Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(6)

“What?” he snaps, harsh blue eyes locking with mine.

Deep, calm breaths. Don’t bite his head off, just offer a suggestion.

It would work except the suggestion comes off a little bit more like an insult.

“You’re not the only player on the team who can score, de Haas. You do know that, right?”

His nose wrinkles, giving me a look that reads a little something like are you fucking stupid. “Obviously. I’m not a child, Reed. I know how to share.”

I almost laugh at that. We’ll have to agree to disagree, I guess.

“Okay, well, pass the damn puck if you see I’m open.”

He continues staring at me for a moment, then just skates off to where the rest of the team is heading to the locker room without another word.

Okay then…

There’s no use getting into it with him here and now, so I just keep my trap shut and follow him to the locker room. But much to my pleasure, I overheard Coach pull him to the side on our way back out for the third period and rip him a new one for not passing the puck when Rossi and I are open.

“You’re a leader, now,” Coach bit out. “And leaders know sometimes you need to let others step in.”

While hearing Coach’s snappy comment made me preen a little, considering I had told de Haas the same fucking thing fifteen minutes ago, it also gut-punched me in the most unexpected way.

I’ve always done my best to embody what it means to be a leader and team player, not just playing well and doing my part on the ice but being someone the rest of the team could look to as an example. Something a captain should be.

And clearly, everything Quinton is not.

The guy’s talented, as much as I hate to admit it. He could make it big—I’m talking NHL big—if he wasn’t such a hothead. Or a raging douche canoe. But his habit for using his fists on the ice as much as his stick makes him more of a liability than an asset. Which is something I thought my uncle might’ve realized isn’t the makings of a good captain.

Guess I was wrong.

If it wasn’t for the hit I took at the end of last season—resulting in a broken collarbone and tear in my rotator cuff—I’d probably be the one leading this team. Hell, every person on the damn team knows it should be me. Yet here we are, with the title I’ve coveted for myself in the hands of the one person who shouldn’t have it.

My sworn enemy.

But at least Quinton seems to take Coach’s demands at face value, playing a lot more like a team player than a solo act to start off the third period. Even passes the puck off to me on a breakaway, allowing me to run with it and—

Out of nowhere, I’m slammed into the boards by one of their defensemen, and the impact sends a jolt of pain lancing through my shoulder. I freeze on impact, the defender taking the puck with ease, leaving me empty-handed and in a panic as the dull ache continues to spread through the entire limb. It takes a couple minutes for the throbbing to subside, so I know the hit probably tweaked a muscle or something, but it’s not any less nerve-wracking.

The last thing I need is a re-injury during the most important season of my career.

“Pass you the puck, only for you to pull that shit?” Quinton snarls. “Nice. Jackass.”

I watch as he takes off down the ice, attempting to stop Trenton College from scoring while irritation vibrates through my chest.

Quinton’s inability to keep his fucking mouth shut on the ice is the same reason I was injured. Instead of focusing on his game, he was too busy running his damn mouth to one of the defensemen from Waylon during the playoffs last season. All game. Until he finally had enough of Quinton’s crap. Unfortunately, that happened in the middle of a change on the fly, and instead of slamming Quinton into the boards and breaking his collarbone, it was me.

The fucking guy even told me he was going for de Haas, but the shuffling of all our players caused him to lose sight for one second and…well, the rest is history.

I went in for surgery a couple days later and spent my summer months going to PT multiple times a week, only barely feeling like I was at a hundred percent a couple weeks before practices started this season.

And none of that would have happened if de Haas knew how to keep his mouth shut. Yet another thing on the ever-growing list of reasons why this guy is the bane of my fucking existence.

I’m about to skate back toward where the rest of the guys are helping Cam defend the net, the forwards for Trenton on an aggressive offensive attack.

That’s when Trenton’s center, named Adams, checks Quinton into the wall. Hard. A lot harder than necessary. Meanwhile, the puck is sent sailing to the other end of the rink. Instincts tell me to skate after it, but the whistle blowing catches my attention and drags it back to where Quinton is crumpled to the ground.

A hush falls over the arena as everyone holds their breath, something that always happens when a player goes down.

Shit.

“Give him some room,” one of the officials commands, creating space around Quinton as he pulls his helmet off.

When Quinton raises his head, I catch it. The fire in his eyes burning brighter and hotter, just like when he’s about to—

Quinton lunges from the ground, grabbing Adams around the waist. They both go tumbling back to the ice, and de Haas rips the helmet right from Adams’s head as he’s pinned beneath him. I know what’s coming, and from the look on Adams’s face, he does too.