Chapter 11
Mickey
T he ice is a sheet of glass beneath my skates, and my breath hangs in the air like smoke as I push off, muscles coiling and flexing. Coach’s voice echoes across the rink, rough and ragged as sandpaper. “Pick it up, Sabertooths! You’re skating like you don’t want to win!”
I chuckle, reveling in the burn in my thighs and the chill biting at my face. I catch Soren’s eye as he guards the net, his stance wide, a fortress of muscle and focus. He nods once, short and sharp.
“Power play practice!” Coach bellows, and we snap into formation like pieces on a chessboard gearing up for a strategic siege.
“Alright, boys,” I bark to my line, “let’s show the old man we got some fire left.”
We drill the plays we’ve been perfecting all season. Sawyer takes position as the forward, his stick ready to snipe any opening. I slide back into left defense, watching the puck like it’s the pulse point of the game. My mind flickers through strategies; when to hold the line, when to fall back, and when to risk it all on a breakaway.
Sawyer feeds me the puck, and I let it dance at the end of my stick, skating closer to the goal before I slap it back to him. Or at least that’s what I intend to do, but at the last moment, I change my mind and instead send it hurling toward the goal. It ricochets off the boards with a satisfying smack, straight to Sawyer who’s now parked in front of the net, screening Soren.
“Come on, Davis, you can hit harder than that,” Coach growls, though I can tell by the twitch at the edge of his mouth he’s pleased.
“Saving my best shots for the game,” I retort, grinning despite the tension that coils in my gut.
“Your best shot better damn well be tomorrow night,” Coach shoots back, but there’s no real heat in it. Just the grizzled concern that comes from a lifetime on the ice.
“Let’s run the delay breakout,” I call out, signaling the guys. We need to be seamless, unpredictable. Hockey isn’t just about brute force; it’s chess at ninety miles an hour.
“Take a break, guys. You’ve earned it,” Coach hollers.
No one wastes any time, immediately skating over to the bench. My breath fogs in front of me as I rip off my helmet and let out a grunt. Soren’s already there, chugging water like it’s the elixir of life. Meanwhile, Sawyer… the bastard looks like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. Show-off.
“Man, Coach is riding us hard today,” I huff, dropping onto the bench beside them. The cold seeps through the fabric of my gear, but it’s a good kind of chill, one that says you’ve been pushed to your limits.
“Think he’s got a bet going on how many of us puke before it’s over?” Sawyer jokes, his lips curling up into a smirk.
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Soren adds with a shake of his head. His eyes are still focused, still intense.
“I blame it all on you, Mickey,” Sawyer nudges me with his elbow, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You always do,” I grin. “Just because I have one annual breakdown everything becomes my fault.”
At the mention of my pity party in January, Sawyer becomes serious. “You’re okay now?” I roll my eyes at him.
Okay, so maybe I can understand his concern since I keep talking about not caring about any game but the inevitable one against the Jersey Jags later this season. And it’s true, but it’s also not. Every game matters.
I know Sawyer’s wanted to ask about it. But the only times we’ve seen each other privately, Lucia was there as well and we don’t discuss each other’s shit with her around.
“I’m fine,” I reassure him, flashing a grin.
“I almost like you better when you don’t talk,” Soren says, clapping me on the back so hard I almost topple forward. Dick.
“Aww come on, Soren. Don’t be like that just because I didn’t make you coffee this morning.”
Sawyer barks out a laugh. “Just how close are you guys? I mean…” Trailing off, he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Soren throws his empty water bottle at him. “Fuck off.”
Knowing that won’t deter our friend, I take another route. “Why? Did you want a kiss?”
This makes all of us laugh. I know none of my friends would judge me if I swung that way, but that’s not what our sharing is like. It’s just… our dynamic. That’s the best and only way I can explain it.
“Speaking of which,” Soren says out of nowhere. His tone shifts just a smidge softer. “Nana’s been hounding me to come watch a game. Keeps saying she’ll bring her famous oatmeal cookies.”
“Your nana’s cookies?” Sawyer’s face lights up like we’re talking about the holy grail. “Hell, tell her to come to every game.”
I grin. “Why hasn’t she been around lately? Everyone loves Nana,” I say, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the exertion of practice. “She’s like the unofficial team mascot.”
“Better not let Coach hear you say that,” Soren chuckles. “But she hasn’t been well. So I didn’t think bringing her to the rink was a great idea.”
Wait… why the hell is this the first I’m hearing about that? Just as I’m about to ask more questions, Coach’s voice booms across the ice. “Alright, enough chit-chat! Back on the ice!”
“Let’s show ‘em what Sabertooths are made of!” I shout, tapping my stick against Soren’s and Sawyer’s before we hit the ice again, the echo of our laughter mingling with the sound of skates carving into the frozen surface.
Hours pass by as we continue our practice. I feel like I’m about to fucking puke from exhaustion. Every muscle is burning from overuse, yet I can’t stop grinning. This is what I live for.
The screech of skates carving ice dwindles to a hush as Coach’s voice booms across the rink, “Wrap it up! Interviews in twenty.” The old man doesn’t ask; he commands, his words clipped like his military buzz cut.
I pull off my helmet, sweat plastering hair to my forehead and dripping down the back of my neck. I shoot Soren a look that says ‘here we go again,’ and he rolls his eyes in solidarity.
“Remember Davis, you’re representing the Sabertooths,” Coach grunts, fixing me with a glare that could freeze a bonfire. He knows I hate the dog and pony show, but hell, we all have our parts to play.
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else, Coach,” I say, sarcastic enough that Soren snorts a laugh but subtle enough so that Coach just nods gruffly and stalks off.
We file into the locker room, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. As I strip out of my gear, the camaraderie of the team hums around me like a high-voltage current. It’s electric, and despite myself, it charges me up for what’s next.
After we’ve all showered and dressed, we head to the interview room. Jo, the Sabertooths PR guru is waiting for us, making sure no one sneaks away. She never used to manage us this closely in the past. But thanks to Sawyer escaping an interview to go spend time with Lucia, we now get our names checked off a list like kids.
The interview room is all white walls and fluorescent lights, too bright after the dimness of the rink. We settle into chairs that feel too small, facing the firing squad of cameras and microphones. I adjust my Sabertooths cap and lean back, trying to look at ease. Sawyer’s already fielding questions about plays, his answers measured and thoughtful.
Then it’s my turn, and I’m hit with the usual; stats, expectations, the upcoming game. It’s a script I know by heart, but then comes the curveball.
“Any thoughts on when you’ll settle down, Mickey? Any special lady or gentleman in your life?” The interviewer bats her lashes, one corner of her mouth quirking up.
“Settle down?” I quirk an eyebrow, the corners of my lips twitching into a mischievous grin. “And miss all the fun? But hey, if you’re offering…” I wink, letting the tease hang in the air.
There’s a ripple of laughter, the tension breaking like thin ice under a heavy boot. I don’t miss the way Soren’s lips twitch, trying to suppress a smirk. The interviewer, flustered but laughing, moves on to the next question.
“I just meant, you once said you couldn’t wait to be a dad. Has that changed?”
Before I can retort, Jo intervenes. “You know we don’t talk about that,” she says, icily. “If you want to maintain a good relationship with the Sabertooths, you need to remember your place.”
The interviewer juts out her chin. “It’s a normal question, Jo. You can’t coddle your players forever. The fans have a right to know.”
The old shame I felt when Simone played me for a fucking fool comes back in full force. I remember exactly how excited I was when she announced her pregnancy. Fuck, I dedicated every free moment to learn everything there was to know about expecting. If there’d been a test, I would’ve gotten a damn gold star.
Ironically, the one thing I wasn’t prepared for is what happens when the bitch is a two-timing slut and the baby isn’t yours. That’s the shame that still fucking clings to me. I gave her everything, and she spat in my face, publically.
“I don’t care,” Jo snaps, her tone strained and her smile fake. “If you ever ask Mickey that question again, I’ll sue you for breach of contract—”
“We don’t have a contract,” the interviewer sighs.
Jo laughs coldly. “Oh, we will soon. Now, you better leave since you’ve worn out your welcome.”
Their words make me realize I’m still fucking sitting here, unmoving and mute, like a weak-ass moron, allowing our head of PR to fight my battle. I clench my hands and stand so abruptly the chair I occupied falls to the floor.
Then I look straight at the interviewer and point at her. “Never again!” I growl menacingly. “Or I’ll find where you fucking hurt and drag you through the mud.”
Jo nods approvingly and places her hand on my upper arm. “And I’ll help him.”
I have no idea if the cameras are still rolling, and I couldn’t care less. I meant what I said, and I know Jo did as well. She can be a hard person to work with at times, but the one thing none of us ever doubt is that she has our backs when it counts.
As the interviewer leaves with a huff, I can feel the restlessness kicking in, a familiar itch beneath my skin. I’m ready to get out of here, ready to move, to breathe without the weight of expectation pressing down. But just as we think we’re in the clear, Coach reappears like a shadow at sunset.
“Good work today,” he begins, his tone softer than usual but still edged with steel. “Rest up. Tomorrow, we will show them what we’re made of.” And with that, he strides out, leaving a silence that hums with unspoken anticipation. We’ve been given our marching orders; now all that’s left is the waiting.
I appreciate that he didn’t bring up the failed interview, but that’s Coach for you. He rarely holds his tongue when it’s directly related to our gameplay, but he hates getting involved in anything else.
As I turn and make my way outside, Soren catches up to me. I can feel his concerned glances as we walk to the parking lot, but I ignore him. The cold hits us like a slapshot, sharp and bracing, but it’s freedom compared to the stale air of canned answers and camera flashes.
“God, I need a real meal,” I grumble, thinking of nothing more than a hot plate and a moment of silence.
“Let’s hit the road then,” Soren replies, his green eyes scanning the darkening sky. He’s always been more attuned to the world around him, like he can sense the ebb and flow of things unseen.
We drive in comfortable silence, the city lights blurring past, each one a reminder of the game looming over us. Pulling into his driveway, Soren kills the engine, and we step out into the crisp evening. His house is a fortress of solitude for us, a place where the press and the fans can’t reach.
Inside, the ritual begins. Clothes hang in preparation, equipment laid out with precision—a warrior’s armor awaiting battle. We raid the fridge, piling our plates with enough carbs to fuel an army, and sink into the cushions of his couch.
“Man, this is the life,” I say between mouthfuls, relishing the quiet before the storm.
“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Soren adds absentmindedly.
The evening ticks by with the methodical pace of a metronome, each second a note in the symphony of preparation. We talk strategy, dissect plays, and visualize the ice beneath our feet. It’s second nature, a dance we’ve performed countless times.
“Early night?” Soren asks, checking the clock. It’s not even nine, but tomorrow demands everything we have.
“Definitely,” I agree, feeling the pull of my personal pre-game ritual.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the confines of my room in Soren’s house feel like the only reality that matters. The air is thick with silence but for the steady hum of my own breaths coming faster now. My body already knows what comes next; my favorite pre-game ritual, one I’ve come to need.
I quickly get rid of my clothes, before dropping to my knees, feeling the familiar scratch of the carpet against my skin. Reaching underneath the bed, I search blindly for a moment before my hand closes around the familiar shape of the flesh light. I pull it out, holding it almost reverently. Anticipation coils within me, tightening with the knowledge of what I’m about to do.
Puck bunnies used to be my pre-game ritual. But those nights have faded like last season’s highlights. Since Soren and I became members of Cupid’s Court, we’re rarely turning toward the puck bunnies.
Where Soren is happy to pay so he can get his need to cause others pain out of his system, my needs are the direct opposite. I want the fucking relationship package, without risking my heart again. By paying, there’s an uncrossable distance. It’s all a game I can control with my wallet.
I settle onto the edge of the bed; the mattress dipping slightly beneath my weight. My hand wraps around my hardening cock. The sensation is immediate, a spark igniting in my core as I begin to move my hand—slowly, purposefully. My breath hitches, catching in my throat as the pleasure begins to unfurl within me.
With each stroke, each pull of my skin, the urgency builds. The memory of bodies pressed against mine fades into the background, replaced by the singular focus on my own touch, my own needs. I take my time, teasing myself.
Tightening my grip, I stop moving for a moment. My dick’s still growing, hardening, and I fucking love feeling it swell. Groaning, I begin moving my hand up and down again, relishing every movement.
My chest rises and falls rapidly now, each breath laced with a growing desperation. The heat is intense, almost unbearable, as if every nerve ending is straining toward the same inevitable conclusion. My dick throbs in my hand, pre-cum glistening at my pierced tip.
I reach for the lube under my pillow, greedily squirting a large amount onto my cock, stroking it into the skin as much as possible.
The cool, silken touch of the flesh light’s interior beckons, a siren call to the depths of my carnal desires. I grip it in one hand, steadying my breath before guiding my cock inside. The sensation is instantaneous, a tight, enveloping warmth. A low groan rumbles from deep within my chest, reverberating against the walls as I start to move.
Fuck, it feels so good.
I set a rhythm, a pace that echoes the pounding of my heart. Each thrust sends shivers up my spine, a symphony of pleasure playing along my nerves. My free hand balls into the sheets, clutching at the fabric as if anchoring myself to reality, while the rest of me threatens to drift off into the haze of bliss.
“Goddamnit,” I grunt, the sound guttural, punctuating the air with each dive deeper into the welcoming embrace of the toy. My cock twitches, jerking with a life of its own as it rides the waves of ecstasy, swelling with every stroke. I can feel the pre-cum adding to the slickness, easing the glide, intensifying the friction in all the right ways.
My breathing grows ragged, heavy pants filling the space between gasps and moans. It’s a heady mix of sounds, the slap of skin on silicone, the labored breaths, the almost animalistic noises that spill forth unbidden. My hand moves faster now, spurred on by the crescendo of sensations that threaten to overwhelm.
The pressure builds, coiling tighter like a spring compressed to its limit. I’m close, teetering on the edge, chasing the release I know is just moments away. And then, suddenly, Abby’s moans and cries pop into my head.
Her raspy voice when she begged for my cock, begged for me and Soren to fuck her harder.
And then, with a few more fervent pumps, I cross the threshold. My body tenses, every muscle locking up as I shoot my load into the flesh light, my climax ripping through me with a force that leaves me momentarily breathless.
“Shit… shit…” I pant out the words, my voice a hoarse whisper against the storm of gratification that still quakes within me. The toy feels different now, filled with the evidence of my pleasure, sticky and warm. I slow my movements, milking every last shudder from my trembling body, reluctant to let go of the sensation even as it fades.
I’m left spent, a sheen of sweat coating my skin, the heavy thud of my heartbeat slowly returning to normal. The afterglow is brief, a fleeting respite in a world that doesn’t pause for anyone. I clean up, the ritual complete, the beast within momentarily sated.
Crawling back into bed, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the thrum of anticipation in my veins.
The last thought before I drift off is a silent prayer to the hockey gods, a plea for strength, for victory. It’s a dangerous thing, asking for change. Because when the ice cracks, you never know what might come spilling out.