Chapter 17
Seventeen
Quinton
Break started last week, but the hockey schedule kept us on campus until a couple days before Christmas, per usual. Not that I mind, since going home for the holidays isn’t something I’m ever excited for.
Christmas at the de Haas house is more like another one of Dad’s board meetings.
Plenty of business executives present, and there’s usually more talk about work than any fun holiday or vacation plans.
Honestly, I don’t remember the last time we had a Christmas with just the three of us, or if it ever happened at all.
Needless to say, it’s not my favorite holiday. But I did get a smidge into the Christmas cheer when it comes to Oakley. Only because it was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up. Or more, a gift I couldn’t not buy for him.
The only issue now is I’ve been waiting for him to get over to my apartment to give the damn thing to him. He said he’d be over soon, but that was almost an hour—
A knock on the door has me bolting from where I was sitting on the couch, my anticipation almost immediately turning into anxiety. Which is new for me.
Ever since I woke up with my arm slung over Oakley’s stomach in our hotel room the morning of our second Cornwall game, I’ve had a lot of anxiety when it comes to him, and that was over a week ago.
Opening the door reveals Oakley on the other side, dressed in a knit beanie and winter coat with bits of snow on the shoulders.
“Hey,” I say, opening the door further for him to come inside. “I didn’t realize it was snowing.”
“Yeah, a storm’s blowing in and the roads are already a mess.” He removes his jacket and hat, pieces of his hair sticking up haphazardly, and the urge to run my fingers through it ignites inside me. “Gonna make for a fun drive over to my parents today. Even if it is just forty minutes.”
The thought is immediately on my tongue; he should just stay here with me. Go tonight or tomorrow morning once the storm passes and the plows go through. Hayes is already gone for the holidays, so we’d have the place to ourselves. Completely uninterrupted.
Except…it’s against the rules.
But maybe with it being the holidays, he might make an exception. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I open my mouth to mention it.
But then he plops down onto the couch and gives me a curious look, cutting the words off before they even form on my tongue.
“What’s up? You said you needed me to come over.”
“Yeah,” I say, crossing the distance to where he is. I drop down beside him and grab his gift off the coffee table, handing it over to him. His brows furrow, and he takes it carefully. Like there might be a live grenade wrapped inside or something.
“What’s this?” he asks, turning the box wrapped in festive Christmas paper over in his hands. Done as a favor by Hayes because I can’t wrap for shit, and weirdly enough, he happens to be a damn professional at it.
I blink at him and cock my head. “Most people would call it a present, Oakley.”
“I understand it’s a present. But what I don’t understand is why you’re giving one to me.”
Sometimes I think he’s the most obtuse person I know. This is one of those moments.
“The decorations and ridiculous amount of terrible music playing since freaking Halloween didn’t give it away?”
“The snark’s not appreciated, de Haas,” he snaps right back, flipping it in his hand once more and setting it across his thighs.
“Neither is your ungratefulness, but you don’t see me—”
He aims a glare my way, one capable of scaring Lucifer shitless, and I shut right up.
“Answer the question, Quinton,” he says in a low tone. “Because I didn’t get you anything, since normally it’s reserved for...dating and shit. Or friends, which we’re barely classified as.”
His analysis of the situation makes me feel paper-thin. Completely transparent, and even a bit vulnerable, splayed out before him.
“I know that. But it’s not a big deal, okay? I just thought of you when I saw—”
A grin takes over his face, erasing all seriousness from moments before. “You thought of me, huh?”
Oh, Jesus. “Yeah, I—”
“Well, in that case…” He trails off, holding the box to his ear and shaking it. “Is it a sex toy? Glow-in-the-dark lube? A silicone cast dildo kit?”
My brows furrow. “A what?”
“You know, the thing where you make a mold of your dick and turn it into a dildo.”
That sounds like the kind of gag gift I’d get someone—especially Oakley—so I can’t even be offended by his assumption.
“No, it’s not sex shit. It’s…” I sigh, shaking my head. “Would you just fucking open it already?”
He rolls his eyes and peels the paper off the box. “Way to spoil the fun of my gift.”
“I’m about tempted to take it back altogether,” I mumble under my breath in indignation, crossing my arms across my chest and digging myself further into the couch cushions. Leave it to him to make a nice gesture into something I regret doing. “Jackass.”
He’s down to the box now, ripping off the lid and clearing the little tissue paper crap out of the way.
“Oh, don’t be like that. I—” he cuts off, clearing his throat and looking up at me. Two big, brown eyes peer straight into my soul when he does, and it gives me an uncomfortable ache in my chest. One I don’t fucking like, making me think maybe this was a really bad idea.
No. Actually, it definitely was a bad idea.
Shit.
“Look, if it’s stupid or whatever, just return them. There’s a receipt in there. I was just trying to be funny.”
He glances back down at the box and whispers, “You got me socks.”
The way he says it, with reverence almost, makes it sound like I got him something far more…meaningful than three pairs of fucking socks. Of course, these aren’t just any socks. They’re the funny, crazy kind he wears under his official uniform.
Lucky socks, per his superstition.
I’d seen them a couple weeks back online when I was scrolling through one of my socials.
Apparently, my phone did that creepy thing it does, listening in on one too many of my conversations with Oakley about his damn socks.
So lo and behold, I had ads for socks plastered across my feed.
When I found these on the site, they were too perfect to pass them up.
One pair is all black with white writing on it reading, “00 FUCKS GIVEN”, with the zeros looking like the timed out clock of a scoreboard. The second pair are white with a ton of eggplants on them and says, “I give the best blow jobs” down the sides.
The last pair is covered in suns and rainbows. Near the top in bold letters, it reads, “It’s a beautiful day” and then “Don’t fuck it up” on the bottom of the foot.
They’re my favorite.
“You…got me socks,” he says again, and this time, it hits me square in the chest.
“Yeah.” My shoulder lifts in a shrug when he looks at me again. “It’s not a big deal. Like I said, I just thought of you when I saw them.”
He doesn’t say anything, instead tearing my favorites out of the package and holding them up in front of him.
“If you don’t like ‘em—”
“They’re perfect,” he cuts me off, his voice ragged like he’s just run a marathon.
A sense of awkwardness falls over us, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I wasn’t expecting a couple goofy sets of socks to get him all in his feels, or maybe because he feels guilty for not getting me anything. Whatever it is, it sticks to the air like cling-wrap, and it’s stifling.
Enough to remind me why I rarely do things like this for people.
He lifts the other two pairs up, turning them over in his hands and reading them again before a small smile forms on his lips. “These all seem like they’re meant for you.”
He’s got a point there. Because I laughed my ass off when I picked every pair out.
“Maybe, but I don’t wear lucky socks. It’s your thing.”
“My lucky socks don’t have profanity on them,” he counters. “Just like…ducks and donuts and shit.”
I give him my winningest grin. “Perfect time for an upgrade.”
An eye roll is aimed at me. “We’ll have to see how well they work before we can call them an upgrade.” He pauses, then adds, “But…thank you.”
The temptation to blast this moment to smithereens—ruining any emotion still lingering between us—hits me like a ton of bricks. But for once, I choose not to give into the self-destructive part of my nature and just smile.
“You’re welcome, Oak.”
He holds up the eggplant pair for me to read. “And at least you can finally admit I give the best blow jobs.”
I wrinkle my nose up at the sentiment. “Absolutely not. They were just funny, so I got them.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not at all believing me, while setting the box back on the coffee table.
His eyes heat as he crawls toward me, forcing me to lean until my back hits the leather seat cushions of the couch. Dipping his head toward my neck, he peppers kiss after kiss to my throat before rocking his hips into mine.
I’m hard instantly.
His lips trail up to my ear, and he nips at the lobe. “Maybe I need to take some time and remind you before our next game.”
God, I want that. I want to say fuck the rules and do it right now, actually. But it’s not what we agreed to. Sure, I could bring up altering the rules, like I was ready to before. After all, he’s become far more physically affectionate with me as of late.
But something inside me…can’t be the one to broach the topic. Not anymore.
Maybe because I’m wanting more than the steamy hook-ups and stolen moments neither of us want to end.
I want more moments like today. Seeing a different side of him—one more open and vulnerable with his emotions—only creates a hunger for more. I’m yearning for more pieces and layers of him I never knew existed, still waiting for me to discover, unwrap, and learn.
And it’s terrifying, wanting that.
But what scares me more is how much I want him to see those parts of me too.
Christmas passes quickly in typical de Haas fashion.