Chapter 16
Mickey
T he locker room hums with the low, steady beat of anticipation, almost like a second pulse beneath my skin. I lace up my skates, each tug on the nylon laces grounding me, pulling me back from the edge where thoughts of Gail live rent-fucking-free.
I can’t afford distractions tonight. Not when the ice calls and the roar of the crowd promises to swallow me whole. I’m already exhausted; mentally, physically… soully… is that a thing? With two home games almost back-to-back, well four days apart, and a lying slut claiming to carry my baby, yeah, it should be.
“Focus, Mickey,” I mutter to myself, slapping my gloves against my palms. The sting is satisfying, real. It’s game time, and nothing else matters—not even her sweet blue eyes or the way she says my name like it’s a touch, soft and lingering.
I stand, roll my shoulders, and the muscles flex, ready for battle. The locker room is filled with the stench of sweat and determination. Soren gives me a nod, silent as always, but his green eyes are sharp, locked in. Sawyer cracks a joke, the tension snapping for just a moment, but we’re all here for one thing—to win.
We pour out onto the ice, and the arena erupts. It’s electric, a current that sparks from the gleaming surface to the very top of the stands where the lights blare down. The fans are a living, breathing entity, their cheers a tangible force that pushes against the glass and spills over the boards. They chant, they scream—they’re hungry for victory, and so am I.
“Let’s show them what we’re made of!” Sawyer shouts, his voice barely cutting through the cacophony. We tap our sticks in response, a chorus of agreement. My heart beats in time with the rhythmic thump of pucks against the boards, the slicing of blades carving into ice.
“Missile! Missile!” They’re chanting for me, and damn, if it doesn’t set my blood on fire. The silver eyes that see everything on the ice, now see only the puck, the goal, the win. This is where I belong, where every check against the boards is a declaration, every shot a promise.
“Let’s tear them apart!” I hear one of my teammates bark, and I can’t help but grin behind my mouth guard. Oh, we will. Because tonight, there’s no room for error, no space for anything but the thrill of the chase and the glory of the game.
The puck drops.
And just like that, we’re unleashed.
I barrel into the corner, my skates carving desperate arcs into the ice. The puck ricochets off my stick, a sloppy pass that’s easily intercepted. I curse under my breath, feeling the sting of the crowd’s disappointment—a chorus of groans and muffled shouts. It’s not supposed to be this way. I’m The Missile; I don’t make mistakes like this. But Gail’s face flashes in my mind, her sad, defeated eyes haunting me, and my focus splinters.
She’s been a mess, refusing to eat or shower, locked up in her own world of pain. And hell if it isn’t tearing me apart. No, fuck it, I refuse to let her into my head. Being locked up in Soren’s spare room is exactly what the bitch deserves.
“Dammit, Mickey! Get your head in the game!” Coach’s voice cuts through the din of the arena, sharp as a skate blade.
“Trying, Coach,” I mutter, though he can’t hear me above the roar.
I glance over at Soren, and it’s like looking in a damn mirror—his usually impenetrable defense is crumbling. Pucks slip past him with ease, his reactions a half-second too slow. Soren’s known as The Wall, but tonight he might as well be made of paper. We’re both off our game, and the scoreboard isn’t shy about showing it.
“Focus!” I snap at myself, trying to shake off the image of Gail’s down-turned face. But it clings to me, a shadow I can’t outrun.
Another rush toward the goal, another slip-up. My teammate’s pass comes hard and fast, but it bounces off my stick like it’s cursed. The puck slides away, just out of reach, and their forward swoops in, seizing the opportunity. One-on-one with Soren, and I can already tell how it’s going to end. The shot fires and lights the lamp behind Soren, a red siren of failure.
“Fuck!” The word explodes from me, steam in the cold arena air.
“Get it together, Davis!” Coach yells again, frustration bending his voice. “You too, Taylor!” He’s fucking last naming us which means trouble.
“Shit, what’s happening to us?” I ask between gasps for air, my voice barely audible.
“Can’t fucking focus,” Soren grunts back, green eyes dark with his own torment. I know he’s thinking about Gail too, about the tangle we’ve all found ourselves in, a knot so tight it’s choking us on the ice.
The final buzzer sounds like a death knell, echoing off the walls, sealing our fate. There’s no miraculous comeback, no last-minute save. Just the bitter taste of defeat, sharp and acrid on my tongue. My muscles burn with exertion and something else—anger, frustration, helplessness.
The grim verdict: Sabertooths 2, Vipers 5.
We glide off the ice, heads bowed, and the locker room looms ahead like a damn confessional. We all know what’s waiting for us there—Coach’s wrath, our own disappointment heavy in the air. But even as I brace for the onslaught, my mind drifts back to Gail, to the mess waiting beyond these walls.
Together we shuffle into the locker room, a graveyard of lost potential. The air is thick with sweat and defeat, each inhale tasting sour, laced with desperation. Hockey pads are discarded without care, hitting the floor with thuds that echo too loudly in the silence that’s settled over us.
“God damn it!” Coach bellows and bursts through the door like a hurricane, his face red, the veins on his neck bulging like they might pop. “You call that playing? My grandmother could’ve scored on you lot!”
“Sorry, Coach,” Soren grumbles, and I catch the edge of shame in his voice. He’s usually a brick wall in front of the net, but today, he was as porous as Swiss cheese.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” Coach roars back, slamming his clipboard down so hard it splinters. “You. Are. Professionals! Act like it!”
I peel off my jersey, the fabric sticking to my skin, slick with the remnants of battle. But it’s not just sweat that clings to me—it’s the weight of everything unsaid, unacknowledged.
It’s Abby’s soft curves, the way her breath hitches when I trace her ink-black hair, parted so perfectly down the middle. It’s the heat of her skin under my fingertips, the sound of her whispered pleas. It’s the pain of knowing she doesn’t exist, not really. Outside of Cupid’s, she’s Gail; a liar. And if she’s not a liar… no, she’s definitely that.
Pregnant…
Fuck!
“Get your heads out of your asses!” Coach bellows again, pacing like a caged animal. His words are a scalding shower, meant to cleanse us of our sins, but all they do is steam up more guilt within the confines of my skull.
“Next game, we come back stronger, or don’t bother showing up at all!” His threat hangs heavy in the air, a challenge, a dare to rise above the mire we’re stuck in. “Understood?” he demands, eyes blazing as they meet each of us.
“Understood,” we echo, a chorus of broken warriors promising to mend our shields, sharpen our swords.
“Dismissed.” Coach’s parting word is a gunshot, signaling the end of the massacre.
The steam from the showers can’t wash away the sting of defeat that clings to my skin like a second jersey. Soren’s beside me, his eyes distant, haunted by missed catches and what-ifs. We’ve seen better days—days when the ice was our playground, not a battleground where we lost more than just points.
“Come on,” Sawyer nudges us both, breaking through the fog of our collective funk. “We’ll grab some condolence beers and—”
I nod, but my heart’s not in it. Beers won’t fix anything.
“Not tonight,” Soren says. “We need to get home.”
Sawyer doesn’t argue with us. Truthfully, he looks almost relieved like the offer was more of a gesture, which I can appreciate. Before he got married, we used to go out together after each game. Win or lose, we’d head to Magnitude or O’Jackie’s. But now he has Lucia, and even though he doesn’t want to leave us behind, that’s exactly what we need him to do tonight.
Outside the locker room, Lucia’s waiting, her red hair a fiery beacon against the white walls. She’s got a worried crease between her brows.
“Hey, Bunny,” Sawyer wraps her up in his arms, and Lucia melts into him for a moment before pulling back with purpose lighting up her green eyes.
“Sy,” she breathes as a way of greeting. For once, their PDA is cut short, and Lucia’s attention wavers between us and the phone she’s clutching in her hand.
“Everything okay?” Soren asks.
Sawyer sighs audibly, running a hand through his wet hair. “Just fucking peachy,” he rumbles, earning a glare from his wife.
“Everything isn’t peachy,” she hisses. “I haven’t heard from Gail since the day after she left to go to… doesn’t matter. She hasn’t answered any of my texts for the last three days. I’m starting to freak out here.”
Remembering hearing something about Gail ignoring Lucia before, I say, “Isn’t it kinda normal for her to disappear on you sometimes?”
This earns me a glare. “Not you too, Mickey!”
When I look at Sawyer, who looks like he’d love to be anywhere but here, I get the sense my friend has tried using the same logic on his wife already. “I’m sure she’s fine,” Soren says half-heartedly.
I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed Lucia’s little slip up about when she last talked to Gail. It sounded like she knew exactly where Gail went; to Cupid’s Court. Could she be in on it? Or is it possible that Gail really didn’t know we’re the men who’ve been playing with her body for weeks?
No, fuck that. It doesn’t matter whether she knows or not, she’s still a liar. She can’t be pregnant. She just can’t because I can’t go through that shit again.
The hum of the engine is a low growl that fades into the background as Soren and I glide out of the arena’s parking lot. He drives with a sort of heavy precision, muscles tense beneath his dark jacket, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His fingers drum the wheel, a silent beat to a tune I can’t hear. The city lights blur past us in streaks of color, but neither of us pays them much attention.
“Where are we going?” I finally break the silence, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears.
Soren shrugs, a slight lift of one shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Just driving.”
I lean back in the seat, the leather cool against my skin, and let out a long breath. The night air slips through the cracked window, carrying with it the scent of rain and asphalt. It’s a relief, a distraction from the heat coiling inside me, the frustration, the anger, the need. At least that’s what it should be, but there’s no derailing my thoughts.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” Soren asks after a lengthy silence.
“Simone.” The name falls from my lips before I can stop it—a ghost of a whisper, a specter from the past that refuses to stay buried.
“Still haunting you, huh?” Soren’s voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of concern that wasn’t there before.
I don’t know why he’s asking since it’s no secret I still mourn the life I coulda had, which is evident by my annual January breakdown and my notorious bad mood when we face off against the New Jersey Jaguars, the team Jared plays for.
“Yeah.” It’s all I can muster. Simone. My heart clenches at the memory of her—her laugh, her touch, her betrayal. It’s been years, but it feels like yesterday she gave me my dream and ripped it away again all too soon. The wound never really healed; it just stopped bleeding on the outside.
“Man, Mickey, you gotta let her go. She’s not worth the space she’s taking up in your head,” Soren chides gently, but there’s steel in his tone.
Blowing out a breath, I turn so I can look at him. “It’s not about her, man.” It really fucking isn’t. Simone is a cunt, there’s no other way to say it. “I thought I was going to be a dad.” I don’t often speak the word out loud. In fact, I usually refer to it as the event, or something equally stupid. It still hurts to give voice to what happened.
I was deliriously happy when Simone announced she was pregnant. I bought every fucking maternity book I could get my hands on, read them with her, wanting to be part of every step. But finding out the kid wasn’t mine after I’d proposed and she said yes… how the hell does one get over shit like that?
“I know.” Soren nods, acknowledging the jagged edge in my voice. “But you can still have a family one day. It’s not over just because it isn’t happening with Simone.”
“With Gail you mean?” I ask, tasting the bitterness on my tongue. “She’s probably spread her legs for most men in fucking Minneapolis. That kid isn’t mine or yours.”
Soren takes a left turn, ignoring the red arrow on the traffic light. Then he pulls down a dimly lit street and before I know it, we’re parked outside the graveyard his twin is buried in. “This place,” he says, stabbing a finger toward the graveyard, “when you end up here, it’s too late to change anything. But we’re not in the dirt yet, Mick. As long as we breathe, it’s not too late.”
I feel like Soren’s trying to say something, something I’m not getting. All I can muster is a hesitant, “Okay?”
He shakes his head, his breath coming out in a whoosh. “Here’s the thing, Mick. I know she’s turned your world upside down with the announcement—”
“The fuck?” I shout, immediately angry to hear he’s apparently not as torn up about it as I am.
Soren carries on, completely ignoring my interruption. “But if she’s carrying family, I can’t turn my back on her. I just can’t, man. So don’t make me fucking choose.”
I open and close my mouth so many times my jaw starts to hurt.
“I called Cupid’s before the game, and they’ve scheduled an emergency appointment two days from now. If she is pregnant, I can’t keep freezing her out.”
“Soren… what?” I can barely believe what he’s saying. “Just because she’s knocked up doesn’t mean it’s ours.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t,” he volleys, shaking his head. “Nana would never forgive me if I turned my back on my family.”
Huffing, I lean back in the seat, folding my arms across my chest. What a fucking shit show. Not only might Gail be telling the truth, but it seems I’m about to lose my… “Soren, come on!” My words are harsher than I intend, but fuck. I can’t stomach the thought of us not being on the same page about this.
Without a word, he turns the high beam on so we can see some of the gravestones. “My fucking twin is in there,” he says, his voice filled with gravel. “I couldn’t save him. But if this baby is ours, I’ll choose it no matter what anyone else says.”
As the silence stretches, I watch him—a study in contrasts. This giant of a man, all muscle and ink, looking so conflicted, like he’s having to make his very own Sophie’s choice. The shadows dancing in his eyes mirror my own, and I know that if I push him, I’ll lose him. That’s not fucking happening.
“Okay,” I finally say, licking my lips. “We’ll get a paternity test, and then… fuck. Look, if one of us is the father, I’ll agree she’s family.”