Page 42 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

eighteen

“ T his is so strange,” Sydney comments, her long legs draped over the glittering red vinyl booth seat, reminding me of her outfit from earlier.

I hum, taking in the sight of her absentmindedly fidgeting with the torn skin around her nails again. “What’s so strange about it?” I ask.

Her eyes sweep over my features, assessing my seriousness.

“What’s not strange about it?” she huffs, her foot tapping my leg as she vents.

“At this point, you’ve basically kidnapped me, seen me naked, and now we’re casually sharing a meal together.

” She ticks off each point before throwing her hand out, gesturing to the empty table between us. “I mean, who does that?”

I snort a laugh. She seems to be forgetting she started this game of ours.

I’m not too sure she realizes it’s not the table leg her foot is rubbing against, but I make her painfully aware, reaching beneath the table to grip the back of her knee.

I stroke over her muscular calf and hinder her nervous leg bouncing.

She flinches at my touch, moving to pull away, but my fingers tighten around her.

“I won that bet fair and square, Princess. So, you are here, with me , of your own free will.” I trail the barest touch from the inseam of her leg to the heel of her foot, settling it into my lap.

“Besides . . .” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, eyes flicking to her chest that practically spills out of that gorgeous dress she’s in right now with its plunging neckline.

“I haven’t seen nearly enough of you.” Her throat bobs as she swallows whatever useless retort she was conjuring.

I sigh. “And meals are customary around this time of day, or hadn’t you noticed? ”

Her eyes narrow into thin slits that are more amused than angry. Meanwhile, mine remain fixated on her dress, her posture, and the thick blue vein running up her neck that looks like it’s working double-time to pump that frozen heart of hers. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll thaw you out.

The black and silver beads of her dress cling to her body and compliment her strappy black heels. The straps crawl up the length of her long legs. I explained to her where we were going, and this is still what she chose to wear.

It’s baffling how someone like her went unnoticed for so long.

This girl can’t help but stand out in a crowd, though that’d probably reign true even if she weren’t dressed to the nines.

She could be in a burlap sack surrounded by a horde of five thousand in this diner and she wouldn’t simply stand out; she’d be the only one in existence in my eyes.

“Ha ha, very funny,” she retorts. “I am not so out of touch with reality that I’m not aware of dinnertime .

. . it’s just,” her eyes dart around us, soaking in the intimate atmosphere, “this feels awfully like a . . .” She dips her head, staring at her hands as she tries and fails to keep from worsening the self-inflicted wound on her right thumb.

“Date,” I finish for her.

“Yes,” she admits, her eyes shifting back up to me, both accusation and questions swirling around in them. My mouth pulls into a grin. I haven’t been on many dates, admittedly they’ve never been a prerequisite in the past, but I’m pretty sure this qualifies.

I purse my lips, saying nothing at first as I watch her grow more uncomfortable with every silent breath exchanged. Her throat bobs, her chest rising and falling as her fidgeting worsens. Her tongue slides over her teeth as she feigns annoyance that I’ve not confirmed or denied her claims.

The truth? I’m enjoying this far too much to stop.

I like watching her prissy facade crack and break right before my eyes.

I like the awkward silence and her insatiable need to fill it with her soft whimpers and quiet moans.

It’s not nerve wracking like the other silence.

The silence that eats at my soul, chewing away at my sanity like a fucking parasitic worm.

This silence feels warm, like the tingling sensation one gets when they stick their toes in the sand of a hot beach.

It’s less than pleasant but then you remember you’re on a fucking beach so it can’t be all bad.

That’s what this feels like right now watching her.

“Good, because that’s exactly what this is,” I say, leaning back in my seat.

Her breath hitches before she’s laughing it off, her derisive tone not entirely off-putting.

“You’re still in sweatpants,” she retorts.

I arch a brow. In what handbook does it say sweatpants negates a date?

“And yet here we are.”

I sweep my palm over the table between us, displaying the full glory of our awesome as shit first date at the Highway 59 Dine and Dash. Who says romance is dead?

“We could have stopped by your house first. You know, where we could have found you proper attire?” she grumbles, reaching for the menu. Though it’s more like she snatches it from its tucked position behind the napkin dispenser.

Its obvious appearances are important to this girl, but too bad for her, she’s aligned herself with the likes of me.

A small part of me questions why that is, but it doesn’t require a large degree of intelligence to figure that one out.

This girl has daddy issues with a capital D .

Though, she’s still sporting a blush that hasn’t left her face since I made her come on my thigh.

The way she humped my knee like a horny little slut tells me she could stand to be a little more reckless in life.

In truth, I would have loved to take her somewhere more special than this, and I would like to get out of these clothes, but we have more important matters to consider. Could this pampered Princess even survive someone like me?

How can I get to a second date if the moment I try to fuck her she’s begging for mercy?

I mean, I definitely want her begging, but what if she runs?

I’ll have to chase. Then there’s no telling what I’ll do if I catch her.

It’s all a very delicate balance. I have to prioritize the game.

If she can play, she can stay. Simple, right?

“We’ll go to my house after we share a meal. I’ll need you well-fed if we’re going to be spending more time together,” I say, propping my menu up to hide my smirk.

“How do you do that?” she asks, a perplexed expression playing on her face.

“Do what?”

“Make everything sound so . . .” Her hand rolls in the air, as if conjuring the word.

“Dirty?” I finish.

“Threatening,” she corrects.

“I’m a man of my word, Sydney. I don’t make threats,” I say. Like clockwork, Sydney’s body reacts, telling me everything I need to know—she loves it. The idea of promises and threats.

“Yeah, well . . .” Her face scrunches in concentration as she scans her own laminated sheet. I feel the weight of her glare each time she steals a glance my way, just like I always can.

It’s become oddly comforting, addicting even.

You’d think I’d be used to being watched, used to the limelight as the infamous Morningstar, but when I play hockey, all I feel, all I see is the game.

It’s like that fucker Jake said earlier, I had no family in the stands, no loved ones, no one who actually gave a shit.

It’s all just white noise . . . except for her.

I felt her stare the whole game tonight.

With her eyes on me, I played the best I’d played in a long time.

Even the hat trick I completed, was for her .

Her absence for those two days prior to the game felt like a missing limb and her re-emergence felt like my first real intake of breath in days. If I had it my way, I’d never want her to stop. I’d always want her eyes to be on me.

As if the heavens actually deem me worthy, her gaze settles on me again. Her mouth opens to say something then closes. I continue pretending I’m reading the menu, waiting for her to speak. I know exactly what I want, and I’ll have it soon enough.

She tries again but her phone buzzes on the table, rattling against the Formica tabletop, interrupting whatever she was about to say. Sydney tilts the screen up, giving it a glance, then sets it aside with a scoff.

“So . . .” she starts.

“So . . .” I parrot.

“Hockey,” she states, as though the singular word is enough to get us talking.

I cock my head. “You want to talk about hockey ?”

The incredulity laced in the question is apparent.

“Yes,” she answers.

My brows knit.

“Why?”

“Because you like it?” It comes out like a question, like she can’t understand why I’m not delving into all things hockey.

“I love hockey.” I zero in on her jumping pulse in her neck, the only real indicator to the state of her nerves. “But you don’t want to talk about that.” My voice lowers, a husky timbre I don’t even try to hide, the sexual tension crackling between us. “Do you?”

She licks at her lower lip then clears her throat.

“Fine, we’ll talk about something else,” she shrugs. “How many tattoos do you have?”

She can’t be serious. She knows exactly how many tattoos I have. If she wasn’t sure before, she definitely knows the answer now. She was thorough back in the shower when she scanned every trace of my body with her dainty fingers, storing it in her mind for her future skittle bank pleasure.

I lean back against the cushioned seat, scrunching my face in faux contemplation. “Um, no.”

She blinks. “ No ?” She huffs. “What, you’re just not gonna tell me?”

“I’m not going to tell you what you already know.

” The vinyl seat squeaks as I settle even deeper into the booth, my sweat clad thighs spreading to make room for the hard-on she so easily elicits within me.

“Ask me what you really wanna ask me. Ask me the things you couldn’t find out on your own, Little Stalker Princess. ”

“I’m not a stalker,” she mumbles under her breath.

“You’re not a princess either,” I retort. “But the name still suits.”

She flops back against the seat, pulling away from the table and dropping her foot from my lap in a huff.