Page 74 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

thirty-five

T revor is the first of us to get moving.

He’s halfway down the stairs before I can even locate my clothes, but I’m not far behind, eager to prevent another fight, another delay to the pounding I was promised.

Lucien’s clothes are quickly thrown on, while I struggle to get my zipper up my dress without assistance.

“No. You stay here,” Lucien barks, noting my obvious effort to join the fray before he’s flying after Trevor.

Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

It takes a lot of awkward maneuvering with my arms behind my back in his absence but the second the zipper is drawn up enough to keep the dress on, I locate my phone and shoes, grab a hoodie from Lucien’s closet and run downstairs, heels clicking in hand.

By the time I’ve padded down the steps, absolute chaos is erupting in the front yard as another team pulls up to the house. It’s a battlefield.

Gripping the rails of the front porch, I frantically search for Lucien, or Trevor.

I’d even settle for Chauncey at this point, anyone that can help me stop him.

This is exactly the kinda hellscape Lucien would thrive in.

He’d be lost to the darkness, lost to me if he keeps choosing this path.

He’ll be lost to me anyway but one day, this shit . . .

I squeeze the banister hard enough to thrust splinters into my palm.

One day this inability to walk away will be his downfall.

Except when I do find Lucien, he’s of course fighting again.

He’s swinging his fist into a guy’s face, this time with Trevor who’s also bashing two other guys across the yard.

At least thirty dudes in total are spread across the lawn fighting at once.

I groan. I could be spending my final moments in town being ravaged, but no. Instead, I’m wrangling a bunch of hockey idiots.

Red SOLO cups, half-empty Jello shot glasses, and cigarette butts litter the trim lawn and hulking bodies smush the flower bed someone had attempted to keep alive.

Fists fly and blood coats the stone pathway.

I push past all of it to get to Lucien, getting shoved in the process when some six-foot-something tank falls on top of me.

“Fucking hell, get your ass off me,” I shout.

I crawl from beneath him as he groans and struggles to right himself. I’m dusting the dirt from my palms and Lucien’s hoodie when my ears catch wind of a nearby argument.

“Mother fucker ! You put him in the hospital!” The words roared between punches.

“He barely made it. He almost died , you dick!” another one shouts, backing up his teammate.

The first of them tries to throw another punch, but he’s countered with an elbow to the jaw. A dance of beautiful golden locks swish over his opponent’s forehead as he swerves another counter and places distance between them once more.

It’s then I realize their opponent is none other than Chauncey. I skid to a stop.

“Shame. Seems Morrow held back after all,” he taunts, dripping with confidence of a man who can back up his easy shit-talking nature.

I hadn’t noticed it earlier because I was too busy torturing him for his ‘delicate’ comment, but Chauncey isn’t soft. He’s holding his own in this fight, kind of reminding me of Lucien with his joyous expression. Even with a bloodied lip, he’s still smiling.

“The fuck did you say?” the human punching bag asks.

“You heard me,” Chauncey sneers. “If Morrow wanted Anderson dead, he would be. Count yourself lucky, considering what he said out there.”

“Yeah, asshole. You know what happened to his family was fucked up. Anderson should have kept his mouth shut.” Another one of our guys joins in, the one they call Sink, or Kitchen, or something.

I’m amazed these guys are carrying on entire conversations as they brawl, even more so by how fiercely they defend Lucien’s actions.

Chauncey throws a punch but this guy just takes it on the chin, spitting blood before he continues to toss insults at an obviously riled-up Chauncey.

“Anderson was just chirping. We all talk shit on the ice.”

Blood lines his inflamed nostrils and he keeps scrunching his nose like a squirrel, but his hands are up in defense ready for Chauncey to strike again.

“You know damn well it wasn’t just a chirp. Anderson hit below the belt, and you fucking know it,” Chauncey spits.

“So what? Fucking ‘Morningstar’”—he taunts, using finger quotes—“does it all the time. He’s a menace on the ice and you all just let him do it. So, who’s the real villain here? It was about time someone put that rabid dog you call a teammate down .”

I didn’t get a chance to know Chauncey well or anything, so he doesn’t strike me as the type to get angry easily but that’s exactly what he is when he swings a haymaker of a hit right at the guy’s temple, bringing him to his knees.

“Well, that dog is still standing and your teammate is in the hospital,” Chauncey points out, spitting a glob of blood into the grass as his knee makes contact with the asshole’s face.

I start walking again, catching Chauncey’s eye and offering a small smile. It’s all I can offer him, and when he smiles back, I know then he’s going to be okay.

Lucien is still a considerable distance from me, and I have to dip and dodge the slew of people fighting just to reach him. I cannot believe he’s in another fight. It’s like trouble finds this guy wherever he goes. That, or he’s having even worse luck than me today.

I freshened up and everything to prepare for our time together and now I’m outside, barefoot, damp hair and freezing my ass off while he engages in another blow-for-blow exchange. This shouldn’t be happening. He should be balls-deep and fucking me until I can’t see straight.

Then I hear it. Police sirens.

“Fuck. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

If Lucien’s caught fighting again, he’ll get in serious trouble. Hell, they might even lock him up for the night.

There are only a few more hours until daybreak before it’s well and truly over for us. I’m not ready for it to be over. I ball my fist at my chest as I try to ease the slow tear of my heart. I know heartbreak will come, but it’ll have to wait a little longer.

Unfortunately, I’m so distracted by my stupid heart that I don’t realize in the haze of bodies someone’s grabbing me harshly as they mistake me for another fighter.

I’m yanked back and thrown to my knees, scraping them in the process.

My heels slip from my hands, tangling around my feet as I attempt to peel my hood back in hopes that if they see I’m a girl, they won’t strike.

Cold hands grip me by the nape of the neck, pulling me back.

I claw at them, unable to see who’s pulling at me.

“Get off me,” I scream. I kick and scratch, slipping in the damp grass, barely gaining purchase to fight them off.

Like a trapped animal, I snarl as I’m being dragged away.

I search the lawn for help, to see if anyone is paying attention, but everyone is too engrossed in their own battles to notice my absence.

My fighting wanes, and for a second I resign myself to my fate, until I lock eyes with Lucien a few feet away. He knocks out the guy in front of him with a kick to the chest that looks like it might’ve broken a few ribs.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

This is all so fucked.

He turns to head for me, but then right beside him Trevor gets punched in the face, hard.

Lucien turns toward him, conflict evident on his face.

Trevor’s hit again, brought down to the ground where the guy is ready to unleash hit after hit on him.

Lucien steps in my direction again, but I thrust my hand up.

“Trevor!” I shout, halting him in his tracks.

He needs to save Trevor first. I twist in my captor’s hold, unable to get a good look at their face, but feeling around for something, anything to get myself free.

Finally, my hand catches hold of a strap, the strap of my shoe to be exact.

Fixing my hold on the shoe I spin without looking and drive the heel into the guy’s foot.

Their hold on me releases and I run back across the lawn in Lucien’s direction, not turning back.

I dip and dodge a few more guys like I’m a goddamn running back before finally reaching Lucien who’s now punching the face of the asshole who hit Trevor.

I’m here in time to help Trevor up from the ground, still reeling from a punch to the face.

“Are you okay?” I ask, cupping his face in my palm. Irritation boils my insides that anyone would punch him in his beautiful face, but even more so that he’d put himself in this situation. There’s no need for any of this.

My own turmoil forgotten, I tend to him, checking his body for serious injury. I may not feel for Trevor what I feel for Lucien, but he’s someone important to Lucien, and by extension, me. Lucien and I aren’t close to people, we have that in common, but somehow Trevor defies that reasoning.

He grips at my hand, bringing it away from his face and flashing his dimples, despite his bruising eye and busted lip.

“I’m fine,” he winces. “You guys gotta get going. The cops are coming.”

“I know, I heard them too.” I turn toward Lucien. “Lucien, come on.”

But, of course, he’s not listening, or more accurately he’s not hearing me. He’s not seeing me at all .

“You need to get out of here, Sydney. I got him,” Trevor sighs, cracking his knuckle, and preparing to rejoin the fight. My teeth grit from the absolute lunacy of men solving problems with their fists

Lucien surges his fist forward and it cracks against his new opponent’s jaw. Blood flows from the guy’s lips and he coughs up a tooth of all things. The guy tries to protect himself from Lucien’s blows, but his jaw is so swollen he can’t even beg for mercy.

“S-st—” His hand hangs limp as he tries to scoot away but Lucien is unfazed at the half-assed escape attempt.

Trevor looks over his shoulder at me, brows furrowed. Chauncey’s words ring like a bell in my head, ‘ we’re not afraid of him, we’re afraid for him .’