Page 60 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

Reaching for his hand, I thread our fingers.

I’m not sure if this is okay, if he’s even registering the surging current that sparks between us when we touch like this, but he doesn’t protest and follows easily.

It feels good walking with him like this, like we could walk hand in hand through this world forever, but it’s a wrinkle in time that comes and goes much too fast. His captain and other members of the hockey team approach us, and another dose of apprehension shoots straight into my veins.

“Give us a minute,” Lucien tells me. “I’ll meet you inside.”

His hand slides from mine and there’s a cool loneliness left in its wake, a premonition of life after Lucien. Before I can protest, he kisses the side of my head, nudging me away.

“I promise I won’t be long.”

I hate it, but I need to give him some time to smooth things over with his team . . . again.

I nod.

But when he turns to walk away, I let out a deep sigh.

So many promises, Lucien.

Some kind of way I managed to convince Chauncey, who had opted not to be a part of the ‘reprimanding Lucien committee,’ that I wasn’t going to hurt him again and that Lucien definitely would not rip his tongue out if he’d make me another one of his special pineapple drinks.

I wasn’t sure I actually held that kind of power over Lucien to ensure his safety, but he believed me easily enough.

He stubbornly obliges at first but after a few minutes or so he’s back to his charming flirty self.

It turns out, he is good people and though he flirts, it’s a harmless extension of his personality.

Or harmless to those of us that are immune to his panty-melting smile.

Chauncey Bridgers is just too good looking for his own good.

Still, while he’s distracted with his fancy bartending moves, I take Lucien’s lead, apologizing again for being mean to him.

“I’m sorry I insinuated your dick was small.”

“ Thanks ,” he trails off, looking over to me with skepticism.

“It’s not,” I rush out.

His hair flops side to side as he chuckles, unable to help the tiny smirk that forms at the corner of his lips from his ego being stroked.

“I know, but best we don’t let Morrow know, yeah? I quite like having the use of all my limbs and bodily functions,” he teases—or at least I assume he’s teasing. I’m honestly not sure anymore.

There’s no way Lucien is as bad as they say. But then again this is the same guy who doesn’t believe there’s any good left in this world. That nobody is ever really a good person.

But I swear I’m not a bad person, I don’t think anyone is, it’s just some people are more resolved with being exactly how they think they should be.

By all accounts, I should be the rich stuck up mean girl, it’s how I grew up—and sometimes I am—as proven outside.

But I don’t have to be that way. I can choose to be better.

I try to be better.

Chauncey and I share another skillfully made drink of his and I find he’s surprisingly funny. He’s also an excellent source of information as he regales me with stories of Lucien, telling me things I hadn’t learned during my months of, erm, research.

My laughter is dying down from a joke he’s shared that he swears brought Lucien to his knees when I ask, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot, beautiful.”

“Are you all actually afraid of Lucien? Like for real?”

He blows out an exaggerated raspberry, his lips flapping comically as he searches his mind for a suitable answer.

I expect a simple yes or no but his response is thoughtful, calculated.

“Uhh, hmm,” He rubs at his jaw, smoothing a well-moisturized hand over a face that has fewer flaws than mine.

“We’re . . . afraid for him.” He finally settles.

“Morrow’s a good dude with some scary demons.

I like the guy. We’re friends . . . I think.

” There’s a contemplative look on his face though that says he’s really not sure, but he quickly shakes the expression away.

“We get along. We play well together, but the things I think he’s capable of go beyond normal. ”

“Normal?” I ask.

“Yeah ‘normal’ and Lucien aren’t exactly synonymous.

Hockey helps. It gives him something to focus on, but sometimes .

. .” He trails off briefly, finding his words.

“Sometimes it’s not enough and he withdraws into this really dark head space that no one but the captain seems to be able to help him shake.

He’s been withdrawn lately but he was coming out of it.

Eventually, he always comes out of it. A few weeks pass and boom, he’s back to his usual self. But that didn’t happen this time.”

“What do you think happened?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m fishing for more information. That I’m searching for the answer that scares me most.

“Dunno. Cap nor Morrow will talk to us about it. He seemed okay today—before the game that is. He’d seemed .

. . better. But something must have happened on the ice tonight.

We were all pissed to lose our shot at the Frozen Four, sure—some of us more than others—but most of us know underneath Morrow’s a good guy .

. . who will, yes, rip your tongue out.” He pauses, lifting a halting finger in the air.

“But he chooses not to.” His shoulder lifts casually before he leans back against the countertop, grinning proudly. “That’s real love right there.”

A nervous bellow of laughter gushes out of me. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

And I suppose I might have my answer, that I could be the one to blame for his change of behavior.

Shit . I take a long swig of my drink.

I really do ruin everything.