Page 4 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

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M y eyes dance wildly over the sea of foam fingers and signs, before finally spotting an open seat.

My ticket is for the nosebleeds but that one is a prime location with a center view of the arena and right off the aisle.

It’s just . . . nestled between two shirtless dudes who have painted their entire torsos blue and white, faces included.

Great. And here I thought I was being over the top .

Jesus, I’m used to being cold on an ice rink, but they’ve got to be freezing.

Their rosy cheeks and sweat-glistened mid-sections suggest the total opposite.

They look harmless enough, like the typical college guys at a sports game.

But they obviously started drinking early and are among the loudest of screaming fans.

“Woooo! Let’s Go B-U!” The one with a B painted on his back shouts into the open air.

“B-U! B-U! B-U!” This from the other one with a U on his back.

They’re fairly attractive, so at least they have that going for them, though their attractive qualities are quickly overshadowed when they start barking and howling like dogs.

We’re the Titans, not the Bulldogs, so the barking makes no sense.

I try to shield myself from the second-hand embarrassment, but it’s like watching wild animals in their natural habitat; it’s fascinating.

They bump chests and high five, transferring some of their color onto each other.

I wait for their bro fest to die down before I can be certain the seat between them is available.

I glance at my ticket for my seat again, then scan the area once more before settling on the only option worth taking. I want that seat.

“Hi, um, is anyone sitting there?” I point my bright blue nail in the direction of the free seat nestled between them.

They both turn in unison to look at it as though they hadn’t realized its existence before now.

I fidget with the hem of my skirt, a healthier alternative to my usual flesh biting.

When their attention turns back to me, I feel as silly as I look.

The blue and white streamers and hair ribbons atop my head paired with my red outfit make me look like I’m cheering for goddamn Team USA or something.

“A pretty girl like you can sit anywhere she wants,” the guy farthest from me speaks first.

It takes considerable effort not to roll my eyes.

Instead, I offer him a flirtatious smile, and bat my glittered eyelashes, making sure to look down and away as I play coy.

I tuck a few nonexistent wisps of hair behind my ear for no other reason than to draw attention to my face, before I look up and let them dive into my baby blue eyes, lined in cerulean blue eyeliner to match.

Too easy. Yes , I may have overdid it with the team spirit, but it hardly makes sense to complain about it now, especially when it’s working in my favor.

“Is that so? And if I want that seat?” I drawl out, poking in the seat’s direction again, my voice higher pitched and breathier than usual to sell the show.

It’s not like they would know the difference between my real voice and the lie.

Their mouths drop open, and I swear the one currently eye fucking me drools.

My performance is well rehearsed and perfectly timed.

What’s a couple of hockey fans to an entire judge’s panel?

“That one’s taken . . .” he says.

My smile stays in place, but my chest falls, unexpected defeat hitting me square in the gut and reopening the fresh wound of rejection.

“But this one has your name written all over it.”

His hips rut upward, humping the air in front of his crotch, and I’m forced to pretend my giggle is because of his charm and not his ridiculous suggestion.

“You don’t say?” My tone is teasing with just the right amount of unsurety.

As far as he knows I could be flirting or I could be shy, maybe even a little naive.

Both work in my favor, but the key is not making it obvious.

I was taught to win by any means necessary.

If that means I have to use my feminine wiles to win them over, so be it.

A hand slaps him in the chest.

“Don’t mind this idiot. The game brings out the neanderthal in him.

” His friend next to him speaks, the one I felt comfortable enough to approach in the first place and who’s attention has been a little more evenly split between the game and my tits.

He smiles down at me with kind brown eyes.

His gaze over my figure is less blatant than his friend, before he positions himself away, stepping out into the aisle to allow me through.

I stand there with my arms folded while I reevaluate my choices.

Nice though he may appear, it doesn’t seem he’s willing to give up his aisle seat for me.

“Our other friend couldn’t make it, so it’s all yours.” he presses, his arm stretched out in a gentlemanly manner, encouraging me to sit. I’m not sure if he’s aware of my hesitation or if he’s legitimately a nice guy, but, either way, I fold.

“Thank you.”

I shimmy past his wide frame and my smile melts into something a little more genuine.

The victory is sweet, but made better by the fact I won’t have to be sandwiched between two assholes.

Except, the moment my ass lands on the hard plastic seat, my ponytail shakes and the asshole of the two takes it as an invitation to poke at the bobbles in my hair.

“Nice outfit,” he says, breathing entirely too loud in my ear.

I withhold my eye roll, opting instead to adjust on the hard blue plastic folding chair.

It proves fruitless, the damn thing tries to flop closed every time I move.

The discomfort is only made worse by his salacious perusal of my body.

I look ahead, over the ice, faking deafness so I don’t have to talk to my new seat buddy, but I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of my face as he waits for me to acknowledge him.

I don’t.

Until he reaches up to play with my curls. I snap sideways to face him, keeping my hair out of his greasy reach. Shit . Now that I’m facing him, I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Huh?” I ask, scrunching my face as I twirl the ends of my ponytail, ensuring it stays far away from his grasp.

He repeats, louder this time. “I said nice outfit!”

His glassy eyes move up and down my body, lingering on my legs and then my tits before he resumes semi-normal eye contact.

I obviously heard him the first time, but it’s the assumption written on his face right now that has me ready to run back home.

Fuck this, I should go home. This guy is gross.

Like an idiot, I didn’t consider that I might draw the attention of douchebags with this getup.

At least, not in that way. God, maybe I am naive.

My efforts were to blend in, but all I’ve been doing since walking in here is standing out.

He leans in closer, smelling of cheap beer and stale nachos.

“Um, thanks.” I lean away; the performance no longer needed now that I’ve gotten what I wanted.

“Hell yeah, loving the team spirit!” Whoops his friend to my right, oblivious to his comrade’s weak attempt at flirting and my unusual choice in outfit. I suppose when you’re shirtless and painted half blue you don’t have much room to judge.

“Yeah,” I try to feign interest. “Big fan . . . of hockey.” Of him.

My smile is tight-lipped. I might as well be cheering for Team USA. The Belle U Titans are undefeated, after all. As sad as it is, they’re probably the closest thing to an Olympic team I’m ever going to see now, so I might as well soak it all in and go all-out, right?

Go Titans.

I settle in, immediately working to seek him out, my eyes straining to search for his jersey number.

Come on, Number 66, where are you?

I’m trying to follow the game, but my eyes aren’t used to following so many uncoordinated movements. The buzzer sounds, causing me to jump. The flirtier of the two beer bros takes the opportunity to continue his fruitless attempt at conversation, but my heart doesn’t bleed for him.

“So, what’s a girl like you doing over here?” The guy turns to me with his head tilted.

I look at the hopeless flirt in confusion.

A girl like me?

“Where else would I be?” I ask with a blank stare.

I turn in my seat, briefly worried that I did all of this only to end up seated in the opposing team’s section or, even more worrisome, that he somehow knows what happened and who I really am.

No, he doesn’t seem the type to have ever been to a figure skating competition and the whole arena is packed with Titan fans.

These two appear to be the die-hard type.

Between them, I no longer feel overdressed.

Even shirtless, they take the cake with the body paint, matching Mardi Gras beads, and beer helmets they busted out about five minutes ago.

“His fan club typically sits over there,” my annoying seat neighbor says, drawing my attention as he points to the crowd of girls with their signs up and tits out, the number sixty-six painted on their exposed cleavages. “Seems like that’d be more your speed, no?”

I take it back.

The die-hard fans are in that direction. Well, die-hard fans of him at least.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, feigning confidence I don’t feel.

He points at my face, circling the air around me with his index.

“You certainly look the part,” he says.

My cheeks heat from embarrassment, remembering the same number painted on their boobs is painted on my cheek.

Is that where I belong?

I shake my head. No. I may not be the typical hockey fan, and I may not be here for unselfish reasons, but I sure as hell don’t belong down there .

I laugh him off, pretending his observation doesn’t sting. But either this guy lacks total social awareness or he’s the obnoxious type who finds enjoyment in making others uncomfortable.