Page 2 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

two

T his is Maddie Jameson’s tenth birthday party all over again.

I had been so excited about the prospect of a real princess-themed birthday party, I showed up in a handmade pink princess ball gown.

It had been made special by my nanny with hand-stitched lace and my own embroidered handkerchief.

My hair had been professionally styled and topped with a real diamond-encrusted tiara that I begged my father to have made by the family jeweler.

Needless to say, I was dressed so lavishly, I wasn’t allowed to play with the other girls.

To make matters worse, Maddie Jameson was so jealous, she purposely spilled her Kool-Aid on my princess gown and never invited me to her birthday parties again.

Joke’s on her though, my parties were infamously better.

However, the same feelings I had back then are the ones I’m plagued with now.

A chill slithers up my spine at the memory, or maybe it’s the chill of the arena as I draw ever closer.

Get it together, Sydney. You don’t have time to wallow.

My bloodied thumb slips from my lips a final time to swing at my side as I stride forward.

The crowd thickens and I have to weave around more than walk ahead.

My heart pounds and I press my hand to my chest, forcing it to calm down, but it fights back, thumping against my palm like we’re high-fiving or some shit.

I’ve performed in front of a crowd of thousands, yet the sheer idea of talking to the guy I like is causing me to scratch at my skin—or rather bite at it.

The plan was simple: watch the game, fake some kind of run-in with him, then live happily ever after. But the more I let that thought take root, the sicker I feel.

What is wrong with me?

Today was going to be the day I was finally going to talk to him. Though, if this is my body’s reaction, I might be hoping for too much.

A flash of all my other failed attempts to speak to him spring to mind, but I shake it off.

No, this time will work. It will. It has to.

But then my phone is ringing and whatever hope I had a second ago is immediately dashed. I answer on reflex, knowing ignoring it isn’t an option. Letting it ring more than twice is an even worse alternative.

“Hi, Dad,” my voice trembles.

“What is that noise? Why is it so loud?” He questions me.

I rush to cup my hands over the speaker, but it’s already too late. I elbow the people in my way to make it to one of the alcoves lined between the restrooms. Ducking behind the columns, I smash the phone to my ear.

“Yes,” I hiss. “I’m here, I’m just . . .”

“Why aren’t you home packing, Sydney?” my father accuses, not allowing me to get a word in edgewise, even if I did have a suitable answer.

My eyes close on a sigh. I didn’t even make it to the rink before I was caught.

“Umm . . .” Smooth, Sydney. Real smooth. “I just needed to make a quick stop. I’ll be heading home soon. I promise.”

“What kind of stop?” he asks, bypassing regular socio-normative greetings entirely and straight into interrogation.

No, ‘Hi, Sydney, how are you?’

Or ‘Hello, daughter, are you feeling alright after I completely upended your life?’

I’ve no clue why I’m even surprised. The conversation never goes that way.

“I asked you a question, Sydney. What kind of stop did you make?” he asks again.

I take in a deep breath. “I came to the arena to get the remainder of my things.”

It’s not my best lie, but it’s partly true. What’s the thing people say? The best lies are wrapped in truth.

“What for? You won’t be needing it.” His voice is stern, leaving little room for rebuttal.

“I know, but I was asked to clear it out and it was better I do it myself, so they won’t have to cut the lock off and throw it all away. At least this way I can donate the skates to someone worthy,” I counter, knowing any one of the girls would gladly snatch up my skates if I left them.

He chuckles, but it’s his public relations laugh. The kind that holds no real sense of joy in the expression. He might as well be yawning. That would be less offensive.

“Worthy? Honey, they’re figure skates, not investment bonds. The only thing you need to be doing right now is making sure you’re ready to go by ten tomorrow morning.”

There are so many ways I want to respond, but ultimately sickening desperation wins out. If I could just get him to see reason.

I clear my throat.

“What if . . . What if I talk to the coach again? Maybe I could get the—”

“We had a deal. And a Sinclair—”

“Always honors a deal,” I finish for him. “Yes, I know.”

“Exactly. I commend you for holding out all this time. Genuinely, I do. I’d expected you to falter long before now but you proved to be far more formidable than I’d initially given you credit for.

” My heart skips at what—from him— is the closest thing to high praise I’ve ever received.

“However . . .” The guillotine drops. “I’ve let you play fairy princess for long enough.

I spoiled you and let you pursue your frivolous hobbies, but it stops now.

You couldn’t hold up your end of the bargain and, what’s worse, you almost let our good name get tainted with your antics.

It’s time to come home. You’ll have a couple weeks to get settled, but then you’ll start your internship at Sinclair Enterprises and claim what’s yours. ”

Mine? There is no mine. It’ll never be mine.

“But if I could just—”

“In the meantime I’ve set up some dinner dates for you. We need to refocus on expansion and securing you a suitable match that will ensure our future. Now more than ever.”

“Please, Dad. Just let me—”

“Forget all of this and put it behind you.” He brokers no room for argument. But inside, I am screaming. I didn’t want to put it behind me .

My life at this school was supposed to be my future and the life I put behind me was the one with him and those god awful people.

Going back meant I was going to be reduced to being a glorified honeypot meant to seduce and trick his competitors.

And these dates to find me a ‘suitable match’ was just another deception.

He didn’t care if I actually liked the guy, only that they helped him garner more power.

And apparently he never cared what my plans for the future were because this has been nothing more than a foregone conclusion to him.

The worst part is he hasn’t raised his voice once. He doesn’t have to. His words are sharp enough all on their own and I’m used to the cut.

“But—” I try again, my unyielding nature one of the few traits we share.

“But nothing,” he says. “You failed. My expectations were clear and more than fair if you ask me. I let you go to that school. I paid for your housing, gave you an allowance, funded your lessons.” He ticks them off one by one, keeping meticulous record of all his ‘charity.’ “What more could I have done, hmm? If it was so important to you, you should have remained vigilant. Instead, you let yourself lose focus over what you claim mattered most to you. This was a consequence of your error.”

“I was focused,” I argue. “I applied everything you taught me, and I earned my spot on the team.”

“You did . . . and then you lost it.”

His choice of words are no accident. They’re a slap to the face after everything I worked so hard for. “Accept it and move on, Sydney.”

I can feel his disapproval through the phone. It snakes through the line and winds around my neck. Like a noose, it grows tighter and tighter, until I’m struggling for breath.

“I told you . . . I . . . I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. It’s all a big misunderstanding. I can fix this. I can—” I choke out.

“You should have thought about that sooner,” he states.

I should have, but my thoughts weren’t on the consequences, they were on him .

“Dad, please,” I whisper, too choked up to say more.

Dad sighs and I can hear the faint tiredness in his voice. I’m tired too.

“What have I always taught you?” He doesn’t let me answer. “In life, you don’t get do-overs. You don’t get to make mistakes without enduring a cost. This is the cost, Sydney. So, pay it, and don’t ask me to change my mind again.”

Though his words are heavy, his voice is soft and unassuming. They’re spoken with the weight of a father who only wants what he thinks is best for his only daughter. I knew this would be his stance. Once he enters an agreement, there is no changing his mind.

My lip quivers, threatening tears, an automatic response to his harsh words, but I’m not actually processing the pain. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Are we clear, Sydney?” His voice lowers, his warning tone sounding closer to my ear than his earlier speech.

The lump in my throat swells and I’m forced to swallow it before I speak again. “Yes, we’re clear.” It’s a weak rasp and I’m embarrassed by how immature I sound. I don’t sound like a champion, I sound helpless.

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And just like that his sour mood’s forgotten. He only sounds like this when . . .

“Yeah, see you—” He hangs up. “Later.”

I stand there for a full minute, letting his words slice me open and bleed me out before a deeper pull tugs me forward again.

I thought my dad had been exaggerating when he said boys were distractions.

But in all the years I’d hoped my dad was wrong about something, this was the one that hurt the most to admit he wasn’t entirely wrong about.

Fourteen years of dedicated, hard work just blew up in my face and what am I doing? Working out a way to talk to my crush.

The only thing I can think about is how I’m going to finally work up the nerve to speak to the star hockey player I’ve been obsessing over the last few months.

It was his distracting presence that led to my downfall to begin with.

Before him, boys weren’t hard to ignore.

Winning had always felt better than any childhood crush.