pothead on 420.

A hand lands on my shoulder as I attempt to dig my keys out from where they’ve played hide and seek in my duffle. It startles me, almost making me jump out of my skin since I thought I was the last one here.

I was counting on it to give Oakley some time to drop off his shit at his apartment before coming over so I wouldn’t be pacing around while I waited for him to show up.

Anticipation has turned out to be a real fucking bitch.

But as I spin around to replace him standing here scaring the shit out of me instead, I realize my plan is screwed—and not in a fun way.

Once my heart stops pounding a mile a minute, I raise my brow at him. “I thought you were meeting me at my place?”

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, he shrugs. All sheepish-like, matching the guilty expression he has painted on his face. It has my hackles rising. Spidey-senses tingling. Aggravation surging through me.

My arms fold over each other. “Just say it.”

Two brown eyes sink closed, and he sighs. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. On some level, I knew this was coming. That this would never make it past the planning stages. But it doesn’t lessen my disappointment…or frustration. Neither of which make any fucking sense, but they’re there nonetheless.

My jaw ticks with clear irritation as I hike the duffle strap over my shoulder. “You’re backing out.”

I don’t ask it as a question, because it’s not one. It’s simply the truth, and it’s written clear as day on his face. In the hesitancy in his eyes, the way his lips curl down into a frown.

Whatever tension, sexual or otherwise, radiating off him in waves earlier, is gone now, leaving behind…whatever the hell this is.

Regret, maybe?

But regret for what? For cutting this thing short? Or for even letting it get as far as it has? Either way, I don’t need to know.

“Look, I—”

“Just save it.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose to keep from flipping a lid on him. “I really don’t wanna hear it.”

He doesn’t listen, though. Of course. Because this is fucking Oakley, and heaven forbid he listens to a damn thing I say.

“It’s better this way. For everyone involved.”

“Nah, Oak. The only person this is better for is you. Because you don’t have to break any of your stupid fucking rules.” The anger’s blazing at full force now, and instead of backing off, I feed the flames. “That’s what it is, right? What it’s all gonna come back to? Your incessant need to control the situation?”

His eyes harden, going from melted chocolate to cold, hard stone.

“Fuck you, Quinton.”

“That was the plan.” I shrug, scoffing. “Then you decided to bitch out.”

The comment lights a fire under his ass too, and soon he’s right in front of me, in my face, and pissed to hell.

“It’s not bitching out; it’s called thinking something through. Weighing consequences.” He seethes, baring his teeth at me. “Something I know you don’t do very well, Mr. Throw Fists First.”

A quick shove against his chest has him stepping back a few paces, giving me some much-needed distance. Because yeah, the nickname he gave me is more than accurate. My short temper has gotten me into shit more times than I can count, and yeah, it’s because I hit first and think later.

But this isn’t some bullshit call on the ice or a dirty hit I’m retaliating against.

It’s so much more than any of that.

And him insinuating this is remotely close is fucking bullshit.

“How can you say I haven’t thought this through?” I shout, tossing my arms out. “You think I just up and decided to go gay for a little bit? See if I like the grass on this side of the pasture instead? Figured it might be fun to bat for the same team for a while? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” My fingers rake through my hair haphazardly. “Jesus Christ, I think I’ve thought about what this means more than I thought about what college to go to or what I want to major in, which was a path in life basically decided for me.”

His lips form a tight line as he measures my words and their value. Like he has the right to determine if they’re the truth or not. Again, a bunch of bullshit, but after a few seconds, he concedes.

“Maybe, but have you thought about what happens when this doesn’t go according to your perfect little plan?” He steps back into my space, and I swear he’s asking me to deck him. “Because plenty of things can go wrong here. Like, what if you hate having another guy touch you? What if you realize you’re not into it? What if people replace out?” he asks, listing off the questions at a rapid-fire pace while ticking off his fingers. “What if we have no chemistry?”

I could laugh at the last one, but him using that as a point is only pissing me off more.

“Not possible,” I growl out, my tone low and angry. “And you know it’s not. Because you’ve felt it, just like I have. In the hotel room when you agreed to this. Outside the locker room where I could feel what I did to you. And let’s not forget the night that started this whole mess to begin with.”

His face is a mask, unreadable when he cuts me deeper still. “I wish I could forget.”

It’s not even a blow to my ego, his words. It’s more like he’s cutting me at the knees before ever giving this a chance.

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.

“I don’t doubt it, seeing as you can’t really stand the sight of me. But since that’s not the way the world works, you decide to pull this shit instead.” My lip curls back into a sneer. “Out of spite, no less. Because pretending it didn’t happen and like this doesn’t exist is better than admitting you liked it. Or worse, that you might actually like m—”

I don’t have a chance to finish my thought before the unthinkable happens, and Oakley grabs the back of my neck, slamming his mouth to mine.

A mixture of surprise and excitement courses through me, and it takes a moment for his kiss to register in my frustrated, lust-fogged brain. And once it does?

Hell.

My fingers grip at the collar of his hoodie, wrapping the strings around my fist and yanking him in closer. His tongue spears between my lips to replace mine, and the second it does, every little bit of pent-up lust and aggression I’ve been feeling for him ignites.

Because this is it. What I’ve been waiting for. What I’ve been fucking craving since the bathroom at the party.

Him, giving in to me and this chemistry he denied us having.

Admitting to whatever this is between us is real. Tangible.

But admission through action only goes so far. I wanna hear it too, because now? There’s no denying this.

I rip my mouth from his—about to ask for just that—when he cuts me off before I can even start.

“You win,” he half pants, half snarls into my mouth. “Now, shut the fuck up, Quinton.”

Rather than argue, I take a page from his playbook and answer him with another scorching kiss. One to show him there’s no holding back.

Now, there’s only war.

The kind with lips and tongues, rather than shots fired from a gun, but a war nonetheless.

One I intend to win.

He’s not making it easy on me, though, and as we fight for dominance over each other—starting with whose tongue is in the other’s mouth—I’m quickly realizing I might’ve met my match. Hands grip harder than necessary as they slide under shirts, seeking the heat of skin on skin like it’s enough to keep us from annihilating each other. He’s grinding into me, and I’m pressing into him, and we’re clawing at each other like two raging animals.

Pure, carnal need fuels this battle, and it’s one neither of us are prepared to lose.

It’s messy and brutal and fucking addictive, taking all the pent-up aggression and giving him mine in return.

I feel like I could kiss the hatred right out of him.

Crowding further into him, I push and push some more until he’s pressed against the door leading to Coach’s office. He doesn’t let me have the upper hand for long, though, swapping our positions and slamming me back against the wood. Hard enough to leave me breathless.

“Like it a little rough there, Reed?” I murmur, licking at the seam of his lips before he tears them away from mine. “Because I know I do.”

Teeth sink into the line of my jaw as his hips roll into me, eliciting a primal growl from deep within my chest when I feel just how much he likes getting rough with me. The ridge of his erection rubbing against mine sends bursts of adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I could care less about the rivalry, the team, the wins, or this stupid deal we made. All I care about is—

“Don’t fucking stop.”

It comes out as a plea, but it doesn’t matter. Because Oakley presses his hips into me again and again, grinding his dick against mine with the perfect amount of pressure to light my entire body on fire. Or so I thought, but then he slides one of his thighs between my legs, parting them enough so when he lifts my leg to wrap his hip, it—

“Oh, fuck,” I moan on a rough sigh, because this new angle adds friction everywhere. My cock is in filthy heaven as it ruts against his thigh, my balls drawn up tight since they’ve joined the fun.

Not even five minutes, and he’s already made my body sing for him.

“What did I say about shutting up, de Haas?” he growls into my neck, the raspy cadence mixed with the heat of his breath sending goosebumps across my skin. The hand holding my thigh skates over the fabric of my sweats, up and up until he’s palming my ass.

“Mmm, then you better make—”

His mouth slams back to mine with bruising force, cutting off my taunt. Hot and hungry, he slips his tongue between my lips and devours me whole. Commanding, yet still in control, the way he is on the ice.

But I wanna see his control slip. Even a little.

My hands slip under his hoodie, tracing over the smooth, defined abs hiding beneath the baggy material. I’m well aware his body is carved to perfection, showcasing the dedication he has to staying in top shape. Hard not to, since we’ve shared a locker room going on four years now while walking around in just towels on the regular.

But fuck me, I wanna explore every curve and line and indent on his body. Learn it with my lips and tongue while it follows the paths my hands have already taken.

The hand cupping my ass tightens with another grinding thrust, and I swear from the rumble I feel rippling through his chest, he’s reading my mind right now. Hearing every dirty thought running rampant through my brain while he fucks my mouth with his talented tongue.

We go on like that, touching, tasting, and teasing each other for God knows how long. Could be minutes or hours, but it feels like only seconds before he tears his mouth from mine again, leaving us both a panting mess.

“We need to stop.” It’s more a request than a demand, and in a tone much lower than normal. More broken and grated too. “I’m gonna come if we don’t.”

I smile into his mouth before taking his bottom lip between my teeth and tugging at it. It’s already swollen, probably bruised from how rough we’ve been with each other.

And it’s only the beginning.

I can’t think of anything I’d love more than Oakley coming apart right here and now from some heated kissing and fan-fucking-tastic dry humping. But I want to see it, feel it, and hell…maybe even taste it again. Whatever he’ll let me have, I’ll lap up greedily and probably come back asking the asshole for more.

Which means we need to move this little party to somewhere a lot more private.

“Hold that thought,” I murmur, the rasp in my voice giving away all the filthy things I plan to do to him soon. “At least, until we get back to my place.”

Which won’t be soon enough.