“There’s no way in hell we don’t win tomorrow. Not after that,” Oakley pants, dropping to his back across my mattress.
I’m still on top of him, cum leaking from my dick and onto his chest from what might be our hottest hook-up yet, and I have to agree. But Cornwall has been undefeated so far this season, so it will be the first real test of our team.
And how well this superstition actually works.
“Honestly, we’re doing it again, even if we don’t.”
He chuckles, his hands resting on my thighs giving a little squeeze. “Deal.”
Sliding off his body, I wipe myself clean with a dirty shirt and toss it in my hamper. I can feel his eyes on me as I drag a pair of sweats up my hips, studying me the way he tends to. He’s been doing it a lot more lately, though I refuse to point it out. The last thing I want is to inadvertently piss him off when we’ve just started getting along.
“You mind if I hang here for a bit?”
“Not at all.”
I’ve realized having him around isn’t so bad. And not just for the sex part, though I’m not complaining about that either.
Take the other day for example. We were on our way out off the ice after practice when he pulled me to the side and asked if I wanted to grab dinner and study at my place. He needed someone to quiz him on some philosophy crap for a class he’s taking, and even with a ton of roommates who could help him, their townhouse is far too rowdy—even on weeknights—to actually be beneficial.
So…I said sure. And to my surprise, it wasn’t weird. We ordered a pizza, I quizzed him with his flashcards, and I learned a disturbing amount about Kant, Hume, and Marx in the process.
No arguing or bickering, and also no hooking-up, per the rules we agreed on. Which was fine with me…until Oakley stretched out and I got a peek at his abs. Then I had to rein my dick in from getting too many ideas.
But honestly, the best part of the night was when Hayes walked in after his night class to find us on the living room floor—notebooks, flashcards, and pencils strewn out around us—only to ask us who died.
We both got a good laugh out of it, though I understand why he’d ask that. He’s been privy to this little feud Oakley and I have longer than just about anyone.
But it was nice to see we could spend time together fully clothed and still not want to rip each other’s heads off. It’s progress.
“At least get dressed though,” I tell him, throwing his underwear at him. “In case Hayes decides to make an unexpected appearance.”
“True,” he says, and not even two minutes later, he’s cleaned up and fully dressed.
I’m at my desk on the other side of the room, reading through another chapter of this damn economics book, when he collapses back on my bed, stomach first, and shoves his arms beneath my pillow.
I shake my head and go back to reading; a comment something along the lines of “make yourself at home, why don’t you?” on the tip of my tongue.
I don’t get to say it, though, because he breaks the silence.
“What the hell?”
When I look up again, I find Oakley pulling the familiar disk out from under my pillow. Holding the puck in the air between us, he asks, “Were you missing this?”
I smirk and join him on the bed before plucking it from his grip. Rolling to my back beside him, I turn it over in my hand a few times. “No, it’s where it’s supposed to be.”
“What?” He laughs. “You’re being serious?”
I nod, still fiddling with the rubber, flicking it between my fingers like one of those fidget spinners a few times, wondering why I didn’t just lie and say it made it there by mistake. It’d save me from giving him more ammunition to use against me, should this whole thing between us end poorly.
Yet instead, I end up giving him the truth.
“It’s my version of socks,” I reply before placing the puck into his waiting hands.
“Socks?”
His eyes flash to my cheeks when I grin, popping my dimples. “You know, your crazy sock thing? The ones you wear every game under your uniform socks?”
A look of surprise flashes over his face for a moment. “You have a superstition too?”
“Seems so, doesn’t it?” When he says nothing, I roll to my side, propping myself on an elbow. “You think I would’ve brought up us sleeping together if I didn’t believe in superstitions too?”
“I figured you did, especially after the whole debacle with Justin freshman year. I just didn’t realize you had your own.”
The pinch between his brows is kind of cute, and it takes a good amount of self-control—an amount I didn’t know I possessed—to keep my thumb from smoothing it back out.
“Because no one knows,” I murmur. His eyes flick to me, and I continue, “Apart from you, I guess.”
His attention moves back to the puck in his hands before giving it back to me. I roll my body over his, trying to place it beneath my pillow again while his head’s still on it. My chest brushes his as I do, causing every nerve of my body to stand on end. Which is why I shift to move away again as soon as it’s back where it belongs.
Only Oakley’s hands catch my waist and hold me against him, locking me in place.
“So how does it work?”
Our proximity is too much for me to handle, and a lie catches in my throat, begging to fall from my tongue. If only to save myself from giving away a secret part of me in a moment far too intimate for enemies-with-benefits to share.
But the truth still slips free.
“I sleep with it under my pillow for the entire season. Every single night, no matter what. It goes with me on the road and it’s the first thing I unpack when we get to the hotel when you’re not looking. And it’s the first thing I pack again in the morning before you notice it’s there.”
“You take it for away games?”
I nod.
“So it’s going with us tomorrow night?”
I nod again.
“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly working through the information I’m throwing at him. “And what’s so special about it?”
“It’s the puck I scored my first goal with. All the way back when I was a kid and just discovering my love for hockey. Scoring that goal…I guess it cemented the love for me more. Putting it under my pillow turned into a superstition pretty quickly after that, thinking it was good luck. My team lost, or I had bad games, obviously. Plenty, over the course of my career so far. This season being the perfect example.”
His brows furrow. “So then…why keep using it if it doesn’t work?”
“There’s two actually,” I say slowly, measuring my words. “One, because it’s a habit at this point. I doubt I’d get much sleep knowing it’s not there, you know?”
The corners of his lips lift. “And the other?”
I hesitate before more secrets spill, darker ones this time. But no matter how much I might want to, I’m helpless to stop them.
He’s carving out chunks of who I am and taking those tiny pieces for himself.
“I…know you overheard that shit with my dad earlier this season. After the first game I was back after the drug test shit.”
Oakley stiffens beneath me, so slightly, it wouldn’t have been noticeable if my body wasn’t plastered to his at every point. His head turns away, something like embarrassment written on his face until I tilt it back and force him to meet my eyes.
Once again, sympathy is etched into them as he meets my gaze. “I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I’m not mad about it or anything.”
He opens his mouth to object, and I retract my statement.
“Okay, I’m not mad about it now. When it happened, I guess I was embarrassed or pissed. Or both, honestly. Knowing you heard him lay into me, especially after I played like garbage and had to appeal my suspension for something I truly didn’t do.” I sigh and rest my chin on his chest. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to hear that conversation with him, let alone my pain-in-the-ass rival. And I didn’t know how much you heard of what he said either, which only made it worse.”
“I think I caught the gist of it,” he murmurs. His hands leave my hips, fingers moving to glide through my hair instead. Two brown irises soften even more as he searches my face. “So this has to deal with the puck because he doesn’t want you playing hockey?”
I nod, my jaw ticking with effort not to lean into Oakley’s touch while the countless times my father’s attempted to remove hockey from my life over the years run through my thoughts. And believe me, there are plenty.
“Ever since I started college, it’s become more of a reminder of why I started playing in the first place. For the love of the game and the thrill that comes with it.” Pausing, I roll my teeth over my bottom lip and offer yet another secret. “I can list only a few things in the world I love as much as being out on the ice. It’s something I wanna hold on to as long as I can, even though I know the odds are stacked against me.”
He nods, a wave of understanding passing over his expression. “I get what you mean. Though I don’t think the odds are at all stacked against you.”
“You say that, but…”
He studies my expression before rolling me to my back, his turn to hover over me. “But what?”
But do you actually mean it?
I don’t say it though. For once, I keep something to myself rather than spilling my guts to him, lifting my shoulder in a shrug instead.
Oakley’s expression hardens fractionally, and he leans away from me into a sitting position. I follow suit, sliding up to rest against the headboard. My fingers slip beneath the pillow, rubbing against the rubber puck in a way of comfort while he continues eyeing me.
“How is it possible for you to have so much confidence all the time, yet you don’t seem to grasp just how talented you are?”
“I know I’m talented—”
“Do you?” His brow arches in challenge…and I relent.
“It’s like…I know I have the talent and the skill to make this something I could do for a long time. I’ve worked my ass off to get here, and I’m determined to make it happen. But I still constantly feel like the team’s black sheep. Normally it doesn’t get to me, but then there are moments where those doubts worm their way in, and I just feel like an imposter.”
The look of sympathy he’s giving me grows, if it’s even possible.
I should not have said that.
“We make you feel that way, or your dad does when he tries to force you into his version of you?”
Both.
I just give him another shrug and pull the puck out to play with it some more, wishing we could just end this conversation. Or better yet, go back in time before I offered the information up when I knew I shouldn’t have.
He lets out a sigh at my lack of engagement. “Look, you’re good at what you do, Quinton. Don’t let your dad, or anyone else, convince you otherwise.”
My eyes flick to his face, and I give a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
“I’m being serious.” His gaze takes on a more imploring look, and it makes me sit up a little straighter. “I’ll deny ever saying this, but you’ve got far more raw talent than I do.”
I snort. “You’re born to hockey royalty. That’s not even possible.”
“Maybe I am, but I also know we grew up loving the same game in two different ways. You excel on the ice because you were born to be out there. Whereas my talent was trained into me since I could walk. It wasn’t something I was just gifted through genetics. It took a lot of work and coaching to get me here.”
“For real?”
He nods. “Yeah. You can ask Coach. He and my dad made me run drills every day for three straight summers when I was in elementary school to get better control on the ice. Something…I’m sure you never had to do.” When I don’t immediately negate his point, he continues, “See. You fit in a lot better than you think you do, and you’re only the black sheep because of your temper. Now, if you’d just learn to keep your head on straight—”
“—I have a real shot of making it to the NHL?” I supply, my brow arched.
From the way his lips part and brows rise, he’s taken by surprise at my ability to literally take the words right outta his mouth. “Uh, yeah. That.”
I nod as I fiddle with the rubber disk. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from every coach I’ve trained with, your uncle included.”
“Then don’t you think it’s something worth taking to heart?”
And as much as I hate to admit it, he has a point.
“I’m working on it.”
He shifts on the bed, moving to sit beside me again, our shoulders touching against the headboard. “We’ve noticed. Ever since getting back after the whole…” He trails off, clearly not wanting to bring up the suspension again. “The team, Coach, everyone has noticed your attitude shift.”
“Yeah, because no agent is gonna pick up an athlete with a short temper and a history of substance abuse.”
“I’d hardly call a false positive drug test substance abuse.”
“It still made a black mark on my reputation. One a lot harder to change than being a bit temperamental. So I figured, why risk it, you know?”
My attention drifts back to him in time to catch his nod.
“And to think, we’ve uncovered all this deep shit because of a fucking puck,” he muses, lifting it from my palm.
I motion at it in his hand. “Guess it’s more unlucky than lucky after all.”
“Just be happy I don’t make fun of you for cuddling with it every night the way you do my socks. Especially in front of the guys. That’d really make you a black sheep.”
He’s got a point there.
“Ah, see, but then they’d wonder how you got that information. Which would only lead to them inquiring why you’re in my bedroom at all, let alone in my bed.”
A small smirk slides on his lips, and the temptation to kiss it right off is high. But I don’t because the hook-up is over, and the rules are back in place.
“We definitely can’t have that, can we?”
All of a sudden, he freezes and drops the puck back in my palm. “Wait, this isn’t like the stick incident, right? I can touch it and the team won’t be blowing chunks before the game tomorrow?”
A laugh burst from my chest. “You think I would have let you go on fucking with it this long if that were the case?”
“I don’t know what kind of witchy voodoo you could be trying to work on me.”
“Must already be working if I’m getting you in bed with me.”
He lets out a laugh. “Touché, de Haas. Tou-fucking-ché.”
