Page 95 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

This deal is considerably shittier than the last. I’m pretty much completely cut off at this point, but it’s something.

I couldn’t get into another skate program, but I managed to get into another school that wasn’t the one my dad picked out.

Ultimately, Lucien was right. All I had to do was stop worrying so much about failing and just skate.

Now that I’m so thoroughly acquainted with failure, I don’t fear it as much.

It’s still there, like an uncomfortable rash that breaks out on occasion, but for the most part, it remains dormant.

Triggers like my dad and stupid hockey players tend to cause flare ups, but missing Lucien is my biggest point of contingency.

I want nothing more than for him to be on this ice with me again and make me feel like I could take on the world. With one more deep inhalation, I think of him and do the routine over again. This time, according to Oksana, it’s significantly better.

We call it a day and I slip on my guards, swiping my sweater from the bleachers before I head to my locker, same as I always do, but something feels off about today.

There’s not as much attention on me here, something I’ve worked really hard to maintain at this new school.

Yet today, it feels like the entire arena is watching me.

It’s not exactly unpleasant, but it’s a feeling I can’t reconcile.

Whatever this feeling is, I’m not inclined to believe it is a good thing.

I tie the arms of my sweater around my waist and hoist my bag over my shoulder.

A weird part of me no longer likes to leave so much of my equipment at the arena.

Who knows how long I’ll last this time? This is my very last chance.

There are no more do overs after this. Weighted with that knowledge, I continue with my newly formed routine and head upstairs to the atrium.

It’s less commercial than Bellemere, but it’s practical and their prices are affordable.

Something I never thought I’d have to consider, but you learn pretty quickly what you can afford when you’ve been cut from funding.

There’s a quaint C-store that serves instant coffee that’s not completely terrible.

I finish stirring my coffee and grab a lid for the Styrofoam cup.

Next to the checkout counter, there’s a spinning rack with trail mix that I slowly turn before settling on a two-for-the-price-of-one deal.

I pay for the subpar coffee and discounted trail mix, pocketing one and opening the other.

It’s gone too quickly and I’m throwing out the package along with my instant coffee before I can even find a table to sit.

I don’t want to eat my second bag yet. I know I’ll need it for later, but I don’t want to leave yet, something in me screams for me to wait.

Against my better judgment, I pull out the second packet of trail mix and snack on that while I sit at a table and .

. . wait. I eat each piece one by one, creating a pattern of cashews, raisins, chocolate chips, and yogurt bites until the second packet is empty.

I haven’t even noticed that I’ve zoned out so much that I’m just staring at the back of some guy’s head this whole time.

Whatever. His hair doesn’t mind if I stare.

I rip the empty trail mix bag into tiny pieces as I look closer at the shorter cut in the back and his longer length at the top.

There’s a slight wave to it and it’s dark, a deep black you don’t come across often.

It reminds me of Lucien’s and again pieces of my heart fall away.

I miss him. I miss him so fucking much it hurts.

I’ve only felt loss like this two other times in my life, but this wound is fresh, still bleeding and sensitive to the touch.

The guy’s skin color even looks the right shade, and the build is similar to.

He’s wearing a black long sleeve shirt and sweatpants.

I can’t help but crack a smile, reminiscing on Lucien and I’s first and only date.

It should have been a disaster, but I’ve never felt more desired.

One of the food kiosks around here is serving French fries today and I swear I’m going crazy because if I close my eyes, I can remember the scent of peppermint and leather that coated his skin that night.

When I open my eyes again, the guy is rubbing his neck and for the briefest moment I can see rough knuckles and thick veins that stream all the way up to his wrist. When his hands move, I can see a sliver of ink peeking out from under his shirt.

No fucking way . . .

My feet are moving of their own accord, that sensation of being sucked into a black hole familiar to me once again.

It can’t be him.

I’m an arm’s length away from the guy, close enough to touch him, but my hand freezes, poised to tap on his shoulder but unable to commit. It’s not possible. And even if it were, what would he even want from me now? Revenge, maybe? Or nothing at all? Which would hurt more?

I pull my hand away and take a step back, but I don’t turn to leave yet.

Instead, I lean in, smelling him as if that’ll confirm my suspicions over simply asking the man to turn around.

He smells divine, but it doesn’t prove anything.

Lots of guys smell clean and spicy. I try to get a better look at the tattoo crawling up his neck, but from this angle, there’s no other concrete identifiers.

He could be anybody and though he may look like Lucien, there’s no replacing the original.

I don’t want a copycat. I want the real thing and if I can’t have that . . .

I turn to walk away.

“It’s rude to sneak up on people, you know? Bad manners and all that.”

My blood runs cold. Or hot. Or both. I’m unsure, but I stop moving.

“ Lucien .” The word is barely a whisper as I slowly turn back around .

It’s not a question. Not quite a statement either.

His name is like that of an ancient relic on my tongue, a powerful summons that draws him forth.

I dare not speak it unless it were really him, in the flesh, truly in front of me.

He still has his back to me, but I heard his voice, I heard what he said.

Logic refuses to bow to emotion though and forces me to hesitate.

My footsteps suspend in midair before I dare attempt another step in the stranger’s direction.

I’m not sure I could take it if it weren’t him.

There’s a strong pull that begs me to avoid the pain of disappointment and continue walking away, but Lucien’s pull is stronger and begs me to run to him and fall into the void.

I almost collapse to my knees when the man turns around and I’m face to face with him .

“Hey, Princess. Did you miss me?”

Golden eyes rob me of breath, and with a smirk and a wink, I fall for him all over again.

The End