Page 33 of Iced Out

Here’s to hoping it doesn’t happen again, though, considering the way he freezes where he stands. And I wait to see if I’ve only pissed him off more.

I don’t know why I broke the silence with that statement. It’s not like he needs my approval or praise. Hell, he’s gone three freaking years without it, and he’s been just fine, so what’s the point of giving it to him now?

But when the tension lining his shoulders melts away rather than getting worse, I take a silent sigh of relief.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “You did too.”

“Thanks,” I mutter back, just as quietly.

He leaves the conversation at that, and I crawl into my bed while he finishes what he’s doing. Before long, he’s strewn across his own bed with his phone in hand, enraptured in whatever he’s doing. And more importantly, oblivious to me staring at him.

A pair of black, square frames now sit on the bridge of his nose—the kind Henry Cavill looks ridiculously hot in as Clark Kent—and I realize I never knew Quinton wore glasses when he’s not on the ice. Probably because he and I are never around each other unless we’re at the rink, and he must wear contacts when he plays.

Part of me hates myself for realizing how much more attractive it makes him.

My eyes leave his face and track down the length of his body, noting the way his tee rides up slightly on his stomach; a bare strip of smooth, tan skin peeking out between the hem and waistline of his gray sweats. And damn, those sweats. They cling to his muscular thighs like they were tailor-made for him.

Hell, knowing the kind of money he comes from? I wouldn’t doubt they were.

The tattoos on his arms peek out from beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the dark ink swirling around his biceps and down the tops of his forearms. It’s ink I’ve seen before countless times, having shared a locker room with the guy for the past three years. But again, I’ve never taken the time to look or notice them.

The fact that he’s a complete and total dickhead made it very,veryeasy to ignore all the things I’m now realizing make him hot as fucking hell. Truly the sexy, bad boy of hockey he makes himself out to be.

Coming to this realization makes it a lot harder to not think about the ridiculous idea he threw into my lap about us hooking up to win games.

Which is what it is. Fucking ridiculous.

Right?

Not to mention, bringing it up again would only make things more weird between us. Heighten the strange mixture of animosity and sexual tension floating between us whenever we’re in the same room. But as I keep staring at him, I realize this might be the perfect solution to work out some of the tension we have toward each otherandhopefully help the team.

It would be a win-win situation, especially if it works, like he said.

Am I really about to reconsider this ridiculous idea of his?

Yes. Yes, I am.

I can’t keep going down this damn road of loss after loss. We’re only a quarter of the way through the season, and if this shit keeps up, I’d rather slit my wrist with my skates than lace them up on my feet to play.

And I sure as hell don’t want to continue feeling like I’m walking on eggshells around him, either. Which is exactly what’s been happening since the night in the bathroom. There’s nothing to lose, and that’s what I keep telling myself as I open my big, fat mouth to repeat a conversation I never would’ve thought of having a couple weeks ago.

“I think we should…” I trail off, scrubbing my hand over my face.

Fuck, this is so much harder than I thought.

Quinton’s eyebrow raises as he drops his phone to his lap. “You think we should what, Reed?”

My eyes meet his as I sit on the edge of my bed across from him. The nerves I was feeling before have only multiplied in the passing minutes, and I can’t see them going away anytime soon.

I hate it.

This lack of control is new, and I’m not at all comfortable with the way he ties my stomach in knots for no reason at all lately.

“We should do it.”

His lips twitch, clearly amused. “Do what, exactly?”

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

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