Chapter 6
Soren
T he chill of the January air clings to my skin as I tread across the hardwood floors of my house, the sounds of my footsteps swallowed by the silence and gloom that’s settled over Mickey like a shroud.
While his house is getting redecorated, he’s staying with me. So far it’s been one week out of an estimated eight, and it’s not like I mind at all. Normally, he’s the easiest house guest. But tonight… tonight he’s not his usual self.
“Another round?” I ask, holding up the fresh bottle of whiskey, the other disappeared not too long ago.
Unlike me, Mickey didn’t go to sleep when we returned from Cupid’s Court. Instead, he started drinking his sorrows away the moment we stepped through my front door.
He doesn’t look up from the depths of the leather sofa that’s become his refuge, just holds out his glass with a hand steady as a surgeon, despite the haze in his silver eyes.
“Keep ‘em coming,” he mutters, the words slurred but laced with an edge sharp enough to cut. There’s no hiding from this day—January first, the anniversary of every shattered dream he’s ever had. It’s the day Simone’s mask slipped, revealing the cunt she really was.
“Jesus,” I mutter, but fill his glass back up.
Mickey’s laugh is more of a rasp, as if each chuckle scrapes against raw flesh. “What a great start to the year, right?” he says, and there’s nothing happy about it. Not for him. Not today.
The doorbell rings, slicing through the tension, and I immediately go to open it, already knowing who it is. Sawyer stands on the threshold, a gust of cold air sneaking in behind him as he steps inside. A nod is all we exchange before I lead him into the living room, where Mickey has sunken deeper into the couch.
“Hey, Mick,” Sawyer greets, trying for casualness, but his voice wavers, betraying concern.
“Save it, Sawyer,” Mickey snaps, lifting his glass in a mock salute. “It’s just another glorious day.”
Sawyer glances at me, questions in his eyes, and I shrug. What can I say? We’ve been here before, watching Mickey unravel, each year the thread pulling a little looser.
“Come on, man,” Sawyer says, sinking into the armchair across from our friend. “There’s more to life than dwelling on the past.”
“More to life?” Mickey echoes bitterly. “Like what? Empty hookups, meaningless games?” His gaze drifts toward our friend. “Getting married?” he sneers the last part in a way that’s very unlike him.
Sawyer doesn’t take the bait. “Like the future,” he insists, ignoring the cruel barb.
“Future’s nothing but a rerun of yesterday. Of last year. Of fuck all,” Mickey retorts, draining his glass again. He’s spiraling, and we’re just spectators to his self-destruction.
“Enough of this shit,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. I need to yank him back, remind him he’s got something worth fighting for, even if he can’t see it through the whiskey-soaked veil. “We’re going out tonight. No arguments.”
Mickey scoffs, a hollow sound. “To watch you play hero while I drown in memories? Pass.”
“Christ, Mick,” I snap, my patience splintering. “Can’t you just—”
“Can’t I just what, Soren?” he fires back, his eyes blazing with a challenge I know all too well. “Forget? Pretend? Move on? Fuck. You.”
I fall silent because what can I say? He’s right. Some wounds don’t close; they fester, hidden beneath the surface until days like today rip them open anew.
“Guys,” Sawyer interrupts, his voice a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. “Let’s just… let’s just be here for each other, okay? No pressure, no plans. Just us.”
I nod, though uncertainty gnaws at my gut. I fucking hate seeing Mickey like this, so lost to the ghosts of January first, drowning in what-ifs and never-weres. Every year I have to remind myself that tracking down Simone and kicking her lying ass isn’t a viable option, but fuck I want to.
“Fine,” I relent, sinking back into my seat. But as the minutes tick by, the silence stretching thin between us, a single question burns in the back of my mind.
Mickey remains slumped on the couch, clutching the glass of amber liquid in his hand like it’s the last life vest on a sinking ship. He stares into nothingness, lips moving in a silent soliloquy only he understands. The scent of whiskey mingles with the despair hanging heavy in the air, and I can almost taste the bitterness on my tongue.
“Hey, Mick,” Sawyer says, nudging him gently with a knee. “Big game against the Rangers coming up. We need you sharp, not pickled.”
But Mickey just waves him off, eyes never leaving the swirling storm in his glass. He’s somewhere far away, maybe in a parallel universe where this day means something else.
I bite my lip, watching this yearly ritual unspool, knowing there’s no playbook for heartache. My gaze flickers to the clock. It’s mocking us, each tick echoing through the room like a drumbeat counting down to another year of Mickey’s misery.
“Hey Sawyer, did I tell you about Abby?” I blurt out. I know fucking well I haven’t mentioned her since it only happened last night. But I’m desperate to shatter the silence that feels so potent it’s threatening to open my own wounds.
Sawyer arches an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest. “Abby?”
“The new woman from Cupid’s Court,” I clarify, the memory sending a shiver down my spine. Her name tastes like a secret, forbidden and alluring.
“No, you didn’t. Do tell.” Sawyer’s voice is low, intrigued.
Sawyer’s never been with us to that place, always claimed he didn’t want to go. And now that he’s married, it’s definitely not happening. Despite always inviting him to join us, I’m kinda glad he never did. Mickey and I have shared our women for so long it’s normal for us. But Sawyer isn’t into that.
I run a hand through my short, dark hair, trying to shake the image of her from my mind. “She had this mask on, so she couldn’t see. And it was big enough it hid everything but her mouth.”
“Sounds like your kind of mystery woman,” Sawyer chuckles, but his eyes are sharp, dissecting my words, searching for the truth beneath them.
I shrug, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “Kinda.”
“So she made quite the impression, huh?” Sawyer muses. “Enough to go back for seconds?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—curiosity, maybe, or anticipation.
The ice clinks against the glass as Mickey tilts it back, draining the last of his whiskey in a single gulp. The liquid fire seems to burn away some of his gloom, replacing it with a spark of mischief. He leans forward, and levels a gaze at Sawyer that’s both sly and a little blurred around the edges.
“Guess what our boy did last night?” he slurs, a crooked grin spreading across his face. The room is thick with tension, heavy like the air before a storm.
“Enlighten me,” Sawyer says, eyes flickering between us, sensing the weight of what’s coming.
“Soren here… he fucked Abby,” Mickey announces, his voice carrying a note of disbelief.
Sawyer’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise etching itself into his features. We’ve never kept secrets about our escapades, but this—this is something else, and I’m irrationally annoyed with Mickey for not keeping that part to himself.
“Come on, you’re shitting me,” Sawyer finally says, turning to me for confirmation or denial.
“Wasn’t the plan,” I admit, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter, as if the memory of Abby’s skin against mine isn’t seared into my brain. “At least not the first time.”
“I’ll be damned,” Sawyer chuckles. “And you didn’t even see her face.”
“Didn’t need to.” The words come out gruffer than I intend, defensive. It’s not like me to be drawn in like this, to someone whose eyes I’ve never seen, whose full lips I’ve only tasted in the dark.
“Pfft, you were even focusing more on her pleasure than pain. That’s a first,” Mickey teases. His silver eyes narrow, watching me closely, trying to decipher the enigma of my sudden change.
“Fuck off, Mick,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair in frustration. I can still feel the ghost of her curves pressed against me, the way she moved, the soft and wanton moans that escaped her lips. And her cries of pain when I caused it.
Sawyer leans back, studying me with a contemplative look. “We all have our moments, man. She must’ve been something else,” he says.
“She was… is.” Words fail me, because how the hell can I explain what I don’t even understand myself?
It wasn’t anything she said or even did, it just… happened. Something unfurled inside me, something I didn’t even know I carried around.
“Are you going to book her again?” Sawyer finally asks, breaking the quiet.
Mickey chuckles darkly, the sound bitter as January frost. “What do you think? Just look at him, he’s already halfway to obsessed.”
I shoot him a glare, but there’s no heat behind it. The question Sawyer asked hangs in the air, taunting me with the possibility of seeing Abby again, of unraveling the mystery she presents.
“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” I say, standing to pour another drink.
The scent of alcohol and leather mingles in the air of my living room where we sprawl out like casualties of war. Sawyer’s checking his phone every five minutes, like he’s afraid of missing something.
“What’s Lucia up to tonight?” I ask Sawyer, needing to shift away from last night, and knowing she’s the reason he’s glued to his device.
He stretches his legs out. “She’s with Gail. She wanted to show her our new house and talk her into joining the social media business,” he says before taking a swig of his drink.
“So you’ve left them alone to plan world domination?” Mickey asks, as he pushes himself up on the couch.
“Something like that,” Sawyer chuckles, his gaze soft as it is every time he talks about his wife. “Gail said yes, and they’ve already settled on a name. Lucia had her mind set on partnering with Gail from the start, and as always, my wife gets what she wants.”
I bark out a laugh. That’s a fucking understatement if I ever heard one. Lucia managed to get Sawyer down the aisle, even after he’d sworn that was the one thing he’d never do. So, yeah, I don’t think her friend stands a chance.
“Smart women,” I comment, the image of Gail’s light brown hair and those piercing blue eyes flickering into my mind’s eye.
“Tell me about it,” Mickey chimes in, his drunken smirk spreading wide, less sarcastic and more genuine now. “I’m still bummed that Gail shut us down and didn’t come home with us after O’Jackie’s a few weeks ago. She’s got this sexy, innocent look that’s just… damn.”
I nod in agreement, remembering all too well how easily Gail laughed at our jokes, how her intelligence shone through every word, and how she moved with an unassuming grace that made you want to watch her—and not just for the curve of her hips or swell of her tits.
“Easy there, boys,” Sawyer warns, his tone light but edged with steel. “Gail’s off-limits for you two. She’s like a sister to Lucia, so don’t include her in your games.”
“Hey, we’re just appreciating the view,” Mickey defends, raising his hands, his silver eyes glinting with mischief.
Sawyer’s phone buzzes and I’m close enough to see a text from Lucia herself flashing on the screen.
“Looks like she and Gail have been busy,” he says. “You’re looking at the husband of a future social media mogul.” He beams with pride, typing a response.
I huff. “Maybe they’ll teach us a thing or two about going viral. Lord knows my socials are just shots of the rink and—” Sawyer interrupts me by lightly punching my shoulder.
“You don’t even manage your own socials, dickhead. But I’m sure I could convince my wife to give you a discount if you want one of her courses.”
Mickey leans back, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead as if to physically push away the memory of Simone’s betrayal. “Can you guys please stop talking about plans and let me focus on how fucking terrible today is?”
“Look at you, man,” Sawyer says, his voice low and tinged with frustration. “What’s the endgame here? Drowning in booze every January first?”
Mickey scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not just booze, it’s a memory eraser, and I’ll take what I can get.”
“Memory eraser?” I interject, trying to steer the conversation away from the edge. “Is that what we’re calling whiskey now?”
“Fuck off, Soren,” Mickey grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. Just exhaustion.
I contemplate following his wishes, leaving him to stew alone in his misery. But I quickly decide against it. In all the years I’ve known him, I haven’t let him wallow alone, and I’m not about to begin now. He does the same for me on the anniversary of my twin’s death. Fair is fair.
“Are you guys ever gonna stop paying for pussy?” Sawyer leans forward, elbows on his knees, confronting us head-on. “You know you don’t need to, right? You’re Soren ‘The Wall’ Taylor and Mickey ‘The Missile’ Davis. Women throw themselves at you.”
“Sometimes it’s not about the chase, Sawyer,” I counter, feeling the burn of my own defenses rising. “It’s simpler this way.”
“Simple?” He snorts. “Since when do either of you do simple?”
“Since complicated left me bleeding and broken,” Mickey fires back, the words laced with venom and old wounds.
Sawyer sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Just... think about it, alright? Just because Gail didn’t bite doesn’t mean there isn’t someone who will—”
“Fuck this peptalk shit,” Mickey snarls. “Either shut the fuck up or tell me how shit the world is.”
“God, you’re…” Sawyer shakes his head, standing up. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want one?”
“Fuck that,” Mickey answers, reaching for the whiskey bottle. “This is all I need.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
As Sawyer disappears into the kitchen, I look at Mickey, feeling like I should say something—anything. But nothing comes to mind.
“Abby,” Mickey whispers, half to himself. “You know what I’m usually like every year. But with Abby, I never thought about today until we got back home.”
Nodding, I acknowledge his words as the truth it is. Mickey’s pity party usually starts at the strike of midnight, but last night he never mentioned it once.
I glance over at Sawyer, who’s now leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His brows are furrowed, but there’s a softness in his eyes—a brotherly concern that’s been forged in years of shared battles on the ice.
“Maybe distraction isn’t what you need,” Sawyer suggests, nodding at Mickey. “Maybe it’s about facing it head-on, man.”
“Or maybe it’s about making new memories,” I add.
“You can’t buy your way out of pain, guys,” Sawyer interjects, his tone laced with caution.
“Can’t we?” Mickey challenges, a reckless fire lighting up his eyes. “Cupid’s Court says we can.”
With drunk, fumbly fingers he swipes at the screen on his phone, waving me over so I can look with him. “Oh, and would you look at that, Abby is free for the entire weekend of the fourteenth,” I grin.
“Fuck waiting that long,” Mickey chuckles, immediately booking her for one night the week before as well as the entire weekend I just mentioned.
Sawyer’s gaze holds mine in a way that makes it all too clear he wants me to talk Mickey out of it. Maybe I should… but don’t want to. Mickey isn’t the only one who had a great time, so why not go back for seconds, thirds, fourths, fifths… for however long we want to?
“Fuck,” Sawyer mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t let this become your new addiction.”