Page 100 of Iced Out

Wow, it’s weird hearing someone call Coach by his real name.

“Yeah, we were pretty skeptical about it too,” I say, glancing over at Oakley.

He gives me a small, private smirk. “Understatement of the year.”

Trevor lets out a laugh. “That coach of yours must see something the rest of us didn’t, because it’s probably the best thing he could’ve done for the team. I mean, the two of you are unstoppable as a pair.”

“I have to agree,” I tell him, nodding. “I don’t think we would’ve made it this far if it weren’t for Oakley and I learning to, uh…work through our issues and get along. Both on and off the ice.”

Oakley’s hand squeezes my thigh beneath the table, making the little tilt of my lips grow into a grin that’s impossible to hide.

“So I’ve realized,” his dad says, eyes floating between us. “Not saying you’re a bad kid by any means, I just never thought I’d see the two of you being civil, let alone Oakley bringing you home for dinner randomly.”

“Believe me, sir, it’s the last thing I thought would happen too.”

“Guess Oakley finally listened to me, deciding to chase after another player at his level to help make him better.”

My brows furrow, “I’m not sure I’m following. Oakley’s level is so far above mine—”

“There’s no need to be modest here, Quinton. Your stats this season are fantastic. Neck and neck with Oakley’s, actually. Sure, your minutes in the penalty box could be lower,” he says, giving me a knowing grin, “but overall, you’re a tight, solid player. Any team in the league would be lucky to add you to their roster next year.”

I gape at him, because…this is coming from a ten-time all-star who played in the NHL fortwelve years.And he’s sitting here telling me I have what it takes to wind up in the league too.

Granted, I’ve heard the same thing from Oakley and Coach too, along with plenty of other highly respected people in the community. But this is fucking Trevor Reed we’re talking about.

“I, uh…thank you,” I tell him, not sure what else to say.

“Don’t thank me, you’re the one who did all the hard work. It’s difficult to hold onto an average of just under two points per game, but somehow, you are. Then there’s the number of goals you’ve scored in general, not to mention the number of assists you’ve given both Oakley and Rossi this season…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Numbers don’t lie, and if you continue putting these up for the rest of the season, you’ve got a great shot of going high in the draft this year. If you’re planning to enter, of course.”

I clear my throat and nod. “I do, yeah. So any tips would be…appreciated.”

He leans back in his chair. “Do you have an agent lined up?”

“I don’t,” I say slowly, and I immediately know it’s the wrong answer. Coach had mentioned something recently about a few agents being interested in speaking to me, but nothing ever came of it. And from the way Trevor is looking at me, it might be time to take the future into my own hands instead of waiting for it to come to me.

Especially if entering the draft cuts the cord between me and my parents for good.

“Well, it’s still very impressive, I’ve got to say.” His focus shifts from me to Oakley and back again. “I can see why Oakley thinks you’d be a good—”

A loud bang comes from beneath the table, the wooden surface shaking with impact, and Logan turns to glare at his brother.

“That wasmeyou just kicked, jackass,” he snarls.

“Logan,” their mother warns from the kitchen.

“Sorry, Loge,” Oakley murmurs absently. Only he’s not looking at his brother when he says it. Instead, he’s in a stare down with his father at the other end of the table.

My eyes ping-pong between the two of them, doing my best to decipher what the hell is being spoken silently in their stares. I think I catch a subtle shake of the head on Oakley’s part before he breaks eye contact with his father, looking at me instead.

“We should probably get going soon,” he murmurs before glancing out the bay window of the dining room. “It looks like it’s started snowing, so I’d like to get back to campus before the roads are shit.”

“Language, Oakley,” his mother chides, poking her head in from the other room.

He winces beside me at her glare. “Sorry, Mom.”

“You’d better be,” she says, popping back in the kitchen. She returns a few moments later with two Tupperware containers of leftovers, handing one to each of us. “These are for the two of you. Pop them in the microwave for a couple minutes and it’ll be ready to go.” She pauses and looks at me, a hint of a sparkle in her brown eyes that reminds me an awful lot of Oakley’s. “I personally think it tastes even better reheated.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Oakley says before pulling her into a hug.

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