Page 15 of Iced Out

“Maybe this loss is meant to be a wake-up call. One saying it’s time to focus on a real career path, rather than skating around chasing after a rubber disk.”

And there it is.

“Not like you have to come watch me do it.”

“No, I don’t,” he murmurs, his tone low and measured. “But I do have a business. One you’re meant to be groomed to take over down the line. Preparing yourself for when the time comes would be much more appropriate.”

My teeth clamp together tightly, somehow knowing this would, once again, be the subject of discussion. Lately, it’s about theonlything my father wants to talk about. When I’m planning to call it quits on my own dreams and aspirations to make it to the NHL, all so I can follow the life planhewants for me.

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.

Watching my team get their asses handed to them in two more consecutive losses—both of which were complete shut-outs—and not being able to do anything about it was maddening. The worst of it is I can’t help but feel it’s partly my fault for being benched. Even when none of the blame actually falls on my shoulders, because I didn’t do anything wrong, I still feel the pang of guilt.

“It’s one more season. My team needs me,” I grind, teeth still clenched.

I don’t miss the subtle arch of his brow. “Didn’t seem like it tonight.”

It’s a low blow, but unfortunately for me, he’s not entirely off base. Because the loss tonight is one that can’t be blamed on my lack of appearance on the ice, but ratherbecauseI was on it.

Something was justoffwith the energy in the locker room when Coach told the team I was able to suit up—clearing the air about my test actually being negative. I thought that’d make it so nothing ever happened, and we could get back in the groove of things as a team.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

I could feel it when anyone would look at me tonight—teammate or opponent. The judgment and the disbelief. That I’d be so careless to have ruined the namesake of Leighton’s program. Like my reputation—what little good there is of it—has been tarnished by what happened. Doesn’t seem to matter much to anyone that the results were actually negative and I was proven innocent; I’m still stuck with the stigma.

In their eyes, I’ll always be guilty of a crime I never committed. One I’d neverdreamof committing.

And now I’m being iced out for it. Like a fucking pariah.

Surprisingly, the only one who seems to give me any benefit of the doubt is fucking Oakley. Though, I must admit, it’s probably just because he got my title as captain when there was no actual reason for it to be taken. Which only makes me feel like I’ve lost pretty much everything I’ve earned. The captain spot and the respect of my team.

The last thing I need right now is my father digging the knives in deeper.

“Is that all you needed? To let me know, once again, of your disapproval in my decision-making? Remind me I’m not necessary?” I hiss, willing my temper to ease off. “Because if it is, I’m gonna go.”

I don’t stick around to hear what either of them have to say, hauling my bag over my shoulder and moving toward the exit. Continuing even after I hear both my parents call after me.

With a glance over my shoulder, I catch my father furiously pacing in place, which is far better than him chasing after me to continue this pointless conversation. I’ve got nothing left to say, no more fight left in me. Not for them, not for anyone. So I’ll take the easy way out and let another set of people think I’m sucking air where I don’t belong.

Even if they are my parents.

When I turn the corner, I’m met with a sight even more unfortunate than my parents waiting for me a few minutes earlier.

Because there’s Oakley, plastered against the wall, looking like he was caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The second he registers my face, his complexion goes sheet-white, and I don’t even have to ask how much of my father’s crap he heard. All that matters is he heard enough to look at me in a way I’d never dreamed he would. Not with anger or disdain or irritation.

Instead, all I see etched in his features is…pity.

“Quinton.”

It’s my name. Only my fucking name leaving his lips. But it’s the way he says it, the softness of his tone, that gets me. He’s never spoken to me that way before.

I fucking hate it.

I hate everything about this entire day, and I’m ready for it to be over.

Moving to shove past him works, but he falls into step beside me.

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