"I think you're a distraction," Quinton shot back, his voice raw.
The winter air in Graystone didn’t just bite; it owned you. For Quinton Rossi, the ice was the only place where the world finally went quiet. No expectations, no legacy, just the rhythmic scrape of blades against the rink. Iced Out by CE Ricci
When Oakley finally leaned in, the kiss was a collision. It was messy, desperate, and tasted like salt and cold air. In that moment, the ice under their feet didn’t feel like a battlefield anymore. It felt like the only solid thing in a world that was suddenly shifting beneath them. "I think you're a distraction," Quinton shot back,
"You think you're better than me?" Oakley spat, his fingers gripping Quinton’s jersey. No expectations, no legacy, just the rhythmic scrape
They were supposed to be rivals. They were supposed to keep their heads in the game. But as the winter deepened, the "iced out" walls they’d built around their hearts began to crack, leaving them both wondering if they were playing for the win or for each other.
The breaking point happened late one Tuesday, the arena lights dimmed to a ghostly glow. A heated argument over a missed play turned into a shoving match, chest to chest, hot breath visible in the frigid air.
They were teammates by name and enemies by nature. Every practice was a battle of wills, a collision of shoulders against the boards that felt a little too personal. Quinton hated the way Oakley smirked after a goal, and Oakley hated the way Quinton played like he had everything to lose.