Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Oakley
March
Outside of hockey, I’ve had zero interaction with Quinton in three weeks.
Three fucking weeks. Twenty-one days.
An obscene number of hours, minutes, and seconds ticking by without knowing where he is or what he’s thinking.
Even with the team still winning despite our superstition coming to an abrupt halt, he’s said nothing. Hasn’t made a joke or jab or so much as looked at me in those three weeks.
He didn’t even say anything the day after our blow out, when I’d left his lucky puck on the wooden shelf in his stall. I watched him pick it up. Turn it over in his hand when he thought I wasn’t looking. I saw the way he swallowed as he squeezed it in his palm before putting it safely in his bag.
The sight tore me apart from the inside out.
Nor did he speak to me after Coach pulled him into his office before the game that same day, giving him back the title of captain, but also letting him know Braxton and I would be reprimanded for our involvement in tampering with his test and resulting suspension.
However, seeing as my role wasn’t nearly as significant as Braxton’s, I was let off fairly easily.
A hearing with some committee put together by the university, which nothing came of.
After all, an idea is just an idea until it’s put into action, and since I didn’t participate in messing with the test, they threw out the case pretty soon after.
Braxton, however, is no longer a member of Leighton University’s hockey program.
He was suspended at first, but soon after, he was booted altogether.
Once that happened, it didn’t take long for him to move out, letting the rest of us know he was transferring to another school for next year.
Just as well, though. No one—on the team or at home—trusted him after hearing about what he did.
Hell, everyone is just now starting to trust me again.
Too bad the only person whose trust I actually want won’t even look at me.
If it weren’t for practice and games, being able to see his face and hear his voice, I think I’d have gone crazy by now. Even with those few moments, I still feel my sanity slipping. This silence is deafening, echoing through the gaping hole in my chest that only grows every day we don’t speak.
Today, it’s been unbearable. To the point where I do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t do, not only to myself, but to Cam, Holden, and Theo the night everything blew up.
I go to him.
And as I knock on his door, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety rip me to shreds. Gripping and pulling me in opposite directions; between what I know I should do, and what my heart is aching for.
I just need to see him.
Outside of practice.
There, he’s expected to be put together and on point with every move he makes. Zeroed in with focus, feelings and emotions flicked to autopilot.
No, I need to see him without the pads and skates he wears like an impenetrable suit of armor.
I need to know he’s okay.
Too bad for me, Quinn isn’t the one who answers the door a couple seconds later. Hayes does. And from the frown marring his face, he’s not happy I’m here.
“Get lost, jackass. He doesn’t wanna see you.”
“Hayes—” I start, but he’s already shut the door halfway on my face.
Shit, shit, shit.
“I don’t wanna hear it either, Reed,” he says, the door already swinging closed.
My hand darts out, stopping it before all hope I have of talking to Quinn disappears. “Please, Hayes. Let me talk to him. I need to see him, if it’s only for a minute. I need to tell him—”
The door is suddenly ripped back open, leaving me off-balance to the point where I almost topple through the doorway and into the person on the other side.
And when I catch my balance enough to look up, I’m surprised to find it’s Quinn.
My heart lurches at the sight of him, pounding against my chest with an unbearable ache.
One that’s been ever-present since the moment he walked out of my room—and life—weeks ago.
And the ache grows into an agonizing throb as Quinn’s icy blue gaze lands on me, only for me to find his eyes completely vacant.
No ounce of emotion in them at the sight of me.
His attention shifts away, falling on Hayes instead. “Thanks, man, but you don’t have to.”
“You sure, Q?” Hayes eyes me dubiously before looking back to Quinn. “I don’t mind kicking his ass all the way back to his place.”
He lets out a soft sigh and nods. “Yeah. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
As happy as I am to get to speak to him privately—which didn’t look to be the case a minute ago when Hayes answered—I can’t help but cringe internally at his word choice.
It.
Like I’m nothing more than a pile of trash that needs to be taken out, or a piece of gum to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe.
Then again, that’s exactly what I feel like, so if the shoe fits, I guess I’ll wear it.
Hayes leaves us, shuffling back into the apartment, but not without giving me a death glare first. One I’m willing to admit I deserve.
It’s only once Quinton and I are finally left alone for the first time in weeks when he meets my gaze and speaks.
“What are you doing here, Oakley?”
I shake my head, because now that I’ve finally gotten a moment to speak to him, I’m not sure what to say. Not sure where to start. “I…don’t know.”
His brow arches, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re really gonna keep lying to me?”
Fair point.
I wouldn’t blame him for not believing a thing to come out of my mouth ever again, so I might as well go all in with the truth. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
“I guess I was just worried.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw you at practice today.”
“You see me at practice every day,” he counters.
“Yeah, but today was different. You were on autopilot and—”
He scoffs. “And you’re worried it would translate into the games we’ve got coming up. Well, don’t worry your pretty little head on it, Reed. I’ll make sure I’m fully present when the time comes so you can win your stupid championship.”
The way he calls me by my last name might as well be a knife to the heart, but not nearly as much as the accusation he’s tossing at me.
“What? The championship? That’s the furthest thing from what I care about right now.”
“Then what do you care about?”
“You! I fucking care about you, or I wouldn’t be here right now just to make sure you’re okay.”
He steps out into the hall, the door snicking closed behind him. “Tell me something, Oakley. Do I look okay?”
I take a second to look at him. Really look at him, and I hate what I see.
I noticed earlier this week he’s dropped some weight, having watched him adjust the fit of his pads before practice. Not a lot of weight, but enough to see his chest and shoulders don’t fill out his shirt the way they used to.
My gaze travels up, finding a vacant expression etched into his features, starting with his eyes. Ones that used to be full of light and fire, but now just look empty.
Hollow.
And I hate knowing I’m the reason. It cuts me to my core.
Which is why all I can do is shake my head.
“Well then, there you go. You got your answer. Now you can go,” he says, tossing his hand toward the elevator.
Defeat slams into me like a tidal wave, and it’s then I realize I might never get through to him. Might never have the chance to explain what he means to me, how much I care.
The extent I would go to make this right between us.
Which is why, though I know I should, I don’t make a move to leave like he’s telling me.
“I hope you know…I really am sorry. I didn’t know Braxton would take things as far as he did. If I did, I would’ve—”
Quinton’s fist slams against the wall behind him in frustration before he leans back against it. Two rows of perfect, white teeth gnaw at his bottom lip while he takes a deep breath, and I can tell he’s trying to rein in his temper.
Something that hasn’t taken control of him in quite some time now.
Then again, I’ve always been the person to make it burn the hottest.
Another deep, long sigh comes from him before he finally speaks.
“Don’t fucking lie to me again, Oakley. We both know you wouldn’t.
And the reason I know that is because you keep tossing Braxton’s name at me like you’re not equally at fault here.
You might not have committed the crime, but you still knew.
You could’ve cost me my future in hockey.
And you didn’t do a fucking thing to make it right, even after things with us…
” He trails off with a shake of his head, eyes darting toward the floor.
“You might not have held the gun, but you still helped pull the trigger. You’re responsible for your choices. Now you have to live with them.”
He’s right. Every person on this planet has to live with the choices they make and suffer the consequences of them too.
The problem here is…I can’t live with mine. Because it means living without him.
A somber cloud forms over both of us, twisting and coiling as it waits for the perfect moment to start a downpour of emotions. All the ones I’ve been doing my best to hold in over the past few weeks, if only to make it through the rest of the season.
But I feel it all coming to a head as tears well in those ice blue eyes I know better than my own.
Despite clearing his throat, his voice is grated, like it’s been dragged over shards of shattered glass. And the sound of it pierces my heart.
But not nearly as much as the words he speaks.
“Just let me ask you this. Did the end justify the means?”
No.
And just like that, the storm swirling around us unleashes.
Shame and regret courses through me, because the answer came so quickly, it should’ve been obvious months ago. It shouldn’t have taken me standing here, begging for him to see me or listen to what I have to say, to realize what I did was just…fucked up.