Page 12 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)
SYDNEY
Three months ago
C hoosing this song was a mistake, I think right before I fall.
Do figure skaters even make money?
I grunt at the sting of ice on my knees as I struggle to peel myself off the ice and stand again.
If you can’t even succeed on the collegiate level, how am I supposed to believe you can make a career out of this? You’re better off coming home, finishing your business degree, and claiming your seat at the table.
My father’s words ring in my head.
“No, no, no, dammit!” I slap my hands against the ice, intensifying the pain.
The chances of you making it to the Olympics aren’t marginally high. You had your chance and look what happened.
“Fuck!” I scream into the empty air. The pain, my only solace. The rink, as abandoned as my spirit. And the echoes, my reverent audience.
I fall again and again before I’m forced to take a quick break, lest I pass out in the middle of the rink. In an effort to hydrate, I chug enough water to drown then move back into position. But before I can start the music again, my phone chimes with a message.
Bradford 8:30 PM
Are you coming home for Spring break?
Heaving the deepest sigh possible, I grip my phone tighter.
“Not if I can help it,” I mutter even as my fingers fly over the keys to respond.
Sydney 8:31 PM
Depends on my training schedule.
Bradford 8:31 PM
They make you train over the break? Lame.
If you want to be taken seriously as a competitive figure skater, you absolutely train over the break. You train harder than anyone else, for longer than anyone else, until you’re the best. Which is what I’ll be—the best. I’ll be even better than before.
Sydney 8:32 PM
It’s a competitive sport.
Bradford 8:32 PM
Wouldn’t you rather come hang out with us in Aspen?
By ‘us’ he means the same other five legacies whose mommies and daddies hang out at the country club together.
I wish I could say our parents are ‘friends,’ but the wealthy don’t have friends, they have business associates.
They don’t have ‘parties,’ they have networking events.
And they sure as shit don’t have fun, they siphon joy out of the nearest living life source and feed on the collected misery of others.
Sydney 8:35 PM
Totally! If I can get away, I’m so there.
Yeah, I know. I talk a big game, but this is the only life I know.
If I’m not training, I have nothing better to do, so I might as well spend my break in Aspen with Bradford.
It’s important I get used to spending time with him since, knowing Dad, he’ll probably be my husband one day.
Might as well get used to faking it with him.
Bradford 8:35 PM
Great. Can’t wait to pick up where we left off *winky face emoji*
I grimace, remembering the point where we left off. My pussy still burns from the way he hammered his bony fingers so hard I thought he was trying to start a fire. Honest to God, I thought that was how I was going to lose my virginity. Alas, it’s still intact, scientifically speaking.
Sydney 8:37 PM
Me neither. Maybe this time I’ll return the favor.
God, I’m hopeless. Why am I even getting his hopes up?
I’ve seen his dick—he texted me a picture—and it’s nothing to salivate over.
I’d rather get this routine down than go to fucking Aspen to suck his mediocre dick and get carpet burn of the clit again, or rather the labia, since he couldn’t find my clit.
I’m getting irritated just thinking about it.
Had he had any idea what he was doing, he might have broken my hymen.
Bradford 8:37 PM
Damn, baby, you’re killing me. You’re going to make me come just thinking about you wrapping your lips around my cock.
Jesus. And he’s going to make me gag just thinking about it—and not in the good way.
Sydney 8:37 PM
*Smirk emoji*
Bradford 8:37 PM
What are you wearing right now?
Aaand that’s where I draw the line. I step back onto the ice, restarting my routine. This time without the music. I need to focus on the fundamentals again and quiet all the fucking noise. Dad’s voice in my head is hauntingly clear, a whisper I can't seem to ignore.
Why do you fight this so much? Do you have any idea how grateful anyone else would be in a position such as yours?
My ankle twists and I’m forced to go with it, conscious not to go against the bend and break it.
I drop with a hard thwack , bracing myself in the nick of time with my hands.
The ice is cold against my bare palms, but I shake off the pain radiating from my wrist, ignore the fact that my hip will be bruised in the morning, and get up to try again.
The same thing happens, and this time, I don’t get back up so quickly.
Sitting up, I sniffle, the cold finally getting to me.
I’ve been out here for hours. My hair is matted with sweat and sticking to my skin.
I hang my head, giving myself one more moment of self-pity.
I’ll do it. I’ll get there. I’ll be the greatest there ever was.
But first, I could desperately use a shower, I brush my hands together and stand again. Time to admit defeat and go home.
*Click*
“Hello?” I call out.
*Soft giggling*
“Who’s there?” I hate that my voice sounds weak.
*More giggling*
“You guys, if this is some sort of prank, it isn’t funny.” Okay, at least my voice didn’t crack.
The sound of a door slamming kick starts my heart, and I jump almost ten feet in the air.
That’s one way to stick the landing . I huff a breath, the cloud billowing into the air as I stand in the middle of the rink.
Alone. I give it a minute before I’m dumb enough to go toward the noise.
I find out too late the real dumb decision was not moving faster.
Teetering on my skates, I scurry to the exit and press against the push bar on the door.
It clicks with every thrust, but the door doesn’t budge, it doesn’t open.
“Son of a bitch,” I grumble.
My eyes roll as I try to keep my emotions in check. More like daughter of a bitch, because this childish stunt has Tiffany St. James written all over it.
“Ocean Eyes” by Billie Eilish plays on my phone.
My headphones drown out thoughts, leaving the serene voice of my girl Billie. A shower did wonders to calm me down, but Billie Eilish is doing the rest. Back in normal clothes, I head out of the arena.
What a fucking bitch.
Tiffany, not Billie.
Of course, it wasn’t enough that she beat me in last month’s competition or knocked me out of the running for the singles championships. She wants my complete humiliation. I can almost respect her position on the matter. After all, we’re not so different.
I’m technically still in the running, and that makes her anxious.
Even though I came in fourth, I can still compete if one of the other placements gets sick or injured, or can’t compete because of grades or something.
Anything can happen, and even though the chances are slim, they are viable options.
So, like any respectable athlete, I haven’t relented on my training.
If I’m given the chance, I’ll win for sure .
. . a fact that apparently worries Tiffany.
It almost makes me smile but tonight’s practice was rough. If I could just get this move right. I’m not coming out of my spin fast enough to pivot into the jump I need. I’m not generating enough force to make the height, and the song choice isn’t helping matters either.
Maybe if I lose a few more pounds . . . or change the song?
My teeth click as I nibble on the small piece of flesh near my hangnail.
I can’t let Tiffany beat me again.
I deserve to win. And not because I’m a Sinclair.
My dad’s money doesn’t help me here. I may be on the top of the food chain back in California, but in these Washington mountains, I’m no one.
As much as that annoys me, I actually prefer it.
I’d rather be here as a nobody than a somebody back home.
I’d rather struggle as a figure skater than be another pawn on the Sinclair chessboard.
That’s why I’ve worked so hard to create my own destiny.
I want to win my own game, not my father’s.
I take my time walking out of the arena, checking all the side doors on the way out, just in case.
I’m headed toward the exit on the hockey side of the building since that door’s always open.
Those keys are held by the janitorial staff for the whole arena, not just the figure skaters’ side so I should be golden.
I marvel at the expanse of the space and the quiet echoes of my footsteps as I trudge forward.
This town lives and breathes hockey, so everything is bigger and shinier on this side.
I can tell it’s impressive, though some of the lights are busted.
They flicker and buzz, straining to light the path ahead.
If I didn’t already reach my scare quota earlier tonight I might be frightened, but as it stands, I’m only mildly entertained with how anti-climatic this all is.
Now if it were me, and the roles were reversed, if I was enacting revenge on Tiffany, I wouldn’t have stopped at just locking her inside and leaving.
Oh no, that lacks imagination and follow through. Honestly, where’s the creativity?
If I really wanted to prove a point, I’d ensure not only that this was her only way out, but that she had no means of contacting help.
I’d create a true sense of danger, maybe sneak up behind her in the dark and bind her to the shower faucets while she was naked in the locker room.
Or ominously appear at the end of the hall in a mask holding a knife.
I dunno, make her pee herself from fear and record it so I’d have evidence of her humiliation.
Use it to blackmail and keep her in line or use it to force her to drop out of the running for the competition altogether. See, that’s her problem.
She lacks conviction.