Page 54 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)
“Shit. Fine.” Reaching into the pocket of my hoodie, I pull out four more hundred-dollar bills. “Here.” I slap the money in his open palm. “I’ll give you half now and half when the job’s done.”
He thumbs through the cash slowly and again I roll my eyes. He’s flaunting it on purpose. Feeling pretty proud of himself, he holds out his other hand with a smirk.
“Yeah, whatever. You better not fuck this up.” I place the baggie in his palm next.
“And you better not let this blow back on me,” he quips, pocketing the drugs in his stupid brown apron. “Pleasure doing business with you.” He twiddles his fingers in a sarcastic wave. “Now get the fuck outta my coffee shop.”
I check my watch, annoyed I’m having to deviate from the plan I set.
My plan was to do this in the morning and spend the whole day with him.
Once the drugs wore off, I could slip out, make it to practice on time and no one would be the wiser.
I lean against the door of a silver Camry while waiting for Will.
Sloppy.
How’d he know I’d come back? Way to keep it anonymous. Anybody could have found this. I hold the note up again and scoff when I read it. The car I can only assume is his is situated directly beneath the streetlight.
I guess I can’t fault the guy for being overly cautious, but when he walks from the back door to find me leaning against his car, his mood shifts from cautious to overly annoyed.
“That was not pleasurable,” Will says, shoving a small pink box in my face and holding out his hand. “Now, here ya go.”
“What is this?” My nose scrunches at the frilly box as I grab it.
“It’s a heart-shaped muffin.”
My mouth drops open, a little shocked by the turn of events especially when the scowl he’s been sporting hasn’t left his face.
“Oh, um, that’s sweet but, uh,” I try to decline his gift.
“Ew, no, it’s not for you. Honey, you are so not my type,” says Will, genuinely repulsed by the idea of dating me.
“This is for Lucien. I didn’t have the guts to poison him to his face, so I baked you this and put it in the chocolate drizzle and strawberry filling.
It should hide the taste better. And now you can give it to him. ”
“ Me ? Why me?” I screech, springing off the car.
“You’re a girl and your chances of not getting murdered rank significantly higher than mine if he ever finds out.”
“ That’s your reasoning?” I sputter because even though Lucien is scary, this man is an adult. He shouldn’t be this scared of a sophomore in college.
He holds his now empty palms in the air, making it impossible to give him the damn box back.
“Look,” he starts. “I don’t know what kind of creepy shit you’re into, but I did what you asked.”
“You actually didn’t,” I retort.
“This way is smarter, and it doesn’t blow back on me. So, take your little gift and give it to him.”
His outstretched hand flexes in a gimmie motion and I slap the remaining cash in his palms.
“This better work,” I mutter, shoving past him in the direction of the dorms.
He doesn’t bother counting the cash this time. “Yeah, Happy Valentine’s Day, creeper,” he calls at my back.
SYDNEY
I had expected snoring, loud boarish grumbling, or nasally snorts of breath, though I suppose that’s a more animated way of thinking.
In reality, there were no such theatrics.
Lucien’s breathing is soft, even, and almost sweet.
He slept with a boy-like wonder, sprawled on my lap, cuddled with innocence blanketed over his slumbered features.
This is the closest I’ve ever been to him.
I stroke his hair, brushing it rhythmically to the timing of his breathing as I hum a lullaby.
His whole body moves in time as though the rested breaths spread to every corner of his limbs.
When is the last time he’d truly rested?
When had I? The last few months have been such a blur.
Without the aid of the “extra special” Ambien, I find myself equally exhausted watching him be at peace.
Meanwhile, practice has been killing me.
My body’s rebelling at the lack of conditioning.
My phone chimes and I flip it over to read the messages scrolling up the screen.
Group Chat
Bellemere Figure Skating Team
Regina 6:40 AM
You’re late again!
Hannah 6:44 AM
Hey, yeah, Coach is talking about giving you another demerit if you’re late again. If something’s wrong, I’d suggest calling her to explain.
Regina 6:46 AM
There’s nothing to explain.
Tiffany 6:47 AM
I’m sure Sydney has a good excuse why she’s leaving us hanging like this and doing her own thing. We should give her the benefit of the doubt.
Bria 6:50 AM
I’m not sure the rest of us would get the same benefit if we did the same thing.
Oh, fuck you, Bria.
I’m not typically a fan of early morning skate but I’ve never been late for it. Fuck.
My head bumps against the cheap wooden headboard as I think about what I’m going to do about upcoming qualifiers. I peer down at Lucien to ensure it didn’t wake him, but he doesn’t flinch, and his eyes are still closed. I sigh as I return to my thoughts.
At this rate Tiffany is still ahead of me.
Her long program was cleaner than mine, though my short program bested her precision skills.
We were neck and neck when we shouldn’t have been.
A year ago, I was already where she is now, one step closer to my dream of the Olympics, but I choked under the pressure, and I’ve been choking ever since.
If I can’t nail this program, there’s no way I can push myself to place higher than Tiffany in this month’s qualifying competition.
The worst part is she isn’t even the one to beat, she’s the steppingstone I need to get me in front of the one who is: Keyshawn Reynolds.
A sixteen-year-old prodigy who’s already secured a spot on the US Olympic team and has already been invited to participate in the 2026 Winter Olympic Games.
But then again, lately, I’ve been pretty good at removing obstacles. What’s one more?
LUCIEN
What the fuck?
I wake with a long lock-jawed yawn, my mouth both loose and tight simultaneously.
My limbs are like Jello and my head swims in a sea of fog rolling in my head until .
. . Yup, nausea sets in. My body sways and I catch myself, my arm bolstering the majority of my weight.
With my palms against the sheets, the first thing I notice is that they’re dry.
I brush a hand over the bed. There’s no sweat.
I cradle my head, the heel of my palms resting over my eye sockets as I groan.
It doesn’t help and my eyes squint against the light that spills into the room when I sit up.
They’re unfocused as I take in the space. I’m in my dorm, but why? And how?
I don’t exactly remember coming here. Yesterday was a fairly good day, all things considered.
My stomach roils then shouts at me to feed it while I’m still in the midst of piecing last night together. One thing’s for sure, only one person would be so bold.
The last thing I remember is a heart-shaped muffin and a stuffed gingerbread man with the head cut-off it.
“That mother fucker, ” I chuckle aloud. “I can’t believe they did it.
They actually drugged me.” My legs swing over the side of the bed, and I sit on the edge.
Pulling my boxers open, I check my dick.
Nothing too out of the ordinary there. I give it a long stroke and sniff, caught a little off guard by the sudden musk smell, but slightly relieved by the lack of sex scent. So, I didn’t fuck anything, great.
“Good to know they were respectful when they drugged me,” I murmur, laughing hysterically that they not only followed through with their ‘offer’, but they managed to drug me at all.
That is the last time I accept food packages from anonymous couriers.
Clever Little Stalker. I wonder if this means I can return the ‘favor’ since they want to part from reality so damn bad.
I rise from the bed and pad to the window, noting the unlocked hinges.
My lips curve into a smile. They were here.
They stayed with me, and there were no nightmares.
Shuffling over to the bathroom, I glance in the mirror, noticing how tousled my hair is.
It looks like fingers have been run through it a thousand times.
I run my own through it, but it doesn’t conjure any memories or rogue feelings.
After a quick brush of my teeth and some water thrown in my face, I feel less drugged and more rested.
Leaving the bathroom, I flick the light switch, then catch sight of a single glass of water on my bare nightstand and a note sitting next to it, stuck to the glass with condensation.
I flip the card over, knowing there would be nothing on the other side, but eager to check all the same. They’d still not given me their name. I wanted to catch them more than anything but going about this the way that I was wasn’t working.
The only time I felt good anymore was when I stopped caring about being good at all. It was time I put an end to these nightmares once and for all. I’ll be the nightmare itself from now on. If my little stalker could go to such lengths to show me their true colors, so could I.
I read the note again. My gaze hung on the last word. Like a skipping record it repeats in my head.
Yours. Yours. Yours.
Mine . All fucking mine .
Dr. Amelia Thatcher
Session Transcript
Audio Recording
Date: March 3, 2024
Patient: Lucien D. Morrow
*Thirty minutes into the session
Lucien : Haven’t you heard, doc? I’m a psycho.
Amelia : You’re not psychotic, you’re traumatized.
Lucien : Not what the file says, doc.
Amelia : You know as well as I do, given everything you’ve been through—though it will have a lasting effect—it doesn’t have to define you.
Lucien : I wouldn’t worry your pretty head about it. I don’t mind being crazy. I’d argue it’s my best quality.