Page 31 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

LUCIEN

We won again tonight. I knew we would, those state kids didn’t stand a chance against our defensive plays.

I should be happy about that—I’m not. I’m restless.

Physically and mentally. Everything inside me is itching and my mind is racing.

Hockey usually centers me, but an easy shutout is not my idea of a great game.

A great game is hard-fought. High stakes.

Give and take. I want my win to mean something.

Everyone else is happy though. They high five, cheer red plastic cups full of foul-smelling booze, and fuck puck bunnies. None of those things appeal to me right now. There’s only one way I want to celebrate after a night like tonight.

“Dude, are you good?” asks Chauncey. His hands, moving to mix himself a celebratory drink at the long folding table we’ve turned into a self-serve bar outside the eat-in kitchen.

“Dude. Do I look like I’m good?” My head rolls along the wall of the kitchen doorway to grace him with the eye contact he’s so desperate for, though I suppose my bloodshot eyes and dark circles do little to ease his concerns.

“No, you’re even more of a sourpuss than usual.

You would think that being the great Morningstar,” he sarcastically stretches his hand in an arc to showcase my infamous name, “ loved by all, feared by many—you’d be in a better fucking mood, but you’re not.

” No fucking shit. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, and your eyes look fucking dead, dude.

” He waves his hands in front of my face when all I do in response is face forward again, staring at nothing.

“Earth to Lucien,” Chauncey yells.

There’s a game of beer pong being played outside that I can see through the cracked open window. Two girls are making out on the couch, sloppily sucking face and putting on a show. There’s Jules, Ketchen, and Garcia playing rock/paper/scissors in the living room, but I’m looking past all of it.

I like Chauncey. He’s one of those guys who doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He’s all good times and good vibes all the time, but I will gut him if he doesn’t back the fuck off.

I grip his wrist mid-air on its fifth pass in front of me.

“Ah, shit, well, I see your reflexes are still intact,” he jokes even through the pain.

Of course they are. My problem isn’t that I don’t have enough energy, it’s that I have too much. I toss his hand away when I feel myself start to shake, shooting him warning daggers as I let go.

He rubs his bruising wrist. “Cranky much?” Chauncey grumbles.

“Leave him alone, Chaunce,” a deep caramel voice warns, striding up to us to stand at my side. My shoulders drop as I take a deep breath.

Thank fuck.

Nursing his cocktail, Chauncey takes a step back, but of course he doesn’t shut up. “All I’m saying is he should chill out, get laid and—”

“Chauncey!”

Trevor’s glare holds more authority as he waits for Chauncey to concede and walk away before he’s turning on me next. I beat him to the punch.

“The next words out of your mouth better be—”

“Are you okay?” he asks, the weight of his question holding the exact amount of sincerity I wanted to avoid.

My head hits the wall with a hollow thud as I throw it back and sigh. That’s not what I wanted the next words out of his mouth to be at all. Not even close.

“Lucien?”

“Goddammit, Trev. I’m fine!” I shout loud enough to exhibit the complete opposite of the meaning.

A blind man could tell I was far from fine .

And the party goers give me a wide berth, avoiding me at all costs, unlike a certain six-foot-four defenseman who believes the power of friendship will heal my bad mood.

His arms fold, stretching his too-tight Henley even tighter. Stupid fucking D-man. I give a feral growl when he doubles down with a comforting pat to my shoulder. Comfort is not what I need right now. But he gently squeezes, and I don’t bite his head off.

“Do you want me to . . . cheer you up, or something?” he asks, all the emotion of a concerned friend swelling in those puppy eyes.

“I said I’m fine,” I grit, though I sound more exhausted than angry.

His features only soften. And if I didn’t know him so well I’d say that look is pity, but it’s not. It’s something much worse. Regret.

A group of people walk by, toward the back door to join in the action in the backyard.

I don’t recognize any of them, but one of those fuckers knocks his shoulder into Trevor’s back hard enough that he stumbles forward.

I push off the wall, ready to educate them on their manners and let off a little steam.

But Trevor’s arm brackets my chest, holding me back.

I glower at the offending party who doesn’t even notice before shifting my focus back to Trev.

“You’re just going to let him do that?” I seethe.

“Yes, Lucien, I am, because not every accident is worth getting worked up over,” he retorts, ignoring the slight against him and letting the push slide—something I find much harder to do.

I suspect this is why he took the hit in the first place.

I’m too volatile. Too unforgiving. His stare deepens, his eyes flooding with earnestness, but they possess a fear I don’t find pleasing.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asks.

I give him an admonishing look, challenging his patience with me. “Are you ?” I shoot back.

I know he’s only trying to help, but involving him in my shit would complicate things.

He doesn’t need complications right now.

We’re both aware of it, but only one of us can admit it.

My brand is violence, but unlike my own, Trevor’s agent prefers he keep his squeaky-clean image untainted while his contract’s being finalized.

Like me, Trevor’s already been signed to the NHL, but we both decided finishing college was important, so taking on my baggage, is not an option.

“Don’t ask me that unless you actually want to make good on my request,” I warn.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I just . . . I know you’re not sleeping. You’re not acting like yourself. You’re irritable, pushing everyone away.”

“Not everyone,” I mutter, canting my head to the side.

He doesn’t take the bait.

“And I’m pretty sure I know why,” he continues, shifting and then pivoting to stand against the wall with me. By my side like always.

“Then you know there isn’t anything you can do about it,” I lament.

He sighs.

“They’re getting worse, aren’t they? The dreams?” Trevor asks.

I can feel the weight of his stare on me.

“Well, I could—” he starts.

“Don’t,” I snap.

His stare deepens, hardens. We’ve known each other long enough that I can feel the loudness of his thoughts.

“They wouldn’t want this for you,” he says, his voice low in my ear.

I want to tell him that what they want is irrelevant.

My family’s absence from this world all but renders their desires for me pointless, but that would only spur on his sympathetic nature.

Sympathy is the last thing I need from Trevor James.

His shoulder bumps mine and I bristle when he shifts again.

Oh God, I think he’s going to hug me .

And if he hugs me . . .

I shrug him off when he gets closer.

He sighs heavily, “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what, Trev? I’m fine. You’re fine.

Everybody’s fine.” I throw my hand toward the crowd dancing in our living room and doing shots in our dining room.

“Go on, enjoy yourself. Have fun. It’s a fucking party after all and you only live once.

” I laugh but I’m convincing no one, least of all him. He settles back beside me.

“It’s not very fun when you’re in a mood like this.” He tips his chin at me.

“You sure about that?” My arms cross as I eye him up and down. “I’ve been told I’m a blast,” I say dryly.

He shakes his head, fighting a grin he ultimately loses to. His hand brushes over his curls and he assaults me with a wide smile I can’t ignore.

“There he is,” he beams, seemingly satisfied with himself.

Despite myself, my lips twitch to return his smile, but then I’m coldly reminded why I haven’t bothered in all this time. “Look Trev, I’m—”

“Fine?” He finishes for me. “Yeah, so you’ve said.”

I narrow my eyes, annoyed by his hero complex. “Like you, hm? Everything’s great in Trevor’s world. No need to fuck it up dealing with the likes of me, right?”

He freezes. And I feel like shit. “Sorry,” I grumble. “I didn’t mean that.”

He arches a brow. “Wow, was that a real apology from Lucien Morrow?” He places the back of his hand to my forehead, and I promptly smack it away.

“I don’t know, this may be worse than a case of the grumps.

The world may be ending. Someone better make sure Hell isn’t freezing over.

” He juts a thumb over his shoulder. “Or maybe the polar ice caps melting. Should I go check?”

“Oh, shut up. It’s not that I don’t believe in apologies . . .”

“You just don’t think you need to,” he finishes.

We’re both glaring at each other now.

“I believe they should be used sparingly,” I say instead, staring at the tick of his bearded jaw because I’m too stubborn to take the hurt in his eyes.

It doesn’t help so I stare at the collar of his Henley instead.

“I owed you that one. I shouldn’t have taken a cheap shot at you like that.

I’m just . . .” I run a hand over my face. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

“I thought you were fine,” he teases.

Asshole.

He slides his warm hand to the back of my neck and squeezes, his special way of providing more unwarranted comfort. “So then, get some sleep , Lucien. If you need to, you can go upstairs and sleep in my bed. No one will bother you up there.”

“Maybe I should take Chauncey’s advice and get laid instead,” I joke.

“Not if you’re like this,” he clips.

It’s not hurt in his eyes when I look at him now. I see warning. The captain is right. It’s not wise to play when I’m so riled up. They might break.

I huff, “Relax. I was only joking.”

He steps in closer, speaking lower so only I can hear him.