Page 1 of Iced Out

Prologue

Oakley

Senior Year—Eighteen Years Old

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 yourgood 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 tomove the fuck onwhen 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?”

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