Page 26 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

eleven

“ W ait, wait, wait, we’re going to the party right now ?” I ask, expecting the party to be a little later in the evening, not at this exact moment. I thought I’d have a moment of reprieve, but he seems set on not letting me leave his sight.

I scramble to gather the rest of my stuff off the nearby bleachers as he starts heading out, telling me we have to get going.

His large duffle bag is already slung over his shoulder as he waits for me by the exit.

“Hurry up, slow poke. Old Man Bernie likes to lock up early on Fridays.”

I pause, a little surprised to learn Lucien’s so well acquainted with the janitor. I can’t blame him, Bernie is a great guy, and I enjoy our chats about his granddaughters.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Lucien says. “Gives me shit for it all the time. It makes him late getting home to the missus.” He mimics Bernard’s deep southern drawl with impeccable ease.

“He’s married?” I sputter, turning to face him after flicking the overhead lights and leaving the copy of the key I made after the fiasco with Tiffany, on top of the emergency fire box.

“Thirty years,” answers Lucien, tapping his stick ardently against the wet mat in front of the push doors.

Guilt worms its way inside, unexpected and unbidden.

I’ve stayed well past my allotted time, practicing until my feet bled or I threw up from over exertion.

I’d never even thought to speak to the man until I started waiting for Lucien after his practices and yet he’s been enduring my crazy schedule for almost a year.

He never said anything either. Or if he did, I hadn’t noticed—or I hadn’t cared.

“Let’s move it or lose it, we have a party to get to.” Lucien waves in a circle, like a police officer ushering traffic.

Typically, I’d find his impatience annoying, like I do Bradford whenever he’s in a hurry, finger snapping at me to pick up the pace. But I find Lucien’s rush to whisk me away, extremely . . . sweet.

There’s nothing sweet about him. The guy bit you. He’s all spice and nothing nice. All bitter notes and too rich flavors.

I fight a wide grin that threatens to split my entire face open if I dare let it loose.

The lingering guilt sheds away at the excited expression on Lucien’s face, or at least I’m sure it’s what he constitutes as excitement.

He’s not brooding or staring into space, he’s vibrant and colorful even while swathed in all black.

“Aren’t you going home to change first?” I ask, assessing him from head to toe with an arched brow.

He smirks, slamming the push bar with a brute force that has the shrill metal on metal noise thundering through the rafters.

The door swings out into the vestibule in a wide arch, slamming into the adjacent wall.

It’s not an answer, but a clear demand to stop stalling and forge ahead.

My legs shake and I trip on air, but I ultimately listen.

Every willing step toward him is slow moving and sluggish, but every bit deliberate.

Running would be unbecoming.

Skipping would feel childish.

Step by step is the only way to approach a man like Lucien.

Lucien’s eyes track me the whole way as he stands there waiting, propping open the door for me with a single steady arm. My eyes catch on the tattoos stretching across his bicep and my steps toward him slow even more.

“Go on, you were saying,” he practically purrs as I reluctantly pass under his arm placed too low on the door frame.

“Nothing,” I mumble, ducking beneath his thick arm.

“We’re going to your house to change,” he answers and my head whips to face him.

“What?”

“C’mon, I’ll drive.” He tips his head to the parking lot. “I’m parked up the hill.”

“I—” This doesn’t seem like a good idea. “I like to walk.” I try to invoke a smile in my voice, but it doesn’t work.

There’s no way I can let him into my apartment. He’ll figure it out, and then what? It’ll be over.

“It’ll be faster if I drive,” he presses, his voice echoing as we walk through the vestibule.

My face must reflect my apprehension because he says, “Don’t give me that look, I’m a great driver.”

If only that were my primary concern.

I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, and his teasing smile is infectious. I wish I could return it. To pretend this was our first day and not our last.

But the game of pretend isn’t as appealing when playing against him.

“I really shouldn’t,” I say.

I feel his eyes on me like physical fingers. They grab, and pull, luring me to face him but for once, I resist the draw.

“And why’s that?” he questions.

His tone of voice all but confirms my suspicions, he’s all darkness and viscidity. And his question, sounds nothing like a lighthearted inquiry. It sounds like a dark omen, a premonition of what’s to come should I choose not to heed it.

“Because . . . you’re a stranger.”

It’s not my best excuse, but it’s the best I can come up with at the moment. He is a stranger, we know very little about one another, and outside of what occurred tonight, that isn’t changing anytime soon.

I sense it when Lucien stops walking. The ruffle of his bag stops swishing, his hockey stick stops making that clacking noise every time it hits the top of his skates hanging loose around his straps. But mostly, I sense the inevitable gravitation that keeps me wanting to stay in his orbit.

My feet stop moving. “Luc—”

In a flash, he’s in front of me, backing me into the wall.

“Say that again,” Lucien grits. “I don’t think I heard you, Princess.”

I lick my lips, rapidly blinking and wondering how and why he puts me so out of sorts. He’s just a guy. One guy. What makes him so different from all the others? Besides the obvious, I can’t understand why I lose my shit around him. Only him.

My mind blanks as my mouth goes dry.

“I— Y-You’re a stranger,” I rasp. The words taste funny, like a live battery on my tongue. It shocks me.

“That’s funny . . .”

I tighten my hold on my bag, hoping it can distract me from the intoxicating scent wafting off him. Like it can distract from the throbbing between my legs and the tension in my belly.

“Stranger danger didn’t seem to concern you too much when I was making you come.” His lips are inches from mine.

I swallow roughly, locking my tongue behind my teeth to prevent myself from licking my lips . . . or his.

My eyes dart to the pouty lips attached to his face that appear softer than they have any right to be.

I can barely see them past my nose, he’s that close, but then they fly to his eyes when I realize what I’m doing: leaning in.

It’s fractional, but it’s movement nonetheless and I have to stop it.

My left hand rises between us, resting against his chest but no pressure at all is being applied.

“I . . .”

Yeah, I don’t have a rebuttal for that one. That was reckless. I snap my mouth closed and try to will moisture into my dry mouth.

“Nor when you were stalking me,” he continues, his hair brushing against my forehead as he leans in.

Point taken.

I try to clear my throat but it sounds more like a dry cough.

“H-haven’t you ever heard of personal space?” I ask in a pointless act of defiance but it lacks its usual weight.

Lucien chuckles.

“If it’s bothering you, then . . .” His fingers blaze a trail along my flesh, tracing my collarbone, then my shoulder, then elbow, “maybe you should let me go.”

“Wha—?” My brows pinch.

Lucien’s fingers pluck at my wrists. Sure enough, my fist is balled into his shirt, bunching and pulling the fabric tighter over his heated skin. He couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to.

“Sorry,” I breathe, releasing my grip.

He huffs another laugh, shaking his hair loose before taking a step back.

“I’m not.” His lips stretch into a wide grin. “So come along, Princess, before I bring you to the party in your cum-soaked leotard,” he threatens, winking, then moving along towards the exit I should’ve taken all those months ago.

Because then, he’d still be a stranger.