Page 1 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

one

“ T his might be excessive. Even for me,’’ I mumble, chewing nervously on the flesh of my thumbnail.

I’m aware it’s a disgusting habit, unbecoming of a young lady of my stature.

I can already hear the phantom notes of Dad’s voice scolding me, reminding me that I’m too pretty to carry myself in such a way, as if the nervous tick hinders my ability to be beautiful, but I no longer register the pain of the bite.

These days, I chase it. Anything to distract me from the anxiety settling in my chest so I can focus on the goal in front of me.

Except, the goal changed. It changed out of nowhere and set me on a course from which I can’t deviate.

For so long, figure skating was my one true love, but now, my heart is calling for something else, someone else.

It’s like I’m being pulled against my will, sucked into a black hole and broken down on a cellular level.

It sounds terrifying. Feels that way, too.

I suppose falling for someone always is.

But there’s an excitement there as well, one you feel when you’re on the verge of discovery, the unknown, or death.

I haven’t quite determined where this new path leads.

All I know is its destination, so I’m taking the leap and committing to the jump.

Trepidation coils in my gut and my teeth sink into my thumb so hard I reopen the perpetual wound made sensitive from constant gnawing.

The metallic taste of copper pricks at my tongue, but I ignore it, swiping my tongue to lick away the blood and continue biting at the sore flesh.

I will my feet to move faster, picking up my pace so as not to encourage the impulse to turn around and forget I was ever here.

I’m not ready to let go yet, to let him go.

My blond ponytail tickles against my neck—the frantic bobbing, incessant with every hurried step as I speed-walk toward the roaring hockey arena.

It feels weird walking through the front doors and not going to practice or a competition. Turning right versus left toward the east wing is awkward and foreign. Muscle memory dictates I go to my left, toward my own rink, but that’s no longer where the path leads.

The atrium is rather empty as I pass. The obnoxious squeak of my sneakers echoing off the concrete walls grates in my ears.

The steady tempo indicating just how fast I’m walking.

With the game about to start, there’s hardly anyone left in the seating area.

The lingering staff and stragglers stand around to watch the TVs but that’s about it.

For a moment, I consider standing with them, to watch the game from behind the safety of television screens.

But if I were going to do that, I shouldn’t have bothered coming in the first place.

There’s a reason I stepped foot back in here, and it wasn’t so I could stand elbow to elbow with strangers cheering on guys playing with their sticks, so I force myself to keep going.

I pass the school’s trophy case and my favorite vending machine for the last time. I push through the swinging doors with the broken hinge that screeches every time it opens. I watch the air conditioner blow the school banners, causing them to billow above me for the last time.

The building is huge, and the hockey side is grander than what I’m used to on the figure skating side.

For however long I considered this place home, it’s bittersweet as I breeze past all its glory and shine for a final time.

I’m still several sections away from the actual rink and, though my toned legs are pushing as fast as they can, I don’t feel like I’m making any progress.

My destination only seems farther away. If that’s not a huge metaphor for the state of my life, I don’t know what is.

I’m closer than I realize, mere moments away from the most critical juncture of my life.

I keep my head down, but the farther I walk, the more people I encounter and the louder their voices grow.

“What is she wearing?”

“Is she a figure skater?”

“I wonder what she’s doing here?”

“I didn’t know there was a figure competition here today, too.”

“Look at her outfit.”

Nettlesome whispers surround me, but I do my best to push past the noise.

Distorted shadows reflect off the shiny gray concrete floor as I draw closer, taunting me with its mocking reflection. The big blue bow in my hair is comically disproportionate in the shadows. I look like Minnie Mouse, if Minnie Mouse were a recently disgraced figure skater.

I can feel the accusing stares creep over my body before they shift and dart away.

I cease my thumbnail chewing long enough to flash a smile to those who stare, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder and holding my head up high again.

Disgraced or not, perfection was something I always strove for.

No point in switching it up now. I can’t let them see me sweat, even if they are oblivious to my true discomfort.

I can deal with being the center of attention, even if the attention is bad.

What I can’t deal with is being the butt of a bad joke, which is what this is starting to feel like.

I catch another glimpse of myself mirrored in the tall windows as day gives way to night.

I did it again.

I know I did.

I took it a step too far like I always do. It’d be one thing if I was simply wearing my skating competition outfit, but nope, I couldn’t leave it at that. I had to go above and beyond, go the extra mile, like I always do . God, why am I like this?

I dig my pointer finger into the wound on my thumb, picking at the cut. The dull stinging sensation settles me once more.

Part of me believed the more I looked like myself tonight, the less likely he would suspect me.

I was sure I’d never been caught but, with my luck as of late, he’d know it was me immediately.

I figured if I was going to commit to coming straight here, I might as well try to look the part.

There was no reason to linger on the humiliating ostracization from my team, possibly the entire U.S figure skating collegiate organization.

This is a big game. Everyone should be showing school spirit, right?

Wrong. Everyone is in fact not decked out in glitter and hair streamers.

And here I thought I looked hot. I thought I was making lemonade out of lemons when it seems I was making Bloody Marys.

Soft snickering catches my attention, accompanied by not-so-subtle finger pointing.

I swivel my head to the right, spotting a group of friends in plain t-shirts and jeans.

They eye me suspiciously, like I’ve grown a second head or have extra appendages growing from my abdomen.

I turn away only to see a group of older women dressed in jerseys and leggings for the rival team.

They look just as confused, and my cheeks burn from the fabricated grin stuck to my face.

I no longer have the energy to smile, not genuinely.

Yet, I do it anyway. Force of habit, I guess.

I’m always performing, and a perfect smile will sell the show every time.

It’s taken everything in me to be here and not break down in tears. Because I’m here , instead of there . Today was my last shot at greatness, my last chance to achieve glory, and I fucking blew it. I didn’t just lose focus, I lost my goddamn mind.

And still…I came here.

Of course you did.

But now this is a chance to do what I want for once.

So, I won’t let the last two hours taint what I’m trying to accomplish now.

I’ve lost something important to me, something I chased my whole life and now I’m going to lose the person I’ve been chasing the last three months, who captured my attention before I’ve ever even had him.

So again, no, I won’t let their burning stares and snickering get to me.

A little boy no older than seven points at me like I’m infected with cooties.

Yeah, that is a whole lot easier said than done.

“Oh, hey, Sydney, is that you?” shouts a girl from my ethics class of all places, waving me down from up ahead like she’s trying to hail a cab.

I try pretending I don’t hear her but she’s drawing more attention by calling my name a second time, then a third. I can’t very well walk right past her like I don’t see her without raising further suspicion, can I?

She plants herself in my path, leaving me no other choice. “Sydney!” she yells, her arms still flapping despite forcing me to walk right up to her.

“Hey . . . you. What’s up?”

I’d never bothered remembering her name. She was nice for conversation in class, but our interactions started and ended there.

“What are you doing here?” Her eyes squint as she points to my outfit. “Shouldn’t you be—”

“Oh, I . . . uh, couldn’t afford the entry fee this time,” I lie, trying to be casual about the whole thing, though my perspiring forehead gives me away easily.

Why is it so hot in here? Isn’t this an ice arena?

The excuse sounds stupid the second the words leave my mouth.

“You . . . what?” That scoffing sound she’s making is laden with a hefty dose of disbelief. There’s not much a Sinclair can’t afford, least of all an entry fee.

Her mouth contorts. But then she’s gasping as if I’ve just revealed something important to her, though I’ve not said a word. For all my practice, all my sweet-talking and sugar-coating I so easily fall into, I have nothing left to say or give.

“Are you okay?” She asks, reaching out to…console me? I blink at her abnormally large hands that reach for mine and subtly tuck them behind me.

She either doesn’t notice or ignores my slight against her, leaning in instead and lowering her voice.

As if anyone can even hear us over the abysmal rendition of the national anthem blaring over the speakers.

“Look if you’re, like, in any trouble, you don’t have to worry.

I won’t tell anyone.” My brows scrunch at both her closeness and her words.

The hell?

I’m still wracking my brain around the awkward one-sided conversation when it finally hits me. Ohhh. She’s speculating that I’ve somehow gone bankrupt in the last twenty-four hours.

“That…” my lips part to tell her the truth but then clamp shut. That…might’ve been preferable actually. If only this were a matter of money instead of matters of the heart. I ultimately forgo correcting her. Best to let her think whatever she wants. Everyone else does.

“Um, well, gotta go,” I say, shifting my eyes around the rink as if looking for friends, not that I have any at this point. “I’m running late. See you later. Bye.”

“Well, wait I—”

I scurry off before more questions can be asked of me. She’ll learn the truth sooner or later, and by then it won’t matter, because I won’t be here.

A minute later, one of my professor’s TA’s tries to wave too when they recognize me, but I’m not one to make the same mistake twice. I promptly ignore them. Optics be damned.

What’s left of my thumbnail goes right back to its place between my lips as my manic muttering continues.

Fan-fucking-tastic!

“Congrats, Sydney. If you wanted his attention before, you’re definitely going to get it now, ” I mutter.

The sudden onset of delirium is still not enough to convince my feet to stop moving toward their goal.

The bright red skaters costume I’ve been sporting, complete with bedazzled sequins and glitter spray, should be reason alone to turn around and forget this whole thing, but—as is my nature—I stubbornly proceed.

When I put this outfit on a few hours ago I was a competing collegiate figure skater. Flash forward and I’m a bedazzled freak at a hockey game. Funny how quickly things change.

Though, if I’m being honest with myself, it wasn’t all that quick.

I’m no longer a collegiate figure skater, which means I no longer have a scholarship, which means it’s over . How I managed to get kicked off a team I worked my whole life to be on is beyond me. How I managed to get swindled by my own father is another issue entirely.

I gotta hand it to him though, Dad moved quick.

My program was set to start at three o’clock today.

I was confronted by Coach at two o’clock.

Expeditiously escorted from the ice by two thirty.

During what should have been my moment of glory, my program music playing and my name being called, I was being interrogated by the ethics committee.

Though it pained me to do it, one phone call to my father and an hour later all conjecture, questions, or suspicion was killed on the spot—but so were my chances of ever coming back from this.

My namesake may have been saved by Dad, but in the end he’s the one who’d truly won.

One private car and two hours later, my dad had arranged my transfer, broken my apartment lease, enrolled me into his internship, and confirmed my complete surrender.

By the time I’d arrived back at Bellemere it was a done deal, my time at Belle U was finished and all before my sophomore year.

So I had my driver course correct and bring me straight here. One last time .

For a moment, the pain manages to register, my teeth digging in a little harder than I mean for them to.

I yelp, pulling my thumb away on reflex.

I try to shake off the pain, but it’s in vain.

It sticks to me like a visceral beacon, a blaring red warning sign that says, “Beware of the girl with the broken heart.” The second the pain dissipates, my bleeding thumbnail goes right back in my mouth, as I speed past the uncomfortable watchful eyes of sports patrons.

Excessive, indeed.

I could have at least gone home and changed. Why didn’t I do that again?

Because you knew you wouldn’t come back otherwise .

Oh, right, I’d run.