Page 50 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

twenty-two

T wo things happen at once. One: I lose the warm embrace of Lucien’s protective arm around me. And two: a man with dimples so deep it doesn’t even matter that he’s frowning approaches, cocks his arm back and punches Lucien square in the face.

My hands fly to my mouth as Lucien’s face knocks to the side, but he doesn’t move from his spot. He takes the punch. I’ve known him for all of a few hours, but it shocks me as weird that he’d just let it happen.

“You done?” Lucien asks, voice calm. Though he’s already sporting a small cut on his cheek that has started to bleed.

“No!” the other man roars, his green eyes blazing with fury.

“What the fuck were you thinking? You knew how important it was that we win this game. You knew how important it was to me. We didn’t have to lose!

” I’d be taken aback with how beautiful the guy is if I wasn’t so horrified by what he just did.

He hit Lucien. Shit. Is Lucien going to attack him?

And if he does, will he be able to stop ?

This is a much larger group of people and I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to navigate this without someone getting hurt—again.

See, this is why Lucien hasn’t fucked you yet. Why are you being such a scaredy cat right now? Grow a set of tits and defend his honor.

But words die on my tongue and as the fight ensues, I’m pushed farther and farther back by the growing crowd.

“You’re right, you didn’t! So, tell me, Captain, why did you?” I hear Lucien yell back.

More punches and blows are traded, but I’m so far back now I can’t see a thing.

“We lost, because of you. Because you didn’t consider the team.”

“I always consider the team. Where was my team when he was talking all of that shit about my family, huh? Where were any of you? Tell me where my goddamn team was then !” Lucien shouts.

The entire party goes quiet; the only sound heard, the base of the music and the soft hum of distant voices.

I wasn’t sure what triggered tonight’s fight on the ice and, if I’m being honest, I’d assumed he didn’t really need a reason.

But it’s clear it has something to do with whatever happened to his family.

It’s very still for a long moment, but by the time the crowd dissipates, and everyone goes back to partying; Lucien is gone.

Only one person remains in the foyer: the guy with the green eyes, the one Lucien called Captain.

There’s a small gash above his eyebrow and he taps it with the pad of his finger.

Blood paints the tip but all he does is scoff at it.

He walks away too at the realization he’s bleeding, but all things considered, he’s come out of it in much better condition than the others tonight.

I trail the long hallways searching for Lucien, first throughout the massive open first floor of the house and then the basement.

The basement is full of stoners and paired-off couples tongue fucking each other while strewn bottles and lines of coke litter the tables.

I’m relieved when I don’t find him down there.

When fifteen minutes pass and I still don’t see him, I’m ready to panic, believing he might have just abandoned me here.

If so, we’d never see each other again and I’ll die a virgin.

The rational part of my brain that still functions tells me I’m being dramatic.

I’m not going to die a virgin just because he doesn’t fuck me tonight.

Lucien has the right to not want to, or even to ask that we wait.

It’s me that’s forced us to operate on this time crunch he’s still not aware of.

It’s not his fault he’s under the guise that we have all the time in the world when I know we don’t .

. . but the obsessive part of my brain, well that part is ready to hunt. Him. Down.

I’m not leaving until I know where he is, who he’s with, what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling .

. . I know I’m spiraling, but that’s what he does.

He scrambles my brain. He makes me crazy .

I tell myself I’ll give it five more minutes before I’m literally kicking down doors, but I’m holding on to the last shred of my sanity for dear life.

Resolving that I should at least attempt to calm down, I push past the crowd and head toward the kitchen to make myself a drink.

Lukewarm tequila burns the length of my throat as it slides down in one large gulp, but the desired effect is quickly achieved, so who am I to complain? I’m preparing to down another when a blond-haired blue-eyed jerk takes my cup.

“Hey!” I shout, reaching for my cup, but he holds it at bay, his long fingers stretched around the edge of the cup, fingers that are attached to a very big, very muscular arm. It takes me off guard for a second, but only a second. “Give it back, you . . . you drink thief!”

I hold my hand out expectantly, but he defies those expectations. His smile grows, amusement twinkling in his eyes when I reach for it again. He snatches it back and I suck my teeth. I could really use that drink, and my nerves cannot handle something as childish as keep-away right now.

“Thief?” he chuckles. “If anyone’s stealing, it’s you, pretty girl.

” I gape at him. I’m a lot of things, but I’ve never been a thief.

“You see I live here . . .” he continues, swirling my cup around like it’s a fine wine instead of the shoddy mix of bottom-shelf liquor it is.

“And I can’t say I’ve ever seen you around here before.

So, it stands to reason . . .” he trails off.

“That’s because I’ve never been here before. I’m…”—I try to find the right word—“visiting.”

It seems the most appropriate term.

My fingers thrum against the linoleum countertops, wondering where the guy I’m visiting could be.

The new stranger peers at me over the edge of my cup, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. I expect him to drink my toxic concoction but instead he smells it like some kind of weirdo.

I lean against the corner of the wall and the counter, my hip digging into the drawer nearest me. He hasn’t taken a single step toward me, but I feel backed into a corner all the same.

“Is that so?”

When his eyes leer over me, I don’t get the sense he’s simply checking me out, it’s more like he’s cataloging me, filing me away for a rainy day.

“And does the lovely lady have a name?” he drawls, his tone flirty and playful as he turns toward the bar.

I take in his floppy blond hair and V-neck shirt that exposes his thick chest, and the gold chain wrapped around his neck as he pulls down some shakers and stirrers from the cabinet above me.

“Or doth the lovely lady prefer other terms of endearment?” He teases in a posh accent that’s fooling no one.

“The lady prefers her drink back,” I snide, reaching for my drink again. Once more it’s pulled away.

“Well, milady, Chauncey Bridgers at your service, but I can’t in good conscience let you have this drink back.”

He tries feigning serious and it only serves to make him more intriguing, though still mildly annoying.

Reaching over me, his fingers dance over the bottles, twiddling above the tops, before he snatches one up from the middle of the group.

“And why not?” I ask, eying the bottles as he uncaps his liquor of choice. Have they been spiked? Is Chauncey saving me from getting roofied? That would be a hell of a karmic event if so.

Chauncey reaches to the side of me, careful to avoid skin contact, as he lifts open the cooler lid by my feet. I hadn’t noticed it before now, but his flurry of movement shines a new light on the makeshift bar area.

“I believe I speak for the whole team when I say we can’t let our esteemed visitor attend one of our parties and not have a decent drink.

” He leans forward, a little like he wants to share a secret and, like an idiot, I lean in to listen.

“We wouldn’t want to put a bad taste in your mouth, now, would we?

” His playful tone turns seductive and while others could use that same line and I’d gag, this guy is kind of clever, and funny—and as it turns out— another hockey player.

Makes sense I guess, he’s certainly built for it.

“What gracious hosts,” I respond dryly, realizing that all of his moving about is so that he can fix my drink.

The corner of his mouth curls into a sly grin.

“You can save the theatrics,” I quip, waving my hand around his space.

“Oh, but theatrics are what I do best, sweetheart.” He winks, drawing my cup away from within reach when he sits it down.

Oh, I don’t doubt that.

I can’t actually tell if he’s being a tool or just a professional flirt.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might like drinking warm tequila?” I challenge. “Besides, I have a perfectly good drink, right there.” I point to my cup on the other side of his workstation.

He laughs again, continuing to mix my new drink despite my protests.

“ Nobody likes warm tequila.”

“Maybe I do. I’m weird like that.”

He chuckles, wetting his lips as he shakes his head at me. “I like weird . . .” He stops his pouring and turns to fully face me, appraising me again, “. . . but okay.”

My skin grows hotter the longer he stares, and not in a good way. I’m feeling judged, like careful research is being conducted and I’m failing the test.

“Pineapple!” He blurts out.

I arch a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Yep. For sure, pineapple.” He repeats, turning from me again and adding the pineapple juice.

“What, were you trying to guess my favorite kind of fruit or something?”

“I was using my superpowers on you.”

And there go the gag reflexes. Ugh .

“Is that what you do to pick up girls?”

“Nope. What I do is work magic,” he answers, smiling at me despite my snide remark.

He adds a splash of other mixes and a lemon wedge for garnish before stirring the drink with ice and finally handing it back to me.

I eye it cautiously, then meet his eyes again.