Page 33 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)
On most days, Lucien had a gravitational pull on me I couldn’t escape.
He was ethereal, fantastical even. His eyes an unnatural golden hue, his features almost elfin or animated in the way they were soft in some areas and sharp in others.
The man was downright gorgeous with strong notes of darkness that hid beneath all that beauty.
But right now, all I see is darkness, quite literally. He’s covered in something.
Is it sweat?
No, it’s too thick to be sweat.
Mud maybe?
Unlike my legs, his are moving at a steady pace, stretching the vast distance between us to the point I have to follow, lest I be abandoned here.
I’m careful to remain quiet, still unwilling to tip him off to my presence, perhaps even more so now than before.
The substance clings to Lucien’s porcelain skin, painting him in filth. Yet he seems unbothered. In fact, he’s almost tranquil.
What happened to him?
Shadowed branches reach out like claws of the night, grasping his shoulders and sweeping over his body. He presses on, never once turning to look back at me. It’s odd. He’s moving like he’s entranced or sleepwalking. We walk for what feels like hours and I feel dumber by the second.
I’m swearing to myself that I’ll never follow him this far out again when we finally approach the school entrance.
I’m an on-campus resident, but I live in the athletics housing near the rink with the other sports students and sorority/fraternity housing.
We should be walking in the same direction, but he veers toward the dorms. I consider this for a moment, looking both ways as I stand at a literal crossroad.
On the one hand, I can go home and get out of this ridiculous disguise, take a much-needed shower, and make smarter life choices from here on out. But on the other hand . . .
Well, on the other hand, there’s Lucien. Of course, he wins out. That pull I feel intensifies every day I keep this ridiculous farce up. But, I mean, I’m already out here, so I might as well see where he lives, right?
LUCIEN
Blood is stickier than people realize. It’s itchy too.
It makes my skin tingle after a while if I don’t wash it off quick enough.
Still, the most I do is wipe it from my face with the dish towel that hangs off the sink’s ledge in the kitchenette of my single’s dorm.
I’m exhausted. Too exhausted to think. To dream. To remember. Just how I like it.
The next morning…
A few hours of sleep are better than none I suppose. I’m sore as hell and sticking to the sheets. It takes me a minute to adjust to the foreign space and remember why I came here. I crane my head to the side, a disturbing pop emanating from my neck that should be concerning.
I wipe my hand over my face. I still have tape wrapped around my knuckles, stained red from last night’s fights, the blood crusted and dark. There’s no telling exactly who it all belongs to.
I’ve achieved enough of a restful night to get me ready for practice and our upcoming game against Crestview.
If any school could be considered our rivals, it’d be them, and I need my head screwed on right if I’m going to be of any help to the team.
The fights take the edge off, but winning in the sport I love is what’s proven most helpful. A real win.
I press my fingers into my eye sockets, rubbing until my vision unblurs, but it’s not the blurriness that has me confused. I blink several times and scan the small two-hundred-square-foot room before I accept what is staring back at me is what I think it is.
At the foot of the bed sits a towel folded into the shape of an elephant, like the ones they put on the bed at fancy hotels. It’s the bloodied dishrag from last night and, sure as shit, it’s folded into an elephant.
The laughter continues to fall from my lips when I think about how I sought sleep so hungrily that I was too exhausted to hear my stalker follow me in here and gift me a fucking elephant .
I knew they were in the forest with me, but I stopped caring when I felt sleepy for the first time in days. I wonder if they even noticed or cared about the amount of blood on the discolored white cloth when they origamied my shit into a creative masterpiece.
I’m still chuckling to myself when my phone buzzes in the barren space, rattling against the empty nightstand.
Trevor 9:30 AM
Hey, you good? You didn’t come back last night.
I groan. Great. My hideout has been compromised, and my best friend is still mothering me.
Lucien 9:31 AM
*Thumbs-up emoji*
I flop back on the bed, arms spread over the comforter like a starfish, wondering why I’m not more pissed off by this before laughing again. A fucking elephant.
The sound of the whistle jars me into action.
I push off at full speed as we scrimmage in preparation for this Friday’s game.
I approach the goal, running the puck up the boards as I skate toward it at breakneck speeds, but Ketchen, who we all call Kitchen, is an amazing goalie and he won’t be easy to get past. Guy has the vision of a hawk.
He won’t be fooled by boisterous power plays and aggressive strong arming, not to mention Trevor isn’t going to let me waltz into the defensive zone and get another shot on him. So, the only way to get by him . . .
I shoot the puck over to Chauncey—loud-mouthed playboy that he is, but most reliable and skilled winger I’ve ever known.
The shot’s wide, but he hooks the puck behind the net.
Trevor’s a few inches shy of slamming him into the boards before he’s deking the shot back to our other forward who goes for a goal, and misses.
I’m not shocked, which is why I’m right there to take the rebound shot.
Kitchen’s hawk vision is obstructed by the flurry of bodies fighting for supremacy of the puck.
Gomez slap passes it to me, and I sink the shot right over Kitchen’s left shoulder.
The sound of the buzzer is a cooling relief to the overheating of my body.
I chew on my mouth guard, skating up to Kitchen to bump fists as he smirks beneath his helmet. I may be a lead scorer, but the reason we win games is Kitchen. He’s the best damn goalie I’ve ever worked with, and I always feel great when I get one over on him.
“I see you, Morningstar. Good luck getting past me twice though,” teases Kitchen.
“Is that a challenge?” I skate around his goal. “Because you know I love a challenge.”
“Careful, Kitchen. He’s got that look in his eye,” says Chauncey as he skates by.
Kitchen smirks, slapping his stick against the ice in a ‘bring it’ motion.
“He’s not the only crazy motherfucker on this team. Bring it, baby!” Kitchen goads.
The rest of the guys join in laughing at our ribbing of one another.
“Don’t worry, Kitchen, he’s not getting past me this time,” joins Trevor.
It’s been weeks, but I’m finally feeling like myself again. I chuckle, hoping that this semblance of peace will last, even when I know the truth. It won’t. It never does.
“We’ll see about that,” I jab right back, reveling in proving him wrong.
A few more plays and the sound of the whistle is breaking us apart once more. Our team ties for the scrimmage, but my teammates skate up to me and slap me on the helmet all the same. A tie is a good thing, it means that if we keep this up, the Crestview Wolverines are as good as dead.
The amount of howling and rhythmic stomping of the crowd is deafening. The Wolverine fans mimic their mascot while Titan fans pound their feet like soldiers on the battlefield summoning the gods of hockey. I fucking love it. This is the shit I live for.
It’s a bloodbath. Metaphorically, unfortunately, but it is a shootout. We gain the lead by one, then by two, only for them to eat our lead by one before finally tying up the game again.
My leg is swept over the boards, ready to get back out there as I wait for my cue.
The second my moment comes, I’m determined.
Ready to steal and bring home this win, but I’m tired.
I slept maybe a few hours before I was jolting out of another restless night’s sleep.
It didn’t help that I stayed up thinking about the weird-ass texts I received in the middle of the night. I’m still thinking about them.
Unknown 1:19 AM
Can’t sleep?
Lucien 1:19 AM
Is this who I think it is?
Unknown 1:20 AM
The one and only.
Lucien 1:21 AM
How’d you know I was awake?
Unknown 1:21 AM
It says you’re online.
Lucien 1:21 AM
Of course you’d notice that.
Unknown 1:21 AM
I’m an observant person
Lucien 1:22 AM
You’re a nosey person.
Unknown 1:22 AM
Does that bother you?
Lucien 1:23 AM
It surprises me
Unknown 1:23 AM
Why?
Lucien 1:25 AM
I’ve never been the object of someone’s obsession before.
Me and Chauncey relieve Jules and the rest of the third line and get back out there.
I skate harder, the puck glued to my stick as I tear up the ice, thinking about how my stalker teased, how they pushed.
They’re obsessed with getting under my skin and in my space, no matter how much I warn them otherwise.
Unknown 1:25 AM
Dude what are you talking about?
You have an entire fan club dedicated to you.
Lucien 1:26 AM
None of them text me.
Unknown 1:26 AM
None of them have your number.
Lucien 1:27 AM
YOU shouldn’t have my number.
Crazy pants . They severely lack self-preservation skills or common sense altogether.
My own teammates and friends even know to give me the space required when I’m too deep in the hole, too far in the midst of darkness, of insanity.
But this person, whoever they are, it’s like they want to drown with me.
The further I go down, the more they follow.
Unknown 1:27 AM
Let’s not dwell on the past.
We’re here now.
Lucien 1:27 AM
*Eye roll emoji*
Unknown 1:30 AM
Has anyone told you you’re kind of stand-off-ish?
Lucien 1:31 AM
Am not.
Unknown 1:32 AM
Are too.
Lucien 1:33 AM
Is that why you haven’t revealed yourself yet?
Unknown 1:33 AM