Page 11 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

seven

I want to scream.

I should scream.

From frustration. From anger. From excitement. But the second his pants drop from his hips, the desire to make any noise at all leaves me entirely, replaced only with the need to lick every inch of him just like he did me.

I actually can’t believe he did that. I can’t believe I let him.

Though I don’t think stopping him was an option.

A kick to the dick didn’t even faze him and, admittedly, his unorthodox disposition did little to change my feelings.

He consumed the very fiber of my being the moment I was within reach.

Lucien Morrow is nothing like I thought he’d be, and yet everything I knew he’d be. Lethal. Dangerous. All-consuming.

I should be upset, right? A normal person would be upset. But I’m not. What does that say about me?

My panties are soaked, though I know I shouldn’t be turned on right now. Even still, my heart races, and my knees threaten to buckle. I’m locked up, bound to his will and completely at his mercy.

He’s filthy and vile, and flecks of blood still linger on his neck and ears…but he’s also talented and cunning, and fucking beautiful. He’s breathtaking. I’m utterly powerless to him, and it feels amazing .

For the first time he saw me, and all I could sense in him was adoration.

It was shocking because he was so apathetic when I found him.

The only concern he’d shown was when he looked at his knuckles, which haven’t been wrapped and still drip blood everywhere.

I could feel the warm fluid when he stroked my cheek, so soft and lovingly.

I bring my hand up to cup my face, still feeling the blood on my skin and the tightness of my cheeks from where some of it has started to dry.

I’ve never had anyone touch me like that.

I want him to do it again.

I’ve never had anyone lick me in my face or bite me in a first encounter either. But that singular act of stroking of my cheek made me feel…sentimental.

I had been prepared to walk away when I’d seen he was fine, but then…I couldn’t. Not yet. When he started talking to me, actually talking to me, I just couldn’t. I almost leapt in his arms the moment our eyes locked again.

I had assumed he was talking to himself, much like he’d been doing while he examined himself, but he called me out. He spotted me right away.

How did he do that?

I guess I could have ignored him and slipped out anyway, but there we were, in this space. This moment where I could finally just talk to him and it seemed as good a time as any.

However, standing in this locker is seriously starting to make me question my own sanity. Though the view of his ass is certainly soothing the discomfort. I could yell and knock against my prison like a normal person, but unlike my recent decisions suggest, I’m not stupid.

And as we’ve established, I’m not normal.

Making my whereabouts known is going to present more questions for me than it will him and I’m on thin ice as it is.

So I’ll wait patiently for them to leave and forget all about this little encounter with Lucien Morrow.

Even though my heart is screaming for the exact opposite.

It begs me to never forget and to keep a memento commemorating this occasion.

Shame the blood has to wash off.

I’m chewing on my thumbnail again when a stout middle-aged man storms into the room, slamming the door open so forcefully the locker walls shake. I press my palms to the cool metal and try to remain still, taking only shallow breaths.

“Morrow, what the fuck was that!” shouts the hard-bitten man in a Bellemere-blue button down I can assume is the coach.

“How many times have I told you? How many? Keep your emotions in check ! Do you have any idea what you cost us? What you cost yourself ?” his coach spits, heading right for Lucien.

If it were me being yelled at, I’d be shrinking in on myself, but Lucien stands tall. He’s a powerful force to be reckoned with even wearing nothing but compression shorts that hug his ass like they were painted on.

“Was I actually supposed to be keeping count? Because I gotta say, you’re putting me on the spot here,” responds Lucien.

“You think this is fucking funny?”

“Not at all, sir. Mental math is really hard for some people.”

A snicker bubbles out of me before I can stop it, and I slap my hand over my mouth. Lucien doesn’t look my way, but his back tenses and I’m certain he heard me. Shit . I’m probably going to get in trouble for that later. My eyes roll at the idea.

Get in trouble? Seriously? I’m an adult woman. He can’t do anything to me. But my heart pitter patters all the same. Even if it’s punishment, he’d be touching me.

The coach pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperation evident from his premature wrinkles and splotched, reddened skin.

“I’ve warned you, time and time again, but this time you’ve gone too far,” the coach breathes.

I’d heard of Lucien’s violent streak before, how he’d gotten kicked out of games, gotten into multiple fights, spent more time in the penalty box than he did on the ice some games.

But this was my first time seeing it first-hand.

I’d assumed people exaggerated. That they stretched the truth to fit the Morningstar brand. But I was wrong.

“This time was different,” Lucien grits, his voice sounding darker, angrier. He doesn’t sound at all like he did a second ago. He sounds haunted.

“Oh, you’re right about that. This time is different. You have no idea how badly you just fucked up, kid.”

“So, what’s the fucking problem? He’ll live. If he couldn’t take a punch, he should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut or, better yet, tried for a less violent sport,” Lucien snaps.

“Not everyone is your enemy, Lucien!”

“If you’re in my way, you’re my enemy,” Lucien growls, taking a step toward his coach. And though I can’t see his face, I know what his eyes are doing. I can see the fear written on the coach’s face. See his teammates jerk to attention, ready to stop whatever daring move Lucien makes next.

The coach straightens his shoulders, remembering his authority as he clears his throat.

“Well, this time you chose the wrong enemy. That was Jacob Anderson, the school president’s son.

” He pauses, searching for a reaction in Lucien.

When he doesn’t give one, the coach sighs.

“Look, kid, I like that killer in you. You got good instincts. You’re fast and ruthless.

You’ve got talent, but you lack control, and that is what’s going to be the end of you.

This time you really fucked up. The Andersons are not people whose bad side you want to be on. I can’t protect you this time.”

Everyone stands still, absorbing the news.

“You didn’t hear what he said.” Lucien’s voice is flat.

“I don’t care what he said, Lucien!” The coach explodes.

“You sent him to the goddamn hospital. You might’ve crippled him.

His father is not going to let that go. And the ref!

You attacked an NCAA official. They’re talking about keeping you off the ice for the remainder of the season.

This could mean suspension from the team.

Expulsion from the school. You might not ever get to play again; do you get that?

” The coach flails his arms with each statement.

Lucien’s quiet, but the message hits home.

His tattooed back tenses and his muscles ripple across the landscape as he works to reign in his temper.

He appears more tightly coiled than me, and I’m literally stuffed in a locker.

I want to reach out, to let him know it’ll be okay, but I have no idea if it’ll be okay.

In fact, I’m almost certain it won’t be.

I don’t particularly associate with the Andersons but I know what people like them do to those who cross them.

It’s what my own dad would do: protect the family name.

I move a hand to the locker door, foolishly wanting to provide him comfort, when my phone starts buzzing in my bra. I fish my hand between my boobs but in a haste to grab it, I accidentally knock my elbow against the locker.

Shit.

I angle the screen up, greeted with Bradford’s profile picture staring back. I stab my finger against his face to shut it up, my fingernail taps unhelpful as I brace myself for the inevitability of my capture. Instead, Lucien speaks.

“I’m sorry, Coach,” he grits.

The silence in the aftermath of Lucien’s apology is deafening. No one in the room can decide which sound to acknowledge. The sound I made in the locker was small, but it’s his apology that seems to be the more startling occurrence.

The coach is the one who breaks the awkwardness, huffing a derisive laugh.

“No, you’re not, so save your fake-ass apologies for when you’ll actually need them.

And believe me, Morrow, you will need them.

” He turns away from Lucien and I can feel the heat of Lucien’s rage.

“As for the rest of you, go home, get your rest, but come Monday morning . . . you can thank Morrow here for the world of pain that’s going to come from practice. ”

“Uh, morning , sir?” one of the players inquires.

“Yes, Chauncey, morning, ” he reiterates.

“But some of us have classes,” another player explains.

“Did I fucking stutter? You all have practice! All day. No excuses. No breaks. Your asses are mine or you can be out like your buddy Morningstar here.” He points angrily in Lucien’s direction and at least a dozen angry eyes pierce him like daggers.

I can feel everyone else’s disdain and resentment.

It serves him right, but I can’t seem to get my heart on board with the feelings of everyone else.

I know how that ire burns the skin. How it sears into your bones like a hot iron that you have no choice but to endure and take for the sake of the team .

Instead of condemning him, my mind can’t help but conjure all the ways that I can make Lucien feel better.

Many of which involve me naked and contorted in ungodly positions yet to be invented.

Hell, I’d even settle with just wrapping my body around his back like a koala.

It’s the only line of sight I have, and I want nothing more than to comfort his expressive back, even if it is adorned with a tattooed depiction of Hell.

I probably shouldn’t feel so melancholic about his feelings. I genuinely don’t think they’re capable of being hurt, but his poor back definitely has feelings. It needs to be rubbed and cuddled and—

Oh my God, stop romanticizing his back, girl.

I don’t.

I continue to personify his back as though it is its own separate entity from him while I patiently wait for this psychopathic heartthrob to release me from this locker prison.

It takes longer than I could’ve imagined, but over the next however many minutes the voices grow lighter and the weight of hatred in the room dissipates.

Then everything is quiet for a long, long time.

As the silence starts to settle, the locker door wrenches open, making me jump. My body bounces off the walls as I clamor about like a fish out of water.

I’m caught so off guard, it takes me a while to realize that my new friend, “Lucien’s back,” has disappeared and the real Lucien stands before me again. And damn it if I thought I was a fan of his back. I’m an even bigger fan of his front. He’s still shirtless.

He’s not insanely large, but what he lacks in bulk, he more than makes up for in solid, lean muscle covered in tattoos and scars. Suddenly the back tattoo makes a lot more sense. He’s a demon spawn born from Hell and, my god, could he wreck me if I’m not careful.

I can’t blink. And when my eyes finish roaming his body, I’m met with an amused stare. Leaning back into the locker, I find that I feel safer in here than in front of him. I gather what’s left of my determination. I’m not letting him trap me again. But then again, would that be so bad?

If only I’d met him sooner, maybe things wouldn’t have to be this way. Who am I kidding? It was always going to be this way.

I take a cautious step forward to exit the locker, thinking I can just make a run for it. But as fate would have it, I’ve lost all feeling in my legs from the lack of blood flow, so I fall . . . right into Lucien’s arms.

His skin is warm to the touch, and his hold is more careful than when he shoved me in the locker, but I stop breathing entirely when his fingers grip my chin and force me to look up at his sinful grin.

“You did such a good job, Princess.”

Holy hell, if that doesn’t make me wet all over again.

“I did?” I ask, my voice almost imperceptible.

“Yes, you did,” Lucien all but whispers.

He taps my nose with the tip of his finger, like one would a pet, but I’m too lost in his favor to care. I’m speechless. Those simple words of praise strung together cause me to beam with the impregnable force of a solar flare. I did good. He said I did good.

I’d managed to calm my raging hormones some twenty minutes ago after my legs went numb, but now they’re back with the strength of a thousand suns and fuck me if now I don’t have to run away just to keep from jumping him.

I scoot away to test it, to see if I’m still ‘locked in’ with him, but he doesn’t make a move to stop me.

I stare at him warily before lifting a wobbling leg to stand.

He moves with me and I sigh, fearing he won’t let me go afterall, but all he does is help me up and brush me off.

Rubbing my ass to remove the nonexistent dirt.

“Well, this has been . . . lovely,” I deadpan. “But I’m leaving now.”

I make my way to the exit, moving as quickly as I can without bursting into a full-blown sprint, but he seems resolved to remain in his spot.

Part of me hopes he won’t let me, that he’d force me to stay with him, but I know better now than to hope for anything more than what fate is willing to give me, and it’s not him.

My footsteps slow of their own accord as I’m about to close the door, wanting to savor this last moment with him.

It wasn’t exactly the introduction I’d always wanted, and it was far beyond the realm of normal, but it certainly won’t be one I ever forget.

Despite the craziness of it all, I’ll cherish this moment forever.

“See you around,” he teases, his smile wide with mischief and playfulness. I don’t smile back.

“No . . . you won’t,” I tell him, right before the door closes, and I disappear for good this time.