Page 61 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)
twenty-five
W armth from the alcohol spreads through my chest and my limbs feel limp and relaxed.
I don’t typically drink. It’s not good for training.
But I’m not training for a competition right now.
No, I’m training for Lucien, and the alcohol consumption feels necessary, vital even.
It’s lowering my inhibitions and preventing the onslaught of regret already formulating in my mind.
The pineapple rum drinks are the only thing keeping those regrets at bay while I wait for Lucien to come back.
My body gyrates, moving freely and boundless as I do what I’m rarely given the opportunity to do ; let loose.
I’m not confined to my father’s side or forced to have dinner with men old enough to be my father.
I simply dance my heart out. I dance mostly by myself, but I sneak a couple in with Chauncey before he’s distracted by some hot redhead. Turns out, he has a thing for gingers.
Who knew my new friend actually had a type?
I just assumed he hit on anything that breathes, but he was the nice distraction I suspected he would be.
Too bad I was once again without Lucien.
I’m swaying to a sensual alt rock number that’s playing, typing out a text to him when a different text comes through.
Bradford 2:11 AM
Are you at a party?
My spine straightens as I dart my eyes around the crowded makeshift dance floor.
No one seems to be doing anything out of the ordinary.
They’re dancing, grinding to the beat of the music that reverberates through the space, but I don’t see any sign of Bradford.
He’s someone who would definitely stick out, even more so than myself.
Yes, I’m in an expensive cocktail dress at a college hockey house party, but I’m a girl and sometimes we do that, but Bradford?
He’s the type to go to a party in a fully tailored three-piece suit.
And he doesn’t just command attention, he forces it down your goddamn throat.
I text back.
Sydney 2:12 AM
No
Bradford 2:12 AM
Then tell me what you’re doing right now.
Shit.
Sydney 2:12 AM
Walked into town to see if I could find some more packing boxes. I ran out.
Bradford 2:13 AM
This late at night?
I note the time. Double shit.
Sydney 2:13 AM
Yeah, all the discarded boxes should be broken down by now. They’ll be picked up if I wait til morning.
There. That should keep him off my back for a while.
Except it doesn’t.
Bradford 2:13 AM
Share your location. I’ll pick you up.
I groan. Screw it.
Sydney 2:14 AM
I can’t do that.
Bradford 2:14 AM
What do you mean you can’t? Why not?
There’s that word again, Princess. I try to shake the memory of Lucien’s words away.
Sydney 2:14 AM
Because I don’t need to be babysat.
Bradford 2:14 AM
Is that what you think I’m doing?
I’m trying to make sure you’re safe.
That you’re okay.
Sydney 2:15 AM
I’m not safe and I’m not okay.
Bradford 2:15 AM
So then let me help you.
Sydney 2:15 AM
I don’t need your help.
And I don’t want to be saved.
Bradford 2:16 AM
Sydney, what are you doing? This isn’t you.
That’s the point.
I shove my phone back into its hiding place.
It’s as the buzz I worked so diligently to create fades that I realize I never texted Lucien.
I deeply desire another drink, but I decide to leave Chauncey alone since the girl he’s with seems to be enjoying his attention and not using him as her personal mixologist. Meanwhile, Bradford continues blowing up my phone.
I avoid it at all costs, deciding that looking for Lucien is the better use of time.
I make my way over to the windows and peer outside, but by the looks of it, he’s not out there.
Shuffling past the DJ speakers, I find my way into the hall where even more people line the walls.
The party has grown in these last hours, which makes finding him even harder.
I skip a line of girls to check the bathroom and am relieved when I find he’s not here either, considering the bold offers he received earlier by girls who thought I wasn’t looking.
I’m always looking .
I managed to get pretty acquainted with the house when I went searching for him the first time, but I never went upstairs.
There are surprisingly few people hanging out on the steps with mostly everyone confined to the first floor, but they allow me to pass without any interference.
The stairs creak as I ascend to the top and I pause to look back.
Even from the landing, I don’t see him anywhere.
It’s darker up here, quieter too.
I peek into a few of the rooms, but each one proves useless.
They’re either locked or messy rooms with random hockey gear thrown about.
Seriously, they need a maid in here. Ivanka, our maid back home, would have a fit if she saw the state of these rooms. Not a single one would receive her stamp of approval . . . with the exception of one.
I push open the final door wider. There’s something different about this one—and I don’t just mean the cleanliness of it.
In this one, books are stacked neatly against a desk and the wood floors are clear of clothes, shoes, and hockey gear.
A couch sits to the side in a small seating area and a large black iron canopy bed centers the back wall of the room.
The bed looks more intimidating than comforting, but it’s the energy of the space overall that compels me to walk inside.
I step quietly, shutting the door behind me, and snuffing out the lingering sounds of music from downstairs.
It’s so quiet, peaceful even.
Tentatively, I approach the massive furniture piece centering the room.
There’s something out of the ordinary about it, like it’s not merely a bed.
Walking closer to it, the gunmetal comforter set has a sheen from the soft bedside lamps that light the room.
I take another step, touching the perfectly made sheets, my fingers coasting over the material.
In a move that proves exactly how far I’ve fallen, I lower my face to the pillows, drawing in the familiar scent. It smells just like . . . him .
This is Lucien’s room.
Knowing that I’m in his private sanctuary only kicks up the obsession meter a notch higher because I want to invade his space like he’s invaded my heart.
Walking over to his closet, I swing it open, my grin growing ever wider.
Jackpot . Like the true creeper it turns out I am, I bring some of his shirts to my nose and inhale as deeply as my lungs will allow.
His scent envelopes me and my thighs squeeze closed as the familiar ache for his touch grows.
He’s made me wait all night and this is his room .
His real one. I always thought it was weird that the other one was so barren.
But this is his true inner sanctum. These are his clothes . I touched his bed .
I giggle when I spot his hamper in the corner, a discarded shirt sticking out the top.
Grabbing it, I run to the mirror on the back of his bedroom door.
I hold up his jersey, pressing it to my chest before I twirl around in a circle, like it’s a ball gown, because on me it practically is.
The heels are a nice touch too, and I smile, confident Lucien would like me in his jersey with nothing on underneath.
Maybe this was his plan? Why he wanted me at this party to begin with? After all, he did conveniently leave out that the party was in fact his own and being held at his house. Surely this had to be where he’d hoped we’d end up. It’s where I hoped we’d end up.
My phone buzzes again and I snatch the phone from my cleavage, reviewing the multitude of missed calls and ignored messages I’ve received from Bradford . . . and a voicemail from my dad.
Fuck.
Voicemail from Dad
“Sydney, call me now.”
Short and to the point. Perfect. I call him back and by some miracle, he doesn’t answer.
Another text notification.
Bradford 2:30 AM
Seriously, Sydney, I’m getting worried about you. You need to tell me where you are right now!
Sydney 2:30 AM
I don’t owe you an explanation, Brad. Stop texting me!
Bradford 2:31 AM
Since when do you call me Brad?
Why are you acting like this?
Sydney 2:32 AM
Because you’re not taking the hint. Leave me alone.
Bradford 2:32 AM
You’re leaving me no choice.
I scoff.
“Yeah, dude, whatever,” I mutter. I’m about to be fucked within an inch of my life.
I don’t text back, instead setting my phone on the nearby dresser where I find the rest of my things sprawled out. It’s like Lucien said, we’re already in trouble and I’m about to get in a hell of a lot more, so I’d rather beg this daddy for forgiveness because I’ve been a bad, bad girl.
I could surprise Lucien, lie across the bed and present myself as a gift, wrapped for him to have in whatever way he wants. I should have brought the blue bow he tied me up with earlier.
Then he’d see, @BladeSpinner and I are one in the same. That the girl from his texts was the real me.
I toss the jersey back into the basket then move to find a good position on the bed.
My pulse quickens when I hear Lucien’s voice right outside the door. I scramble to move faster, but there’s a second voice, one I can’t immediately place.
Oh crap, he’s not alone. Quick thinking has me running back to the closet and shutting myself inside just as they walk through the door—but, shit, my phone.
There’s rustling and heavy footfalls as they walk deeper into the space, but I don’t hear them talking anymore.
I worry I can’t hear them because my heart is beating too damn loud, or worse, my panting breaths are drowning out what they’re saying.
Leaning forward, I try to peek between the slats of the door to see if I can see anything.
“So, why’d you really follow me up here? Were you hoping for round two?” asks Lucien, leaning casually against his bed post. The second person, his team captain, seems unfazed by Lucien’s tone, changing the subject of conversation entirely . . . toward me.
“Where’s your new toy ?” he asks, trying to appear casual, but he’s not pulling it off as easily as Lucien seems to.
There’s something about the way he says it that has me wanting to rip myself in half.
One half can hear the condescension in his voice, it hears the insinuation that I’m just another fleeting pastime for Lucien, no one important and nothing special.
The other half doesn’t hear animosity. Or the negative connotation behind his captain’s words. It hears jealousy.
“She’s . . . around ,” Lucien says. “Why do you ask?” He smirks, unperturbed by his friend’s odd behavior.
Uneasiness stirs in my gut, and I’m tempted to fling the door open and announce myself. I’ve been watching Lucien for months now, and in all that time I never once felt this kind of awareness around my actions–until now.
I’ve played Lucien’s games. Endured his tests. But this feels like a trap.
It’s dawning on me with frightening clarity that I really shouldn’t be here, intruding on their private conversation or lack thereof because the green-eyed captain hasn’t said a word.
His jaw just keeps ticking, causing his deep dimples to ripple and shift.
His eyes close and he hangs his head in a sign of defeat, fingers gripping his hips harsh enough to bruise his smooth brown skin.
“You’re in a pretty good mood for someone who hates losing even more than me. I thought you’d be more . . . upset or something,” he emphasizes, tossing his hand in Lucien’s direction, though his words come off more like an accusation.
“So, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to feel better, Trev?” Lucien asks, his own hint of condescension present now.
His captain nods slowly as though he has to think about it first. “Yeah, it is.” His teeth grit. “It’s all I ever wanted,” he says, his voice husky and deep as he rubs a large hand over his trimmed beard, like he wants to say something else.
But man, that voice. I bet he brings women to their knees with a voice like that. I could listen to him talk all day.
“Then tell me what you want,” Lucien says. “What could the captain need from me now?”
“Don’t do that,” his captain croaks.
“Don’t do what, Trev?”
His captain’s chest expands and deflates, pulling his Henley taut.
“Tease me like that.”
Lucien waits a breath before his facade cracks, his eyes smoldering.
“I’m not. That’s your department, remember?”
Trevor steps forward, chest heaving and eyes on fire.
For a moment I think he’s going to punch Lucien again, but then Lucien takes a step forward, his defenses down, hands casually tucked away in his pockets.
The only things that suggest his demeanor has changed at all is the sudden lack of a smirk and his serious tone.
“Lucien.”
“Lock the door,” Lucien commands.