Page 87 of Iced Out

I turn around, and I skate away.

I’m honestly surprised I was allowed to play the remaining few minutes, but since Carter was the one to clearly incite the violence instead of me, he was the only one tossed in the sin bin. Which was a weird experience for me, all things considered.

Things turn in our favor after the brawl on the ice, and thanks to the power play for the remaining time of the game, we pull a W out from all the chaos. Rossi, McGowan, and I are able to work together with Wynnfielddown a man, sneaking a goal in with about thirty seconds left.

My third goal of the night, giving me a hat trick to end the game along with the win.

But the celebrations are cut short in the locker room when the team trainer pulls Oakley into a separate room to take a look at his shoulder before he even has the chance to shower.

Coach benched him the rest of the game after the incident with Carter,wanting to have it looked at before the game ended. But Oakley wasn’t having it and said it could wait until the clock zeroed out, much to Coach’s and my displeasure.

However, the way he was wincing at the slightest movement only proves pulling him off the ice was the right call.

Some of the guys are still milling about, but more than half the team has long since showered and gone home. I’m about ready to leave too, when Oakley appears at his stall, tossing his pads into the opening before stripping down and wrapping a towel around his waist.

The skin on his back where his shoulder blade protrudes is red and inflamed, probably due to the trainer’s exam, but otherwise he seems to be moving it better than he was on the ice. But the butterfly bandage on his face to help close the cut on his cheek almost sends me over the edge into another ragey downward spiral.

My fingers twitch with both anger and compassion. With the urge to brush my thumb across Oakley’s cheek, but to also bash Carter’s skull in for daring to touch him.

In the end, I do neither, balling my fists and keeping them at my sides as I continue to give Oakley a once-over from across the room.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he murmurs before shifting his focus to me.

There are so many things I could say, so many things I want to ask, but I know this isn’t the time or place. So instead, I settle for the one piece of information I need right now.

“Are you okay?”

He gives me a tiny smile, but it quickly turns into a wince when he goes to hang his pads. “Yeah, I think it’s just sore. But the trainer’s confident it’s not another break or tear or anything serious. Just a tweak. Some ice and rest for a couple days should make me good as new.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Okay,” is all I can say as guilt sweeps through me.

After all, if it wasn’t for my shit-talking these past few years, Carter wouldn’t have come after me, let alone bring Oakley into the mix. Fuck, if it weren’t for me, Oakley wouldn’t have been injured in the game against Waylon last season either.

As if reading my mind, Oakley cuts through my thoughts. “It’s not on you.”

It sure as hell feels like it is.

“Okay,” I say again, because I don’t have it in me to argue with him. All I really want is to crawl into bed and forget this day happened. Alone, because I can’t handle any company tonight. “Just take care of it. Please.”

He nods. “Of course.”

I can’t stay in here without making it completely obvious to the few guys still milling about that I’m hanging around for him. Which would probably set off some alarms in their heads, therefore going against the stupid fuckingno one can knowrule I’ve grown to loathe.

So I grab my bag and haul it over my shoulder to head home for the night.

I’m about to exit through the back door of the locker room when my name is called out from behind me.

“Quinn.”

I turn to find Oakley watching me with that penetrating gaze of his. The one that makes my skin tingle with pinpricks whenever I feel it aimed at me.

“Yeah?”

He licks his lips, a small smile forming on them before he says four words I never thought I’d hear out of his mouth. “I’m proud of you.”

From the way he says it, I know he doesn’t mean for scoring the game-winning goal, keeping our winning streak—and the superstition—alive. It’s because I did something I’ve never done before.

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