Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)
Iced Out: Chapter 17

Break started last week, but the hockey schedule kept us on campus until a couple days before Christmas, per usual. Not that I mind, since going home for the holidays isn’t something I’m ever excited for.

Christmas at the de Haas house is more like another one of Dad’s board meetings. Plenty of business executives present, and there’s usually more talk about work than any fun holiday or vacation plans. Honestly, I don’t remember the last time we had a Christmas with just the three of us, or if it ever happened at all.

Needless to say, it’s not my favorite holiday. But I did get a smidge into the Christmas cheer when it comes to Oakley. Only because it was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up. Or more, a gift I couldn’t not buy for him.

The only issue now is I’ve been waiting for him to get over to my apartment to give the damn thing to him. He said he’d be over soon, but that was almost an hour—

A knock on the door has me bolting from where I was sitting on the couch, my anticipation almost immediately turning into anxiety. Which is new for me.

Ever since I woke up with my arm slung over Oakley’s stomach in our hotel room the morning of our second Cornwall game, I’ve had a lot of anxiety when it comes to him, and that was over a week ago.

Opening the door reveals Oakley on the other side, dressed in a knit beanie and winter coat with bits of snow on the shoulders.

“Hey,” I say, opening the door further for him to come inside. “I didn’t realize it was snowing.”

“Yeah, a storm’s blowing in and the roads are already a mess.” He removes his jacket and hat, pieces of his hair sticking up haphazardly, and the urge to run my fingers through it ignites inside me. “Gonna make for a fun drive over to my parents today. Even if it is just forty minutes.”

The thought is immediately on my tongue; he should just stay here with me. Go tonight or tomorrow morning once the storm passes and the plows go through. Hayes is already gone for the holidays, so we’d have the place to ourselves. Completely uninterrupted.

Except…it’s against the rules.

But maybe with it being the holidays, he might make an exception. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I open my mouth to mention it.

But then he plops down onto the couch and gives me a curious look, cutting the words off before they even form on my tongue.

“What’s up? You said you needed me to come over.”

“Yeah,” I say, crossing the distance to where he is. I drop down beside him and grab his gift off the coffee table, handing it over to him. His brows furrow, and he takes it carefully. Like there might be a live grenade wrapped inside or something.

“What’s this?” he asks, turning the box wrapped in festive Christmas paper over in his hands. Done as a favor by Hayes because I can’t wrap for shit, and weirdly enough, he happens to be a damn professional at it.

I blink at him and cock my head. “Most people would call it a present, Oakley.”

“I understand it’s a present. But what I don’t understand is why you’re giving one to me.”

Sometimes I think he’s the most obtuse person I know. This is one of those moments.

“The decorations and ridiculous amount of terrible music playing since freaking Halloween didn’t give it away?”

“The snark’s not appreciated, de Haas,” he snaps right back, flipping it in his hand once more and setting it across his thighs.

“Neither is your ungratefulness, but you don’t see me—”

He aims a glare my way, one capable of scaring Lucifer shitless, and I shut right up.

“Answer the question, Quinton,” he says in a low tone. “Because I didn’t get you anything, since normally it’s reserved for…dating and shit. Or friends, which we’re barely classified as.”

His analysis of the situation makes me feel paper-thin. Completely transparent, and even a bit vulnerable, splayed out before him.

“I know that. But it’s not a big deal, okay? I just thought of you when I saw—”

A grin takes over his face, erasing all seriousness from moments before. “You thought of me, huh?”

Oh, Jesus. “Yeah, I—”

“Well, in that case…” He trails off, holding the box to his ear and shaking it. “Is it a sex toy? Glow-in-the-dark lube? A silicone cast dildo kit?”

My brows furrow. “A what?”

“You know, the thing where you make a mold of your dick and turn it into a dildo.”

That sounds like the kind of gag gift I’d get someone—especially Oakley—so I can’t even be offended by his assumption.

“No, it’s not sex shit. It’s…” I sigh, shaking my head. “Would you just fucking open it already?”

He rolls his eyes and peels the paper off the box. “Way to spoil the fun of my gift.”

“I’m about tempted to take it back altogether,” I mumble under my breath in indignation, crossing my arms across my chest and digging myself further into the couch cushions. Leave it to him to make a nice gesture into something I regret doing. “Jackass.”

He’s down to the box now, ripping off the lid and clearing the little tissue paper crap out of the way.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I—” he cuts off, clearing his throat and looking up at me. Two big, brown eyes peer straight into my soul when he does, and it gives me an uncomfortable ache in my chest. One I don’t fucking like, making me think maybe this was a really bad idea.

No. Actually, it definitely was a bad idea.

Shit.

“Look, if it’s stupid or whatever, just return them. There’s a receipt in there. I was just trying to be funny.”

He glances back down at the box and whispers, “You got me socks.”

The way he says it, with reverence almost, makes it sound like I got him something far more…meaningful than three pairs of fucking socks. Of course, these aren’t just any socks. They’re the funny, crazy kind he wears under his official uniform.

Lucky socks, per his superstition.

I’d seen them a couple weeks back online when I was scrolling through one of my socials. Apparently, my phone did that creepy thing it does, listening in on one too many of my conversations with Oakley about his damn socks. So lo and behold, I had ads for socks plastered across my feed. When I found these on the site, they were too perfect to pass them up.

One pair is all black with white writing on it reading, “00 FUCKS GIVEN”, with the zeros looking like the timed out clock of a scoreboard. The second pair are white with a ton of eggplants on them and says, “I give the best blow jobs” down the sides.

The last pair is covered in suns and rainbows. Near the top in bold letters, it reads, “It’s a beautiful day” and then “Don’t fuck it up” on the bottom of the foot.

They’re my favorite.

“You…got me socks,” he says again, and this time, it hits me square in the chest.

“Yeah.” My shoulder lifts in a shrug when he looks at me again. “It’s not a big deal. Like I said, I just thought of you when I saw them.”

He doesn’t say anything, instead tearing my favorites out of the package and holding them up in front of him.

“If you don’t like ‘em—”

“They’re perfect,” he cuts me off, his voice ragged like he’s just run a marathon.

A sense of awkwardness falls over us, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I wasn’t expecting a couple goofy sets of socks to get him all in his feels, or maybe because he feels guilty for not getting me anything. Whatever it is, it sticks to the air like cling-wrap, and it’s stifling.

Enough to remind me why I rarely do things like this for people.

He lifts the other two pairs up, turning them over in his hands and reading them again before a small smile forms on his lips. “These all seem like they’re meant for you.”

He’s got a point there. Because I laughed my ass off when I picked every pair out.

“Maybe, but I don’t wear lucky socks. It’s your thing.”

“My lucky socks don’t have profanity on them,” he counters. “Just like…ducks and donuts and shit.”

I give him my winningest grin. “Perfect time for an upgrade.”

An eye roll is aimed at me. “We’ll have to see how well they work before we can call them an upgrade.” He pauses, then adds, “But…thank you.”

The temptation to blast this moment to smithereens—ruining any emotion still lingering between us—hits me like a ton of bricks. But for once, I choose not to give into the self-destructive part of my nature and just smile.

“You’re welcome, Oak.”

He holds up the eggplant pair for me to read. “And at least you can finally admit I give the best blow jobs.”

I wrinkle my nose up at the sentiment. “Absolutely not. They were just funny, so I got them.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, not at all believing me, while setting the box back on the coffee table.

His eyes heat as he crawls toward me, forcing me to lean until my back hits the leather seat cushions of the couch. Dipping his head toward my neck, he peppers kiss after kiss to my throat before rocking his hips into mine.

I’m hard instantly.

His lips trail up to my ear, and he nips at the lobe. “Maybe I need to take some time and remind you before our next game.”

God, I want that. I want to say fuck the rules and do it right now, actually. But it’s not what we agreed to. Sure, I could bring up altering the rules, like I was ready to before. After all, he’s become far more physically affectionate with me as of late.

But something inside me…can’t be the one to broach the topic. Not anymore.

Maybe because I’m wanting more than the steamy hook-ups and stolen moments neither of us want to end.

I want more moments like today. Seeing a different side of him—one more open and vulnerable with his emotions—only creates a hunger for more. I’m yearning for more pieces and layers of him I never knew existed, still waiting for me to discover, unwrap, and learn.

And it’s terrifying, wanting that.

But what scares me more is how much I want him to see those parts of me too.

Christmas passes quickly in typical de Haas fashion.

An obscene amount of cash stuffed in a generic Christmas card, not even signed by either of my parents, was left on the table for me Christmas morning. They were both already gone or busy by the time I made it down there; Dad at work, Mom overseeing our staff in preparing for when the caterers arrived. Then the opulently decorated house was filled with loads of people, all gathered in our massive living room, none of which were family. And as promised, most of Christmas dinner was spent talking business. Mostly about this new deal made with some Key whatever Holdings company out of New York.

I don’t think I said more than five words the entire time, unless it was to Marta, who used to be my au pair, but my parents kept her on the staff as a cleaning lady after I was old enough to take care of myself.

When I go up to my room to escape, I replace a small package and card waiting on my bed. Inside is a note from Marta, along with a keychain of a little hockey player she had personalized with Leighton’s school colors, my last name, and the number 19 on the back.

I hastily added it to my BMW keys, trying to keep the knot in my throat from growing any larger as I did, and after thanking her, I spent most of my time in my room to avoid any conversation with my father.

Who, at Christmas dinner, announced I’d be working under him next year. Something I don’t remember agreeing to, but then again, it’s never stopped him before.

When I brought this up with him after everyone had left, it turned into what might be our biggest blowout yet. Resulting in him threatening to cut me off. And if there’s anything I know about my father, it’s that no threat coming from him is idle.

This was my final warning.

Locking myself away in my ivory tower seemed like the only logical thing to do afterward, if only to escape reality down the mindless rabbit hole of TikTok.

It’s close to midnight and I’m in my third hour of doing just that when a text notification pops up at the top of my screen.

Oakley: Merry Christmas.

I haven’t heard from him since he left my apartment a couple days ago, and I’ve been doing my best not to think about what it might mean. Especially since he left us both hard up and aching when he pulled his body off mine and drove home to his parents.

I didn’t ask him to stay, and from the way seeing his name on my phone screen makes me grin like an idiot, it’s probably a good thing.

I’m falling into this a little deeper than I should allow myself to.

Me: Same to you.

His response is almost immediate.

Oakley: How’s it going with your parents?

Me: Exactly as expected.

Oakley: That bad?

Me: Well, apparently, I start working with Dad in June, though I have no recollection of making any agreement with him.

Oakley: So it is that bad?

Yep, sure fucking is. But I don’t really feel like vomiting all my feelings about Dad’s ultimatum to him via text, so I turn the conversation on him.

Me: It’s fine. How’s it been with yours?

Oakley: The usual. A lot of extended family came over, since we usually host Christmas. Logan being an absolute terror any time hockey was mentioned. Which is often when Dad and Coach are in the same room.

I frown, reading the name I don’t recognize over again. But no matter how hard I think on it, I can’t seem to place it.

Me: Logan?

Oakley: My younger brother.

Wait, he has a brother?

He’s never once mentioned him in passing. Talking about families isn’t something we’ve done until very recently, but I feel like it’s a topic that would’ve come up by now.

Me: Why did I think you were an only child too?

Oakley: Because I might as well be. When your family has generations of hockey players, but you have no interest in the sport despite years of being coaxed into giving it a shot, you tend to disassociate yourself from said family.

I wince, knowing exactly how it feels. Trade hockey for the de Haas family business, and it’s the exact same thing I’m going through at home.

But at least Logan’s family gives him a choice in how he wants his life to go.

Me: Ouch. I feel for him. Black sheep unite.

Oakley: LOL you would probably get along. He’s as moody as you are. Too bad he would also hate you on principle for being a hockey player.

Me: Moody? I think you have me confused with someone else. I’ve been a ray of fucking sunshine lately.

It’s true. I’ve been a lot less cranky lately, and in part, it’s thanks to him. But information like that is best kept to myself.

Oakley: Yeah, you’re right. I’m probably thinking of the other teammate I’ve been messing around with who loves to make my life hell.

Me: Don’t lie, you enjoy it.

I’m expecting some witty retort or straight-up denial. This is Oakley we’re talking about; he’d probably deny enjoying spending time with me until his dying day.

But I get an unexpected response instead.

Oakley: It’s been weird not seeing you.

My heart hammers against my rib cage a little harder as I reread the text a couple times, hating how much it’s making me smile.

I know exactly what he means, though, because I’ve been feeling it too.

Me: Missing me already, Reed? At this rate, I’m not sure you’ll be able to survive ten days without me.

Oakley: It doesn’t have to be ten days.

My blood heats and my stomach rolls as anticipation courses through me. Because he’s not saying what I think he’s saying. There’s no fucking way.

But I type out my response, just to be sure.

Me: What do you mean?

I wait for what feels like an eternity while the three little dots start and stop on the bottom of the screen, my mind racing all the while.

Finally, a reply pops up.

Oakley: I was thinking we should meet up. Gives you an excuse to get out of the house for a while at the very least.

A smirk spreads across my face.

I was planning on going back to my apartment tomorrow as it is, not wanting to spend any more time here than necessary and risk the chance of Dad bringing up quitting hockey again.

But I’m not about to tell Oakley that.

Me: You do miss me.

Oakley: Not at all.

Me: Liar.

Oakley: Think what you want. I was only taking pity on someone in need. You know, in the spirit of the holidays.

Well, that’s a bunch of bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.

Me: Nice try. Christmas is over.

Oakley: Not for another 23 minutes.

A glance at the corner of my phone screen reveals he’s right. It’s still Christmas Day, but only by technicality.

Me: Semantics.

The little dots pop up in the corner before disappearing. Then they keep doing it, back and forth, for a couple minutes, and finally stopping altogether.

Two minutes pass, then five, and still no response.

A slight twinge of disappointment hits me square in the chest as I set my phone down on the bed beside me, realizing I might’ve played this game with him a little too well.

But then my phone dings with another text notification.

Oakley: So is that a no?

An invisible coil constricts around my heart and lungs, and I do my best to sound casual as I type out my response.

Me: What did you have in mind?