Page 3 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

But there was nothing childish about this . This felt like cardiac arrest. Like my heart wanted to physically rip itself out and hand itself over to him as tribute. This was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.

Maybe if I had any real experience with emotionally competent caregivers, a supporting father, or even a present mother, I wouldn’t be some freak who doesn’t know how to properly handle genuine feelings for someone.

I’d be able to manage introducing myself like a normal human instead of thinking of elevator pitches.

I’d like people for who they are instead of for what they could do for me or how they could best serve me in the future.

I’d show up to a sporting event without creating a spectacle.

Jesus, it’s no wonder I’ve never had a boyfriend. I understand now that it was a larger part of Dad’s master plan to ensure I stayed above the rest and as far from normal as possible.

I sigh, deep enough to be audible to those around me. Cursing under my breath in response to more stares, I shake my head and square my shoulders. It’ll be fine. I am normal. I’m a normal girl who likes a normal boy and all I have to do is say “Hi.” It’s not that hard.

I’m clearly still mumbling to myself like a crazy person because a little girl blinks at me, staring in either abject horror or morbid curiosity.

Her small arms are wound tightly around the man’s neck in front of me, their hair a matching dirty blond color.

Her dad, if I had to guess. Her eyes squint in accusation, her expression wary, as her head flops to the side, resting on his shoulder.

The blond pigtails in her hair, held tautly by glittery blue scrunchies, splay over her face, providing perfect cover for her eyes and protecting her from my return stare.

I search around briefly, ensuring no one is looking, before I make a weird face at her, forcing my eyes to cross and sticking my tongue out.

She giggles, squeezing her father’s neck tighter.

Her smile is bright even as she holds on for dear life.

The man’s shoulder shakes, suggesting he’s laughing too.

Perhaps at her random head lock and laugh attack, but he appears unfazed.

His hand comes up to pet her on the head, ignoring her viper grip as he gently sweeps her pigtail back into place.

It’s obvious he doesn’t mind the tightness of her hold.

As he strokes her hair, her giggles settle, and she rests deeper into the crook of his neck.

There’s a sharp pang in my chest at the gentle gesture, a heaviness that grips my heart and squeezes unexpectedly.

Her small hand waves at me before they veer off down a different path, presumably to a different section.

I consider following them, wondering if their destination is better than mine, but I have my own path to follow.

Why couldn’t my relationship with my dad be like hers?

I would have liked going to a hockey game with my dad at that age. Hell, even now at nineteen. But as made evident from our little chat, that wouldn’t go well. It wouldn’t be as comforting as they’d made it look either. We’d inevitably bump heads, but at least it’d be something.

It’s not as though the little girl looked anything like me, but, right now, it’s hard to not draw parallels.

Once upon a time I went everywhere with my dad, I still do.

They’re not places that’d allow any real father/daughter bonding, but even still, I can’t recall a single time where he held me like that.

No comforting hugs or gentle words of encouragement.

Maybe if I had a strong, dependable shoulder to rest my head on, things wouldn’t have turned out this way.

My eyes sting, but I blink away the incoming tears. I’ll be back with Dad before I know it, right back where I started. No point in ruining perfectly good makeup with needless tears.

I start walking again. For now, this is where the current path leads. This is where he is.

I’ve never been to a hockey game before. I’ve never been able to summon the courage to see him or find the time to go. Yet, here I am, on the worst day of my life, all tricked out in the school colors, ready to risk everything and throw caution to the wind.

I’d be appalled at myself if I wasn’t already so hopeless. If the teasing shadows are anything to go by, I still look good, giant bow aside. Even Dad could at least be proud of my efforts. After all, “a Sinclair always makes an impression.”

Though, I can’t shake the feeling that this impression might be more grandiose than I originally intended.

It’s bad enough I came straight here, it’s even worse I’m risking getting caught.

Jesus, I didn’t need to gift wrap myself in a literal bow to get his attention.

I’m not even sure I want his attention. But that’s what happens every time I look at him.

I lose all sense of rationale and control.

My ears perk at the sounds of blades cutting against the ice, followed by more cheers.

I bounce on my toes. The long-awaited entrance is finally within my reach.

The air grows colder and the smell of saturated fats from stale popcorn, day-old hot dogs, and melted plastic cheese press upon me.

I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I mean, I actually can’t believe it.

It smells gross and everything looks sticky.

There’s exactly two things I know about hockey. The first: Number 66 is the reason for the success of the Bellemere University Titans. Even if he is the reason for my demise .

I can already hear his name being chanted like an incantation as I draw closer to the opening.

A weird mixture of relief and determination flood me simultaneously.

I’ll finally get to see him play. I’m giddy just thinking about it.

This is the first time I get to see him in action.

Unfortunately, I’m quite literally late to the party and no amount of running will get me any closer with the hordes of people currently in the way of the long staircase that leads down to the lower-level seating.

It’s a long shot, but if I’m going to be forced to sit in the stands like a commoner, I at least want a good spot.

I’m sure if I actually were here with my dad, we’d be in the box seating above.

But I’m here for one reason only: to watch Number 66 play.

I’m brought to an abrupt halt by the backs of strangers, forced to wait for others as they shimmy between rows toward the inconvenient middle seats.

I take a step back, still cast in the comforting shadows of the corridor, a final attempt to regain my senses.

The need to turn back and let this silly obsession go is ever present.

No one needs to know I was ever here, least of all, him.

But this is my last chance. I can’t let a moment like this slip.

It was a miracle I managed to snag a ticket at all.

I’m half convinced the only reason I did is because the ticket counter girl knows me.

She seemed aware this was out of the norm for me when she handed me my ticket.

Hell, she might’ve even felt pity for me because she knew the truth. I’m not supposed to be here.

My feet shuffle forward as the crowd presses on. Now, fully inside the arena, I’m temporarily blinded by the lights. I’m almost rendered deaf from the roars and screams of excited patrons already buzzing with energy from the first five minutes of the game. Shit, it’s started .