Page 7 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

Looking down at the ice again, I see why everyone is in such a tizzy.

A fight has ensued, several actually. Jesus, they were just in the middle of a game.

They should be celebrating, but now the whole rink is in an uproar.

My eyes frantically search the faces of everyone brawling, looking for the only player who even remotely matters to me.

I lose him in the chaos, but then I spot the unmistakable black hair, his legendary jersey number, on top of one of the opposing team players, pummeling his face.

Both of their helmets have come off and drops of sweat drip from Lucien’s dark, saturated hair as it sways violently with each blow.

I bite my lip, a little floored to see his full face without obstruction.

His eyes are alight, a wild expression glowing amid his amber irises.

Pure determination, worthy of a top athlete in the heat of battle, reflects on his face.

I recognize it. The metaphorical mask he constantly wears—the one set even deeper than mine, that hides the true him and keeps his fans oblivious to his true talents—falls like cheap fabric, disintegrating into thin air and leaving nothing behind but the real monster beneath.

I lean forward, engrossed in the unabridged version of Lucien Morrow.

His jersey pulls back, stretching so far across his broad chest it looks ready to snap.

People grab at it to yank him back, but he presses forward, unhindered.

He hasn’t noticed that it’s his own teammates who are trying to pull him off.

Lucien finally pulls away, elbowing them off, not relenting, not letting up.

Not even when the injured player stops moving.

He keeps going, roaring loudly as blood coats his fists, spatters onto his face, and leaks to the ice.

The other team works in tandem with the Titans, trying to drag their teammate free from Lucien’s grip, but it’s no use.

He’s too strong and too focused on his kill.

They all look like they’re trying to remove a meal from a lion, pulling in opposite directions to free them from one another, but it’s clearly not working. He won’t be robbed of his prey.

Relief sweeps through the crowd when one of the refs not engaged with breaking up the other brawls comes in to finally put a stop to the madness. Goodness, what the fuck was taking them so long? People are getting hurt. Though I guess only one person is suffering any real damage.

Hand over heart, I let out a breath, but then Lucien turns to the referee, wrenches off his helmet and head butts the ref so hard blood pours from the ref’s face.

More chaos erupts. Lucien didn’t even give the ref a chance to speak.

I gasp, my hands clutched at my metaphorical pearls, squeezing the neckline of my costume as I stand there stunned.

I can’t believe he did that. I knew hockey was a violent sport, but at no point did I think it was this violent. Not even the referees are safe apparently. The refs struggle to get the other players under control, leaving Lucien too open to do what he wants: hurt.

Lucien’s eyes are more gold than I’ve ever seen them, ablaze with a fury I’ve only ever seen one other time.

But it’s the disassociated expression on his face that has my fingers twisted in my skirt.

I’ve seen Lucien angry, or so I thought, but that time was nothing like this. It’s not just anger I see, it’s pain.

The ref stumbles back, falling onto the ice as he holds his face and screams out.

When the majority of those on the ice shift focus to helping the ref, Lucien takes the opportunity to turn his bloodied face back toward his original prey.

I recognize him as the player who kept following Lucien around on the ice.

A couple of the guy’s teammates manage to get his seemingly lifeless body to his feet.

They’re on either side of him with his arms limply wrapped around their necks.

It’s evident the skates are the only thing alleviating his weight and he’s very much still unconscious.

It’s hard to see if he’s even breathing.

His face is so mangled and swollen. My stomach churns from the sight of him, but Lucien isn’t the type to leave a job undone.

For some insane reason that only makes me fall deeper for him.

Unfortunately for me, perseverance is a quality I find incredibly hot.

Lucien lunges for his prey from behind, sending all the other players holding him up back down to the ice. Oh God. He’s not going to stop. He needs to stop, or he’ll kill the guy.

An empty, crazed glint settles in Lucien’s eyes that tells me he sees nothing and no one but this poor kid, and still, he’s ready to land another blow. But something in me knows he can’t take another hit.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, thick and bitter like acid.

My palms secrete sweat, even as I rub them vigorously against my clothes, but I can’t eradicate the heat, can’t quench the burn.

My skin buzzes, a weird feeling between panic and excitement sparking within me, igniting me all over like electricity.

I grip my hair, trying to ground myself at the horror that’s unfolding.

This could ruin everything. This school won’t even notice when I’m gone, but him ? Everyone will feel the loss of him. If he loses it right here, it could spell the end of everything he’s worked for. Just like me. I can’t let that happen, I need him to stop.

Stop.

The words snake their way out of my throat before I even process what I’m saying or why I think it’ll change anything. But it rips through me anyway.

“Lucien, stop !”

I scream it so loud, so resolutely, I’m thrown off by my own strength.

The words cut through the arena like butter.

It’s almost eerie how clearly it penetrates the other noise, echoing from the tips of my toenails to the ends of my hair.

Time slows, or maybe I’m so wired it only feels that way.

The voices around me quiet, the jeers and hollering cease, and just when I think another explosion of violence is about to erupt, it doesn’t.

It’s unlikely he heard me, but all the same, his face slowly turns toward me, and our eyes lock.

For the first time ever, he sees me. Those golden-amber eyes meet mine and I’m frozen.

The already cold arena feels like it plummets to arctic temperatures.

My hands grip the back of the seat in front of me so hard my knuckles drain of color.

The pounding in my chest feels like it might explode.

Fear claws at my throat and I will myself to calm down. The look on his face is devastating.

It’s fine, he’s not looking at you.

He clearly is.

There’s nothing to be scared of.

That’s absolutely not true.

He won’t hurt you.

He definitely will if he finds out who I am.

My eyes widen at the realization he really is looking right at me, and breathing becomes that much harder.

I can see everything that lies beneath that wicked stare.

His objective hasn’t changed; it’s altered.

He has a new target: me. His crazy eyes lock in on me and it all becomes transparently clear-he’s dangerous.

I squeeze my thighs together.

He’s a danger to my body, mind, and heart, and I’m drawn to it like a moth to flames.

My lips slowly curl into a smile, to grin wide and show him my teeth, show him how happy he makes me. If he’s happy, he won’t hurt him. Yeah, that’s right. He’ll calm down and look at me some more. But my smile crests and breaks like a crashing wave when I search his eyes.

His chest expands and retracts while a mixture of blood and sweat trill down his face to his uniform, staining his white jersey and blue numbers.

I tuck my lower lip behind my teeth, biting down at the sight.

The corner of his mouth twitches as his tongue darts out and licks his lips.

Even with the fear suffocating me, and his display of unbridled violence and pure determination to end the guy beneath him, wetness gathers between my legs.

My pussy salivates with a hunger I’ve never felt before.

He’s looking at me. Right at me.

I stutter a breath at my reaction, clenching my thighs to abate the sudden ache of desire. An ache that spreads through my middle and takes over my good senses. Though one could argue my senses were never all that good to begin with.

He’s terrifyingly beautiful. Shivers crawl their way up my spine the longer his eyes hold mine, seeping into my bones and wracking my body with chills, but I only find him that much more enthralling.

His fist is still clocked back, ready to enact his final blow. But he holds it the same way he holds our eye contact, challenging me to blink lest he continues his assault. I accept that challenge.

“Stop.” I whisper it this time, more like a prayer, knowing he can’t hear me, but willing him to stop anyway. I don’t blink, even as his stare hardens. Even when he breaks first to roam the length of me, my eyes don’t leave his. I let him drink his fill; confident he has no clue who I am.

Time resumes, and for a second, I think he might ignore my prayers and beat this guy’s head in anyway, but he chooses to honor our silent agreement.

Lucien smiles a crimson grin and spits the accumulated blood onto the ice near the knocked-out players before allowing himself to be dragged off the ice and tossed to the sidelines by a different set of refs.

Typically, he’d be thrown in the cage near me, the ‘sin bin,’ but he’s not being given a penalty or slap on the wrist. He’s being thrown out of the game. The crowd is noticeably upset. At who, I’m not exactly sure, but I’m too busy tracking Lucien’s movements to give the crowd another thought.

I watch as he grabs his stuff and heads through to the locker room doors. That heady danger rolling off him like a cloud of smoke. When he disappears around the corner, my body immediately unlocks. I need to get to him .

I turn on my heels to leave but the two guys I so happily sat between aren’t as easy to get past as they were to get through.

“Excuse me,” I call out.

They’re too busy grumbling about bullshit calls and “ what was Morningstar thinking? ” to notice me.

“Excuse me,” I try again. But again, their attention is stolen as they focus on the medical team on the ice retrieving the limp body of the player Lucien beat up. He looks like he was torn to shreds by a dog.

“Excuse me!” I repeat, louder this time.

“Look, can’t you see we’re having a moment for the fallen, he’s hurt!” yells the seat neighbor who’d been sweet, angrily pointing at the bloody rink and unconscious player.

The fallen? He didn’t die in battle. He was massacred . . . in front of everyone.

I scoff, surprised it wasn’t Asshat to speak up first, and his eyes narrow at my unsportsmanlike conduct.

“Does it look like I care?” I snap, eying him up and down with folded arms.

He appears shocked by my callous outburst. There’s a low-churning guilt that wades in my subconscious from the sneer that follows, but I push it away.

He was nice to me, and he let me have this great seat to begin with.

Even Asshat became tolerable somewhere around the second period, but now they’re both an obstacle and it’s the Sinclair way to get rid of obstacles.

I don’t particularly enjoy being unkind, but it seems the most efficient way to garner any respect around here.

God, I hate when my father is right, but he would be proud.

“Now get out of my way,” I seethe.

I barely give him time to comply before I push past him and run after Lucien, my guilt abandoned. I can’t lose Lucien, not yet. But when I burst through the corridor doors after him, he’s already gone.