Page 18 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

eight

Present

I t doesn’t take me long to find her. My Little Stalker Princess is shockingly easy to read. Someone who has the time to stalk typically doesn’t have a lot of friends. And even if she had one or two, they’re not the kind of friends to have come to the game with her.

When I saw her across the ice, she appeared to be by herself, and the fact that she followed me back into the locker room and got herself trapped in the first place suggests she had no one waiting for her.

Someone that comfortable with being alone needs a place to ensure they remain that way, which means leaving the arena with a slew of people is out of the question, and if she stayed and waited out the crowd in a shimmery leotard no less, then . . .

Voila.

Here she is, skating on her own rink. And as predicted, alone.

I was right.

Though it didn’t pose an extreme challenge, I’m still going to enjoy the spoils of my riches.

I’m about to go down there and collect my prize when an idea forms. I’m going to take a moment to watch her for once.

Yeah , I’m capable of exercising a little control, so I’ll let her pretend she’s safe and at peace, then smack her with my hammer of truth when she’s done putting on her show.

And by my ‘hammer of truth,’ I do mean my dick.

I imagine her making a Thor joke and the immediate desire to hear the witty remarks from her DMs in person sets me on fire.

Silently taking the steps two at a time, I pick a seat in the middle, dropping my bag in the seat next to me.

I’m a few rows up from the rink where it’s still dark so she’s none the wiser to my presence.

. . for now. With no scheduled competitions and the team in Seattle, the only lights present on this side are the ones directly above the rink.

Like a spotlight, only the illuminated circle is visible in the dimmed space.

That would be fine, but unlike our side, the space isn’t huge.

She could spot me if she looked hard enough.

Beneath the spotlight, a small boombox sits in the middle of the ice with her where she poses like a ballerina, sporting a pair of glittery white skates.

The music begins to play a slow, sensual ballad that sucks me in and trains my focus on the beautiful girl.

I lean forward in my seat; my hoodie pulled back from my damp hair so I can get a better look.

I can’t wait to see how she skates and learn what the infamous @BladeSpinner can do.

The username is more clever than I gave her credit for. I’d assumed she had a thing for knives like me, but this makes loads more sense.

I’d never given much thought to the figure skaters before.

Unlike other schools, we have separate rinks from one another in a top-of-the-line facility that rivaled some of the other professional arenas.

They stayed out of our way and we stayed out of theirs.

But sitting here, watching her in her natural habitat, there’s no way she’ll ever be off my radar again.

She pushes off strong at first, her body clearly honed to perfection to excel at the sport.

Her long, lean legs are etched in muscle.

They tense and flex, balancing the weight of her body throughout her movements.

Ice shavings fall like confetti against her pale skin and though she looks cold, she skates like she’s on fire, like she’ll combust from the heat.

The song she’s selected sounds sad at first, but it’s a powerful crescendo, highlighted by her equally powerful motions throughout the piece.

The speed she’s generating alone is impressive, causing the wind to whip at her hair and thrust the skirt of her velvety red leotard up as she moves to the beat of the sultry song.

I’m captivated. I was too busy licking her face to notice what she was wearing in the locker room.

It’s a deep blood color. My cock jumps as the flaps of her skirt flit and brush across her backside, her bare ass playing peek-a-boo with my resolve, teasing and taunting me to come down and take a bite.

I salivate at the opportunity laid before me.

The opportunity to take and hurt. To lick my metaphorical wounds after a shitty night and bathe in her desperate screams for mercy, for forgiveness.

I rub myself through my sweatpants to keep calm and tame the erection that threatens that thinly-lined resolve.

I’m ready to slam my hammer of truth into her pussy and hear her screams echo throughout this arena. She’s not safe, the farthest from it in fact, but when I stand to make my way toward her, she stutters and falls.

She grunts in frustration, and I pause my descent down the steps, trying to work out the rational side of my brain that says I should probably check on her or something. Luckily, I don’t have to force a decision.

She gets back up and tries her routine again.

Atta girl, show that ice who’s boss.

I rewatch the private show she’s put on, temporarily putting aside my thoughts of fucking her.

This time, I don’t allow myself to be distracted.

I watch her face, noting how tight it is.

Her brows are furrowed, deeply wrinkled and hardened in concentration.

Her limbs are strained throughout her movements.

She’s choppy when she should be languid. Her smile is so fake, it’s sad.

I lose my hard-on entirely and flop back down into a seat, watching to see where this train wreck goes. Perhaps it can be salvaged.

But she falls again.

Ouch.

I wince, envisioning the pain she must be experiencing, but not getting turned on by it.

Her thigh smacked the ice hard on that last one and I can see the large area of skin turning pink from here.

That’s no way to bruise. I’ll have to show her the proper way.

The way that leads to mind-boggling orgasms afterward.

Twenty minutes have passed and I’ve long since made my way closer to the rink, moving to sit along the wall’s edge after she almost broke her ankle when she didn’t land her final jump.

She tries the routine a few more times without the music this time, but I can tell she’s reaching her limit and wearing herself out.

My feet swing back and forth, watching with rapt attention as she fails each time.

It’s not the failure I’m enjoying, but rather her refusal to quit. That’s a positive sign.

She starts her performance over three more times before finally screaming a defeated growl and driving her skate through the boombox.

It sparks upon impact, screeching a high-pitched howl before imploding on itself and cracking.

Whatever song was playing groans and skips until it’s nothing more than an obnoxious hum.

Then she lifts her foot up and thrusts her skate down one more time to shut it up for good.

Just like that, my hard-on has returned with a mighty vengeance.

What a beautiful display of violence .

Looks like I’m not the only one who lets their emotions get the best of them. Right when I think I have her figured out, she manages to surprise me again. I guess that’s just it though, isn’t it? My Little Stalker Princess has been surprising me all day, acting out of character.

I didn’t hear from her for two days, no ominous texts or random check-ins, and then she shows up out of the blue all cute and innocent at my game.

Her aggression is the first honest expression she’s made since we were back in the locker room.

Her fear was real, her disgust—at least initially—was believable, but everything after has been lies.

Her breasts bob at a frantic pace as she tries to force additional air into her lungs, resting her arms atop her head as she stares up at the ceiling.

Sweat trills down the soft curves of her reddened cheeks and hair that’s slipped from her braid sticks out in swirled patterns along her hairline.

Her bottom lip trembles as a silent curse whispers into the air.

“Shit.”

Aww, fuck, she looks like she’s ready to cry.

My lip pokes out in a pout. Poor thing. I don’t want a sad plaything.

That’s no fun. My Little Stalker Princess should be happy.

After all, she got to meet the object of her obsession today.

Doesn’t that make stalkers happy? I mean, I guess I’ve heard the opposite too; that they get so disappointed in their obsession the only choice is to off them, but she’s barely even tried to hurt me.

The kick to the balls she tried apologizing for doesn’t count.

Am I not worthy of psychotic behavior? Are we not the same? Surely the thought has passed her mind.

Bad stalker princess.

Now I’m sad that I was a disappointing victim, not even worth being happy about catching or sad enough to murder. That sucks. I should cheer her up.

“Why so serious, Princess?” I ask, doing my best Joker impersonation. Though, I suppose my best might have been too good because she practically jumps out of her skin at the realization I’ve been sitting here the whole time.

“God! What are you still doing here?” she shouts, her eyes bugged out in surprise. The light shining above barely touches me, the outer layer of light a thin veil she hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

You’d think she’d be better at this game.

“You can’t just pop up on me like some kind of Houdini!” she shrieks.

‘ Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids. ’

The barked laughter that erupts from my chest comes out more maniacal than I intend. Her shoulder’s flinch and I attempt to take it down a notch. I’m going to scare her off at this rate.

Yet she slowly skates toward me, not away.

“Well, most people call me Morrow—or Morningstar when I’m being particularly savage—but I quite like the sound of God. Do you want me to be your god, Princess?”

I drawl, though judging by the open-mouthed expression, she’d happily worship my cock if motivated enough.