Why I’m at a frat party after the ass-kicking we just received on the ice—for the fifth time this season—is beyond me. I sure as hell don’t want to be here with the way I played like absolute trash tonight, and especially when I know I shouldn’t be here at all. Not when we have another game tomorrow night, where we can hopefully get our heads out of our asses long enough to bring home the first win of the season.
But the thing about being best friends with a guy like Holden is that he’s always down to party—even on a Thursday night, apparently—and will rarely take no for an answer when he wants you to come along for the ride. Tonight is the perfect example of that, because instead of letting me go home and crash in bed, he’s dragged me out here.
To let loose and have some fun, he’d said.
He’s not the one with a game tomorrow, though.
It wouldn’t matter if he did. He always wants to party his damn ass off at every available opportunity, no matter if he’s in the middle of football season or not…and still plays like the first-round draft prospect he is every Saturday.
I’d be in awe of him if it wasn’t so irritating.
“Drink this,” he orders, handing me a red solo cup full of foam. And I do mean full of it, because whoever poured this beer has no fucking clue how to do it correctly.
Just as well, though. I don’t have to drink the damn thing once Holden finds his conquest for the evening. Hopefully, I can sneak out of here as soon as he disappears to some dark corner of the house to fuck around with whichever lucky girl—or guy—he chooses.
My gaze collides with his golden honey one, and I grimace. “Why do you insist on torturing me?”
He laughs before clapping me on the shoulder. “Because you make it so fucking easy, Oak. Now drink up. Decompress a little. We’ll leave before eleven, I promise.” His smirk is devilish when he adds, “I know you need your beauty rest.”
“Oh, fuck off.” I chuckle and shove his shoulder playfully. “Now go get laid so I can go home and sleep. I have a game tomorrow.”
“Ah, see,” he says, pointing at me. “Your little omission proves my theory to be correct! But who said I’m here to get laid?”
My brows raise as I give him an incredulous look. “You expect me to believe you aren’t here looking to get some? Really, Hold? Did you forget I’ve lived with you for the past three years?”
At least he has the decency to look a little sheepish, if only for a second. “Okay, okay, you got me. Lucky for you, I’ve already laid all the groundwork with this one. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
I snort out a laugh, watching his golden head bob and weave through the crowd as I take a swig from my cup of foam. Tracking him through the crowd, I’m surprised to see him stop beside none other than Kason Fuller. A good ole semi-closeted southern boy built like a brick shithouse with more muscle than should be legal. Also one of the best tight ends this school has seen in a long time.
But he’s also Holden’s teammate.
Cue my endless sigh of disapproval.
He might be my best friend, but I’ve never said he was smart. Call it too many hits to the head, or a general lack of giving a fuck, but it doesn’t matter. Messing around with a teammate will only lead to issues later, especially when shit goes south. Which it always does with Holden, seeing as monogamy is a word he doesn’t seem to know the definition of. But that’s something he has to figure out on his own, no matter how many times I could tell him not to.
Removing my eyes from Holden, I watch the bodies on the make-shift dance floor moving and grinding to the beat of Breathe Carolina’s “Blackout” pounding through the speakers. Everyone’s having a great time, not a care in the world as beer sloshes out of solo cups, coating the dance floor in a slippery sheen of liquid and foam.
My gaze drifts over them all, taking in a scene straight out of American Pie. I’m surprised to find several teammates here tonight, either looking for a pretty girl to lick their wounds from our loss or maybe even trying to drink away the memory of it altogether. I can’t blame them, but it makes me a little uneasy all the same, what with another game against Lakewood Heights tomorrow night.
All I want for this season is to see the Timberwolves bring home a Frozen Four victory…and I’m not sure how we’ll achieve it if half the team is out at all hours the night before a game.
But the last thing I want to be after this loss is more of a buzzkill. So rather than say a damn thing to any of them, I head up the stairs to keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t do anything more stupid than they already are. Like get in a drunken brawl.
I start typing out a text to Holden, letting him know where I’ll be when he’s ready to dip, and make my way to the loft overlooking the living room. There are far fewer people up here, at least compared to the chaos downstairs. Mostly ones smoking weed or looking for a place to shamelessly dry hump each other before finding a bedroom for some actual privacy. Not at all my scene, but from this spot looking over the railing, I have the perfect view of everything happening below.
I’m about to hit send on the text when someone bumps into my shoulder, causing the foamy beer in my cup to slosh over the rim and onto my hand.
Fucking great.
Irritation seeps through me as I wipe my hand dry on my jeans and pocket my phone. It’s what happens at gatherings like this; people bumping and brushing into each other due to so many bodies being jam packed in a single, confined space. But it’s not hard to apologize either.
Only, when I glance to my left and see who bumped me, understanding hits me like a Mack truck.
Quinton.
He’s leaning against the railing, eyes locked on the scene taking place below. But I know he saw me. That’s why he bumped me. Anything to get under my fucking skin.
Dressed in his signature jeans, tee, and leather jacket makes it obvious he brought his bike tonight. As if drinking and driving isn’t bad enough as it is. Which he’s clearly planning to do, if the solo cup in his own hand is any indication.
He’s the last person I expected to see here. Not just because I assumed he would lay low with the PEDs drama still following him around like a stench that won’t go away.
But then there’s the shit with his dad earlier tonight.
If it were me, and my father spoke to me the way his did? I’d be buried in my bed for weeks. Absolutely destroyed by the lack of support coming from the most important person in my life.
Yet here he is, beer in hand, partying it up without a care in the world.
Rather than letting him win this little game he’s trying to start by popping off at him, I go another route and ignore him. The same way he did me when I tried to talk to him a few hours ago after the game.
Thoughts of his brush off stir the idea of restarting the conversation I wanted to have, but this is hardly the time or place. The last thing I want is to be overheard. Sure, the entire school is well aware of Quinton being pegged for drugs, but they don’t know what I know.
Well, what I’m pretty sure I know.
The real question here is, does Quinton know? Which is exactly what I wanted to find out earlier tonight, before he shoved me against the wall and bit my head off. But if he had any suspicions, he would have aired them by now. Made some snide comment in passing. And Braxton would be long gone from the hockey program if Quinton suspected his involvement.
So instead of bringing it up and risk planting a seed, I just keep my trap shut, take another swig of the disgusting foam in my solo cup, and throw away the worry altogether.
But my refusal to acknowledge him quickly becomes something of a frustration to him. I can tell by the way he keeps tapping his cup against the railing restlessly. It’s why I’m not at all surprised he’s the first one to break the silence.
“Shouldn’t you be at home, golden boy?”
Ignoring the golden boy comment, I mutter, “Babysitting duty.” Motioning my hand toward where Holden and Kason are all over each other on the dance floor, I continue, “Roommate needed to get his dick wet.”
For the first time since he sidled up by my side, I feel his eyes on me, narrowing in as he reads my features. It’s irritating.
“What?” I ask, my gaze colliding with his.
“Leave it to you for judging the very people you call your friends.” He scoffs, running his fingers through dark hair. “With friends like you, who fucking needs ‘em?”
“I’m not judging him.”
It’s not exactly a lie. I’m not judging Holden for wanting to get laid. I’m judging his choice of people to do it with.
The look on Quinton’s face is dubious at best. “Oh, please. Save the bullshit for someone who actually cares.”
“Well, you don’t care about anything, so…”
He rolls his eyes. “So because my entire existence doesn’t revolve around a puck and a pair of skates, it means I don’t care about anything?”
This I can do. Tossing words with him until something gets him to bite back. And from the hellish look in his eyes, I can tell he’s close to doing just that.
“No, but it does explain why Coach didn’t give the captain spot back to you after your little suspension.”
A snort comes from him. “Please, the only reason that happened is because you share the same last name as him, and we both know it.”
“Or it’s because I actually know how to be a leader. Which means dedicating everything I have to the sport and the team. Something we both know you can’t say.”
His nostrils flare. “I give this team everything I have and more.”
“Really?” I pause, canting my head to the side. “Because it sure didn’t seem like it tonight on the ice.”
I must’ve made the winning blow, because Quinton’s arm flashes out, grabbing the front of my shirt in a vise-like grip. The sudden movement sends both our cups tumbling over the railing and into the crowd below.
“Someone’s getting testy,” I taunt. It feels good to be the one getting under his skin.
“And someone’s pretending like he played the best game of his life tonight when you couldn’t find the net if it crawled up your ass and made a home there.”
A bark of laughter burst from me. “Again with the gay jokes, huh, de Haas? Couldn’t come up with something to make you sound any more like a bigot?”
His lips curl back into a sneer. “Oh, suck my dick. Fucking douche.”
I smirk and lean into him, allowing our proximity to work in my favor. “Whip it out. I’ll drop to my knees right here and now. Best head you’ll ever get, guaranteed.”
Quinton’s blue eyes flare, scorching me as the fist holding the front of my shirt tightens. Then he narrows in on me, again, like he can see right through me.
And I don’t like it.
“Best head ever? You’re quite sure of yourself there, Reed.”
My stomach coils itself into knots, his response throwing me off, but I do my best to keep my voice confident and steady. “Who’d suck dick better than someone who has one?”
He scoffs. “Plenty of people, I’m sure. I could do it easily.”
I chuckle, because really? That’s how far he wants to take this? Saying he—a straight guy—could suck dick better than someone like me, who’s been doing it for years?
It makes absolutely no sense.
Which is why the words, “I’ll believe it when I see it,” slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He wets his lower lip before running his teeth over it. “I could, but I think you’d like it too much.”
Yeah, that’s probably true.
I might hate the guy on principle, but he’s a sexy motherfucker if I’ve ever seen one. Believe me, I’ve done my best not to notice too. Being openly gay on an athletic team means I already keep to myself more in the locker room than I did while I was still closeted. I’d never want to make any of my teammates uncomfortable, and thankfully, they don’t do it for me anyway.
Of course, because God hates me, the one exception would be Quinton.
My eyes avoid him as much as they can, above everyone else, because of it. Like they’ll continue to, because he is straight and the world’s biggest asshole.
But I have to admit, seeing him deep-throat my cock would be—
Stop thinking about it. Stop, stop, stop.
Thankfully, my brain gets the memo and halts all immediate thought about the jackass in front of me. All sexual thoughts, at least. And it’s quickly replaced, yet again, with a flicker of fury when I notice a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“I severely doubt I’d enjoy it,” I bite out.
The way his brow arches signals his surprise at my response. Almost as if he’s in disbelief I wouldn’t be jumping at the opportunity to have him on his knees, mouth wrapped around my dick.
Abruptly, Quinton’s fist leaves its place on my shirt and latches onto my shoulder. My bad shoulder, and I barely have the chance to register the pain shooting through the joint before I’m being hauled from our spot against the railing.
A slight fear that he’s about to do something insanely reckless—like maybe tossing me over the damn bannister and into the mass of bodies below—zips through me.
But fortunately for me, he makes a quick detour about halfway to the stairs, yanking me through a door after him.
