Page 32 of Iced Out

I lean in even closer. As close as I dare.

“I can tell you’re frustrated. Believe me, I am too. You drive me fucking insane, and most of the time, not in a good way. But what better way than to work it out on each other? I’ll even let you go first. Whatever you want.” I run my lips over the pulse point on his throat, just below his jaw as I work my way over to his ear. “I bet you’d like to fuck my face, for real this time. And you can. I’ll get down on my knees for you, here and now, if you say yes.”

My mouth glides along his skin until it hovers against his lips, only a sliver of air separating us. Still too far apart, but close enough to brush when I whisper, “Just say yes, Oak.”

His breath comes out hot against my lips, in harsh pants, like he’s just run a marathon. I feel the same, but also keyed up and ready to go. Ready for him and whatever he’s willing to give me. Which I’m hoping starts with him closing the gap between his lips and mine.

When he grabs the back of my neck, I’m sure he’s about to do just that.

But instead, he uses the grip to switch our positions, pushing me back against the wall. Crowding into me the way I was him, overwhelming me with his presence. And something about the way he just man-handled me…makes me itch for another taste of him. Has my blood humming with need and want like I’ve never felt before.

He doesn’t even have to roll his hips into me for me to feel his cock rubbing against mine, and it makes me want to get both of us naked. Fast.

But as soon as it’s there—the heat and friction I’m desperately seeking—it’s gone.

In its place is a bucket of cold water delivered by the man I now wish I didn’t lust after.

“Not happening, de Haas,” he mutters, leaning back to meet my gaze before stepping back. “Not in this fucking lifetime.”

Eleven

Oakley

My body thrums with anticipation as I slide the key card into the slot on the hotel room’s door after our loss against Fall Riverearlier tonight. It’s not unlike any other night for an away game, but I’m on edge. And the reason is clear as day, seeing as Quinton is the one standing behind me, patiently waiting for me to let him intoourroom.

An unfortunate circumstance I have no control over.

When Coach called out our rooming assignments at the beginning of the season, sticking me with Quinton instead of Braxton like it’d been all last year, I was beyond pissed. Not only for the obvious reasons of de Haas and I not getting along, but because being an openly gay player sleeping in a room with another dude can cause discomfort for some guys. Every year since freshman, I’ve been paired up with either Braxton or Camden. So why the fuck he changed shit up on me this season is beyond me.

Maybe it was another tactic of trying to get us to bond and get past our rivalry on the ice, as misguided as it would be.

Since he’s my uncle, it should’ve been easy enough to ask for a reassignment, get Brax back—or even Cam—and call it a day. But the last thing I want is for all those nepotism murmurings to become true. So I just suck it up and deal with rooming with my mortal enemy.

The door slams closed behind us once we’re both inside, and I toss the key onto the dresser next to the television. The room is standard for our away games, two queen beds, a bathroom, and an adjoining door to one of our other teammates. Camden and Rossi, if I remember right.

Maybe I’ll just pop over there and hang out for a while if things get a little too stifling in here to survive.

Dropping my bag onto one of the beds, I strip out of my suit in favor of something a little more comfortable. Movement in my peripheral snags my attention, and I find Quinton silently rifling through his bag to do the same. He pulls out a pair of gray sweats a second later, tossing them on the bed before working his belt out of the loops on his pants.

The back of my neck grows warmer, and I quickly turn away to give him some privacy.

Again, no straight guy wants their gay teammate checking them out while they change. Especially when it’s just the two of them. Only, after what happened at the frat house, I’m not so surestraightis the right label for Quinton. Just like he said himself.

Still, I grab my own pair of black sweats and my toiletry bag before heading into the bathroom to give him a little extra privacy. And to hopefully get my stray thoughts under control before I have to sleep five feet away from the object of all my hate…and unfortunately, my desire.

A few minutes later, I exit the bathroom to the distinct sound of Sleeping With Sirens playing from his phone speaker, and when I round the corner, I find him repacking his bag after changing.

His posture is rigid, the way it’s been since we left the ice after the game, along with the solemn expression painted across his features. Two things I’m not used to seeing on him. And call it the leader in me, but I hate seeing my teammates down in the dumps after a loss. Especially a rough one.

All of us could feel how close we were to victory, or at least to a tie, only to have Fall River’s right wing, Johnson, slip past Quinton and slap the puck beneath Camden for a goal during the last minute of play. The only thing they needed to secure a win.

It was nothing we did wrong, really. Just a lucky shot and great timing on Johnson’s part. Something we all know, Cam and Quinton included.

At least, Quintonshouldknow.

“You…” I start, then clear my throat. “You played well tonight.”

I don’t miss how the phrase takes me all the way back to high school. To the night he pinned me to the wall and I decked him in the face.

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