Page 28 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

“Hey, look I-I’m sorry, okay?” I stammer.

“I don’t know why I said all of that. That’s not what I meant to say, or-or what I planned to say.

” My hand winds wildly in the air as if the right words will magically roll out with the gesture.

“What I’m trying to say . . .” Jesus fucking Christ it’s like I’ve never used human speech before.

“I’m just a little out of sorts. This isn’t me.

It’s been a really shitty day and I’m all kinds of messed up about it. ”

I try to laugh through the discomfort, but it trails off. Why am I being like this? This is what I wanted. Time with him, attention from him, so why am I self-sabotaging right now?

“So, I’m sorry, Lucien. I really am.”

I let out a deep sigh.

“Look, I know I’m probably messing this all up, but I promise I’m not a bitch all the time.”

He snorts and shakes his head, amusement back in his gait as he walks ahead of me though I can’t shake the lingering stench of dissatisfaction he’s left behind in his wake.

I was myself when we talked under our monikers, not Sydney Sinclair.

Not this person I’ve tried for years not to be. I don’t want to be like Dad.

But I am. I’m just like my father, and that’s probably why she left us both.

I squeeze the nylon handle of my bag, until it’s digging into my palm, turning my knuckles white at the dredged memory of my mother.

I bury the thought once more and keep moving forward.

My dad might be hard on me, but at least he stayed.

It hurts to think about, but right now nothing hurts as much as the thought of ruining this final night with Lucien.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing myself to be vulnerable for once.

“You weren’t wrong, you know.” I tell him, catching up. My thumbnail returns to its place between my teeth as I try to provide some sort of explanation for my behavior.

“I rarely am, but for the sake of clarity, enlighten me,” he remarks without looking over at me.

I bite my lip to stop from smiling. He is such a cocky bastard, but damn it all if he isn’t a loveable one.

“About the silver spoon,” I clarify, wiping my thumb on my leg.

He peers back at me as he waits for me to continue.

I suck in a bolstering breath. “My last name’s Sinclair.”

Silence .

“My father is Syrus Sinclair . . .” Clearing my throat, I brace myself. “Of Sinclair Enterprises.”

I peek open an eye, not knowing when they’d actually closed.

“No shit?” He doesn’t even break his stride, and his tone sounds more sarcastic than anything, as though that explains nothing.

“I’m Sydney . . . Sinclair .” If it were warm enough for the crickets to chirp they would be singing.

I blink, waiting for him to react like others do when they hear about my background. But it doesn’t happen. Most people freak out when I tell them that.

Most people lose their shit, but then again . . . he’s not most people.

“You’re kind of a big deal then, huh?” He responds lazily, glancing up at the moths ramming their fragile bodies against the light poles above.

I guffaw. “Uh, no. My dad is a big deal; I am a big disappointment.”

This time his stride does falter, and we come to another abrupt stop. I don’t catch myself in enough time and I run smack into his stupidly broad back with an audible oomph . “Can you please stop doing that?”

He ignores my complaint, turning instead to face me.

“You’re no one’s disappointment.” He says it like he believes every word, pinning me with a feral glare steeped in warning.

“Yeah, well . . .” I shrug.

“Why would you say something like that?” His glower is off-putting.

I shrug and look ahead, afraid of what I’ll see if I search his eyes for sincerity. I’d rather pretend he cares than admit it doesn’t really matter. Or worse, learn he’s only pitying me and that’s why he cares. I couldn’t handle either.

I pause beneath the street light.

“You’re not the type to let things go, are you?”

Lucien’s answer is swift. “Nope.”

Sighing, I turn and explain, hoping he understands.

“My dad believes in power. There’s no power in figure skating.

” I explain, “He succeeded in instilling a love of winning in me, but to his great disappointment, I fell in love with figure skating, not business or politics or industrialism. As a result, I’m ‘wasting my potential.’” I mock, using my dad’s deep inscrutable voice and finger quotes.

Lucien’s stoic. I’d rather see nothing at all on his face than the dollar signs that shine in everyone else’s.

I walk around him, taking the lead, but this time he walks in step with me, by my side. I can feel the warmth of his arms as we fight against the wind the remaining short distance to his car.

“Well, that’s stupid,” he grumbles.

My chest tingles with an unfamiliar warmth. I believe him when he says that. His candidacy causes a soft laughter to bubble from me.

“Yeah, you’re right. But the Sinclair mentality is hard to break.

That silver spoon afforded me everything I could ever want, just like you said, but it didn’t spare me the hardships of never feeling good enough, you know?

In our competitive world, talent trumps money.

You have to be good at hockey to actually play it.

” I point to him, “No amount of money can cheat and make a bad player suddenly good. I have no clue how much money you make but I know you’re the best.”

He grins, “Yeah? You think I’m the best?”

I chuckle. “The best I’ve ever seen actually.

” I leave out the part that he’s the only player I’ve ever seen.

“But you have to understand that’s a completely foreign concept compared to how I was raised.

My dad and people like him look down on everyone .

They wield their power and money over the weak and less fortunate.

I’d like to think that I’m different from them, that I am a good person but . . .”

“Oh, I bet you’re a very good girl,” Lucien croons.

I scowl at him, though it severely lacks the heat necessary to burn.

“I’m being serious,” I say.

“So am I,” he answers.

His golden eyes almost look creepy the way they cut to me, hiding beneath his hooded lids and thick lashes.

“You have no idea. My dad and his ‘friends’ don’t just want me to be good, they want me to be perfect.

They push for me to look a certain way to set a certain precedent.

It’s exhausting living under that weight of expectation.

To be who they want me to be. Figure skating was .

. . is the only thing that alleviates that weight. ”

“While also being the cause of it, right?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, though I can already feel myself choking up.

“It’s worth it though.” Lucien states it as if it’s a point of fact and something I should know already.

“Yeah,” I croak, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.

It was worth it. “It’s just how all those guys in their position are, you know?

They see something shiny and pretty, and they want it.

They want to keep their shiny pretty things and lord it over everyone else’s.

But I’m a shiny pretty thing that doesn’t want to stay in its case. I’d rather be on the ice.”

“You don’t belong to them,” Lucien growls, his jaw tightening when I continue.

“I’d say that was sweet, but I’m quite literally the heir to a multi-million-dollar conglomerate who prefers figure skating to boardrooms. At least with figure skating, the only thing people want from me is the same thing I want from myself; to win,” I say.

His bicep brushes against my shoulder as he continues toward the car, and that ferocity burns straight through my clothing. He’s so warm.

“You’re more than that though. You’re talented.”

I smile at his praise before chuckling to myself, “Good luck convincing them of that.”

I stare down at my shoes, kicking a lone rock up the hill toward the edge of the lot as we walk. Lucien joins in, kicking it away before my foot can connect again.

“Well, fuck ‘em. Better yet, set ‘em on fire and dance on their graves, or triple lutz on their ashes forever doubting you.” He kicks the rock as if it’s a soccer ball sending it soaring so far out of my reach it’s lost forever. “They can’t have you if they’re not breathing.”

“What?” My head snaps up to Lucien.

“I’ll bring the accelerant, and we can ride at dawn. Let’s burn their whole world down.”

I stop walking, stunned at the utter lack of levity in his voice. A humorless suggestion, he meant with sobering clarity and a vicious snarl.

“That’s not . . . Are you crazy?” I shout.

He smiles eerily in my direction before pinching his fingers close together, revealing the tiny sliver of space where his sanity resides. Peeping through the hole he’s created with his fingers, he winks before walking backward toward the car.

His car is the only car left in the distance. It dawns on me with frightening clarity how alone we are right now. Nothing around but barely contained sanity and lust.

I sigh, “You can’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, continuing to walk backward with no fear of the unseen path behind him, his one hand tucked casually in his pocket as his bag bounces on his leg with each step.

“Because saying stuff like that is the kinda thing that gets you locked up in the looney bin,” I say.

He untucks his hands and shrugs, palms up like a goddamn emoji.

“Aw, it’s not so bad. It’s actually kinda relaxing once you get used to it. If you tell the nurses ‘I see dead people’ they give you a lollipop.” His fingers snap and I jolt. “Puts you right to sleep.”

He adjusts the strap of his bag and turns back around, leaving me to stand there dumbfounded.

I can’t tell if he’s being serious, but I’m inclined to believe him. I blink, wondering if the additional second will allow my brain to catch up to his words.

“You’re just messing with me, right?”

But he offers no further clarification, no explanations as to how he would know such a thing.