Page 5 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)
“Yeah, well, there weren’t many seating options, and this is a sold-out game,” I snip.
And yet, some kind of way the girls he pointed out have all snagged seats directly next to the home team’s bench.
They must have gotten their tickets early or saved seats.
I’m hard-pressed to admit I’m envious of their commitment to the cause, but I hate the sight of my competition having the upper hand.
I try to shake the discomfort as I stare at pretty brunettes and exotic redheads with their painted blue lips and coordinated WE LOVE YOU signs.
Logically, I know there’s no point in being jealous.
I would have never thrown myself in that viper’s pit. Not on purpose, anyway.
“Aw, come on,” he pushes, unwilling to let this go. “You don’t need to lie. All the girls want Morningstar’s dick.”
He says it like it’s a matter of fact. Like the sky is blue or the grass is green.
“Not me,” I deadpan.
His expression is smug; his brow cocked upward with a lazy grin spread across his face.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
He chuckles. “Bullshit! Have you met the guy?” My stomach drops at the very idea. I want to. It’s the whole reason I’m here. “I bet you’d change your mind and run down there right now if you saw what he looks like.”
I refocus my attention on the ice.
“Sounds like you’re the one that wants his dick,” I grumble.
He laughs harder. “Nah, I don’t swing that way babe, but I know a handful of guys who’d definitely suck that guy’s cock if given the green light.”
My head whips back toward him.
“Seriously?” They’d suck him off just because they were a fan? Or is it because he’s that good looking? I suppose both is reason enough.
“Yeah, so you see, I find it kind of hard to believe you’re not secretly a closeted bunny,” he taunts, his arms resting behind his head while he gets a kick out of teasing me.
“I told you. I’m a fan of . . . hockey,” I grit.
I can barely get the word out. Hockey isn’t exactly an everyday term for me.
“So are they,” he juts his chin back over to the group of girls. Despite my better judgment, I follow his trajectory again. My gaze intensifies as I stare down each and every one of them.
A growl lodges itself in my chest, but I remain the ever-poised ‘good girl’ I’m expected to be.
“Good for them. I think it’s good for team morale to have such dedicated fans, don’t you think?”
Hand me my award for world’s greatest actress.
My eyes sweep the arena with a careful eye this time before I return to Mr. Obnoxious beside me, challenging his apprehensive stare.
I should have known better.
Every girl in this arena is sporting his number.
Almost all the signs, t-shirts, and beanies either have his number or his nickname: Morningstar.
Rage simmers beneath my skin, itchy and hot.
I want it out. My nails dig into my palm to break inside and release the uncomfortable feeling, but no matter how hard I press, it remains. I hate losing.
What do they have that I don’t?
I’m not particularly keen on coming off as some desperate puck bunny. The one other thing I know about hockey—their fan girls are called puck bunnies. I mean, to each their own, but I’m a Sinclair, I don’t do desperate.
I prefer the term ‘extremely dedicated’.
“Right,” he drawls. “Welp, it makes no difference to me.”
He leans nonchalantly in his seat, his foot resting on the back of the one in front of him. Most people are leaning forward, eyes focused on the game, but not him. This guy is more than entertained with getting under my skin.
“Could’ve fooled me. You seem rather invested in my seat choices,” I quip.
His face twists in what I can only assume is supposed to be an attractive smirk, but his eyes are too squinty, and half his face is drooping, the alcohol in his system doing little to aid him.
“Nah,” he grins. “I’m just happy to get my pick of his leftovers.”
His eyes flick to my chest and then back up.
I grind my molars, working hard to remember he’s just some drunk guy I sat next to. I can ignore him. I don’t owe this asshat anything, I shouldn’t even honor his stupidity with a response.
Luckily, I don’t have to.
“Stop fucking with her,” the nice one to my right defends.
“If those puck bunnies knew anything about Morningstar, they’d know he spends more time on the ice or in the Sin Bin than he ever does on the bench.
He might spend a little time over there in between shifts, but when the puck drops, his eyes are on the ice. Always.”
“The Sin Bin?” I ask, confused by the terminology.
“Oh, yeah, big ol’ hockey fan,” mutters Asshat.
We both ignore his sly comment.
“This cage right here.” He points a few rows below us toward an empty box-like cage.
My nose scrunches at the barbarism, the idea of him locked in a cage doing funny things to my already volatile emotions, but I force a neutral expression, not wanting to expose my feelings to this guy.
“Trust me, this is the better view,” he continues.
I refocus on the ice and a second later I finally see him.
The one they call Morningstar, Number 66.
It’s only the back of his head, but it’s an unobstructed view of my sole reason for being here.
Inky black hair peeks from beneath his helmet, slick with sweat and pasted to his slender neck.
I practically swoon at the sight of him.
My entire world is crumbling apart, yet seeing him still manages to be the highlight of my day.
It’s hard to keep up with him, he’s so fast, but I do my best to not lose sight of him again.
Three months ago, you couldn’t have paid me to go to a hockey game.
But three months ago, I still had a dream to pursue.
Now there’s only him and I’m determined to see him play one time before I go.
Even now, my consciousness begs me to turn back and go home, a sixth sense warning me that I don’t know what I’m getting myself into.
Pursuing a guy they’ve nicknamed Morningstar doesn’t exactly evoke a sense of security.
Nor does it scream good decision making.
But, not for the first time, I don’t listen.
I’ve grown quite adept to danger. I perform dangerous jumps over solid ice every day. And in this case, there’s a hell of a lot less risk. By morning this place will be in my rearview mirror, and whatever first-time crush I had will be a meaningless blip in the history books of my life.
The puck bunnies scream his name and he bops his head in their direction, acknowledging their obvious love for him.
I swear to God, some of them do swoon while others fan themselves as though we’re in a sauna and not an ice hockey arena.
My eyes roll and my thumb bleeds again with the way I’m going at a particular hangnail.
Since backing down is not an option, the question now becomes how do I toe the line of blending in and showing school spirit versus crazed fangirl who wants to ride the nation’s top center forward’s cock like it’s my brand new BMW?
I have a deep and unsettling inclination that when it comes to Number 66, that line is particularly fine.