Page 17 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

Of course it was Mary. Yeah nope, still not tracking her down.

I don’t care that much, but it still seems a weird thing to do for me.

How’d she know that would even be something I’d want?

There are plenty of coffee shops around here.

Hell, there’s one right across the street.

This just happens to be my favorite one.

Though, I suppose it’s a lot of people’s favorite.

Mary could have done it herself before she left, but then again, I doubt she’d spend all her job earnings on a coffee tab for me.

Would she? That’s a little creepy. I like creepy.

I’m halfway to class, still considering whether or not I want to track down Mary when I take my last sip of coffee. Pulling out my phone, I send out a text.

Lucien 9:08 AM

Did you create me a tab at Bean Cup?

Cap 9:10 AM

Why the fuck would I do that?

Lucien 9:10 AM

Uh, because you’re my best friend?

Cap 9:10 AM

I’m your only friend.

You have 300 new notifications

Notifications start scrolling across my phone screen and they all have one thing in common: they’re all from @BladeSpinner.

“Looks like you’re not my only friend,” I mutter.

I scroll through every notification. Every post on my page has been liked and favorited. I have more than thirty thousand followers, mostly Belle U hockey fans, since all my content is footage from my games, but @BladeSpinner hasn’t left a single comment.

I scroll their page, unsurprised when I find there are no posts and they’re only following one person: me.

Their profile picture doesn’t give anything away either.

At least nothing I can use to learn anything about them.

It’s a picture of a gopher skiing down a mound of dirt that says Gopher Gold across the middle.

It’s kind of funny actually, but I can’t tell if they’re fucking with me to be funny or if they want something.

The wadded gum thing was weird, but it wasn’t like it was poisonous.

Maybe a little disgusting, but not an inherently bad thing.

I doubt they expected me to eat it or anything, so again, what was the point?

They asked me to guess, so maybe I know them or know of them.

Why are they hiding from me?

Oh my God! This one’s alive. He’s alive you guys!

Sweetie? Hey, sweetie, can you hear me?

Can you hear me?

Wake up.

Wake Up!

My head pounds as I jolt awake, my brain physically throbbing as if I slammed it through a window.

I groan, pressing the heel of my palm to my temple.

It always feels so real. Every time, it’s like I’m right back there.

I lay back against the headboards, staring at my hands.

They’re shaking. Balling my fist, I force myself to take a deep breath.

*chime *

I blindly reach over and grab my phone.

Unknown 2:13 AM

You awake?

Lucien 2:23 AM

How did you get this number?

Unknown 2:23 AM

*shushing emoji*

It’s a secret

Lucien 2:24 AM

Dude, what is your deal? Why the fuck are you making this so weird?

Unknown 2:24 AM

I’m not being weird. You’re being weird.

I huff a laugh, sitting up as I regard their text more closely, then choosing to respond over the alternative.

Lucien 2:24 AM

How am I being the weird one here?

Unknown 2:24 AM

You’re talking to a stranger in the middle of the night.

Lucien 2:25 AM

So are you.

Unknown 2:25 AM

No, I know exactly who you are. It is you who does not know me.

Lucien 2:25 AM

Then tell me who you are.

Unknown 2:35 AM

I’ve changed my mind.

Lucien 2:36 AM

About?

Unknown 2:36 AM

I don’t think I want you to know who I am anymore.

Lucien 2:36 AM

Why the fuck not?

Unknown 2:36 AM

I’m having too much fun.

Lucien 2:37 AM

You think this is funny?

Unknown 2:37 AM

Immensely

Lucien 2:37 AM

It won’t be so fun for you when I catch you.

Unknown 2:38 AM

Good luck with that.

Padding over to the bathroom, I huff another laugh. What the fuck? Who has ever intentionally riled me up like this? No one. Everyone else is always, “Chill out, Lucien ”, “Calm down, Lucien ”, “Don’t break his arm, Lucien .”

I’ve been in a bad mood these days. Probably from the lack of sleep, but it’s not getting any better.

I’m two seconds from blowing either my own head off or someone else’s.

I know it, my coach knows it, Trevor knows it.

My team probably suspects it, but I’m still performing during games, so no one’s complaining, but this guy, whoever they are, is pushing me, poking the fucking bear.

And for what? To see me snap? Because that’s what I’ll do if they don’t fucking quit.

I’ll snap, and then we’ll see how brave @BladeSpinner really is.

LUCIEN

@BladeSpinner has tagged you in a post.

I open my phone to see a picture of myself slumped in my seat with a short message.

@BladeSpinner

I don’t see how you haven’t died of boredom yet.

What. The. Fuck?

My head whips in the direction the photo’s been taken, but there’s no one there. No one suspicious, that is. They must have considered I’d look that way first and posted the picture after they’d already left. Smart.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I type back, hoping to catch someone in the act . . .

@therealLucifer

Is death something you desire?

I jerk my head back up. But no one turns around or looks toward their hands.

It doesn’t help that there are at least two hundred students in here.

I should have paid better attention on who exactly was in this fucking class.

That way I could spot the outlier, but I’ve been in a prison of my own mind this semester and I didn’t have time for the frivolity of niceties.

So, I have no fucking clue who’s in this class.

I look at my phone again.

There’s a long tentative pause.

@BladeSpinner

Sometimes.

Well, at least they’re honest. Death is something I could easily give, even though it’s been evading me for years.

If I wasn’t already contemplating their murder, I think I’d feel bad that they feel that way.

I don’t wish that on anyone. But, alas, I don’t feel anything close to that particular emotion.

What I do feel is a kindred spirit of sorts, a camaraderie I don’t typically feel outside of hockey. I message back.

@therealLucifer

Lucky you. Death and I are on favorable terms.

@BladeSpinner

Wow, one who rivals even death. Impressive.

@therealLucifer

Death has no rivals.

@BladeSpinner

And yet you breathe.

I’m not picking up any malicious intent around me even when the message implies otherwise.

Though it’s not like I’m being given much to go off of.

My eyes scan the large auditorium-sized classroom but again there’s no one acting out of the ordinary.

The only thing out of the ordinary is me, having back-to-back text exchanges with a stage-4 creeper.

I haven’t had this much phone activity since . . . since them .

@therealLucifer

I was supposed to die once before.

Why the fuck did I tell them that?

@BladeSpinner

Why didn’t you?

@therealLucifer

I was spared.

The anger I’m constantly holding back must bleed out onto my features because the next message comes quickly.

@BladeSpinner

You don’t seem too happy about it.

@therealLucifer

I’m not.

@BladeSpinner

I thought your terms were favorable.

@therealLucifer

I didn’t say I liked it.

I search the rows again, even more curious to see who they could be, but almost everyone has their phones out, hidden in their laps.

Or their laptops open, either taking notes or pretending to take notes.

It makes it harder to tell who could be sending these messages.

I consider blocking them again, but then another message appears.

@BladeSpinner

I’m glad you were spared.

SYDNEY

It’s at the tip of my tongue to ask him what he does like.

He obviously fancies himself the quiet brooding type when, in fact, he’s the furthest from it.

I see the way he peacocks around here, fluffing his feathers and preening for his fans, but I wonder which is the real him?

Is it the one who smiles and flirts with everyone he meets or is it the one who sneaks away to practice alone? Who is Lucien Morrow really ?

I stand from my position in the risers above, careful not to fall or make noise as I smile down at him. I’ll find out soon enough I suppose . . . after my own practice that is.

“One and two and three and four and—good, good, looking great, Sydney,” my coach shouts over the ice.

My grin grows wider, doubling in size when Tiffany’s morphs into a scowl.

Hannah, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to be sick.

My grin grows impossibly larger because if Hannah is getting sick, that could mean an opening in the roster.

The once-happy expression dwindles though when I take into account she probably won’t still be sick in six weeks.

One could hope, but, unless it’s something serious, it doesn’t seem likely.

Unless . . . it becomes something serious.

Unfortunately, today is not the day I talk to Lucien D.

Morrow. I want to. I yearn to cross the street, walk right up to him, and use all of my infinite charm to seduce him into doing .

. . fuck . . . I don’t really know. Something with me.

Except, when I’m near him, I practically choke on air.

It’s nothing like when I have Bradford wrapped around my finger, he begs for my attention.

Or even Dad’s colleagues who pretend they’re interested in my thoughts on political ties in the pharmaceutical sector, and how that affects the free-trade agreements.

No, the only thing they want to trade, is their left nut for even the chance to gaze upon my virgin cunt.

A fact they’re all aware of because my father flaunts it like it’s the gold medal of all successful child-rearing adults to have a daughter as pure and innocent as his.

They look at me like sharks who smell blood in the water.

They want to make me bleed. They want to fuck me. And one day, one of them will—it’s just a matter of when, by force or otherwise.

If we were in historical times, they’d probably bid for my virginity, and my father, smart, successful businessman that he is, would probably consider the sale if it were a decent offer.

I’m sure the deal would be lucrative. Sadly, I’ve grown so accustomed to their ‘desire,’ I no longer even flinch when they peek at my tits, unable to hold conversations with their eyes on me because, apparently, I’m so goddamn irresistible—but not to Lucien.

No , star hockey player and beloved Morningstar of Bellemere University can’t even bring himself to notice me. I’ve brought down Fortune 500s with my purity schtick and yet I can’t get Lucien to even look at me.

He can’t see you if you’re all the way over here, crazy.

I brush off the rational thought because my disinterest never seemed to be a problem for others before.

No matter how hard I focused on my own goals, guys inevitably found ways to impose on me even when I wanted nothing to do with them.

I have no idea how to act with things this way.

How does one become the pursuer? Is that even what I want?

To pursue? And what happens when I get it?

We talk, we date, and then . . . what? I’m not so sure this is as appealing as I’m making it out to be.

I stare across the street for a little while longer. I couldn’t bring myself to go to Bean Cup today, there’s been no point now that I’ve gotten rid of Mary. Besides, this cafe has the better espresso shots.

The cute French-style bistro is much more my scene and sits conveniently across from Bean Cup.

It’s surprising they’re both as successful as they are with the rivalry, but I guess they serve different purposes, so they both thrive.

This bistro has the better espressos and food, but Bean Cup is more cost friendly and has the better baked goods.

I see why he likes it over there. In recent weeks, I’ve learned he’s a sucker for something sweet.

I stare out over the street where he sits, watching his knee bounce frantically.

Sheesh, he needs to cool it on the caffeine if he’s going to be so jittery.

I watch the cars pass as they obstruct my view one by one.

It grates on my nerves. I don’t want any barriers between us.

It’s a simple street, but it may as well be miles of canyon with the amount of distance that rests between us.

I start to wonder what would happen if I stepped out into traffic, would I get his attention then? I mean, I know what would happen; I’d be severely hurt or killed, but then what? What would Father think? Would he be crushed?

I chuckle.

No, I’d be crushed.

Would he be heartbroken? I’d like to think so.

I’m sure he would. I know Father loves me.

He can stand to show it a little better, but I know I’m his crowning glory.

The culmination of all his success. His pride and joy, if only I didn’t figure skate.

He’d probably raise all hell and burn this school to the ground, build condos on its ashes and charge triple the rent if he blamed them for my untimely death, intentional or not.

The bigger question though, is how would Lucien react? Would he see some dead girl in the street and keep walking? Would he try to save me? I think he’d be curious. Yeah, he seems familiar with the concept of death.

What was it he’d said? Oh yeah, that him and death were on favorable terms, whatever that means. Point is, he’d know I was a goner for sure, but I’d like to think he would at least wonder why I walked into traffic.

I chuckle into the China cup poised to my lips, barely stifling the giggle as others watch me. It’s not funny . . . but then again, it’s a little funny. It’s a joke as old as time.

Why did the figure skater cross the busy road?

Because she wanted to get to the other side.

I snort a laugh again, unable to hide the sheer amusement of my own joke. More people look my way as though I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

When I look across again, I see Lucien getting up to leave.

Oh shit .

I clink my cup back down, slap a fifty-dollar bill on the table, and am on the move once more. I wonder where he’s going now.

One way or another, I’ll get his attention.