Chapter 30
Gail
I wake up with a start, blinking the sleep from my eyes and frowning at the unfamiliar ceiling. A surge of surprise washes over me as I realize I’m in my own room, not nestled in Soren’s arms where I expected to be. A glance at the clock tells me it’s time to shake off the haze and face the day. My body feels heavy, my breasts tender and swollen—a reminder of the life blossoming inside me, and, well, the activities of last night.
Jesus… those guys are going to be the death of me. Death by orgasms, what a way to go.
As I stretch, I think back through everything that happened yesterday; my time with Mickey, and then all night with Soren. It was… life changing in ways they’ll never know. Not only did I stand up for myself, I didn’t back down or run away. I grabbed the bull by the horns—the hockey players by the dicks—and took what I wanted. No wonder I’m grinning to myself like a lunatic.
As I push myself out of bed, my hand instinctively cradles my abdomen. A part of me is disappointed I still haven’t popped, or even swelled. I can’t wait for that to happen. Despite that not happening yet, every inch of my body seems to be on high alert. The smallest touch ignites nerves I was barely aware existed.
Thankfully, my morning sickness hasn’t made an appearance for days, so if that means it’s over, I’m all for it.
After a quick shower, while brushing my teeth, I mentally go over all the things I need to do.
Ugh, so many things to do. I need to make things right with Lucia, tell my parents they’re going to be grandparents, start looking at homes, keep up with doctor’s appointments, and travel with the guys for their away games. Christ, I need more hours in the day.
Done in the bathroom, I shuffle to the closet and pull out something that walks the line between sexy and subtle—a perfect representation of the two sides to the coin that is me. A fitted black long-sleeved top that hug my breasts more prominently now, paired with a pair of dark blue jeans that sit comfortably low on my hips. I opt for a touch of mascara and lip gloss—enough to feel put together without going overboard.
Descending the stairs, I run right into Mickey, literally. “Morning, sweetheart,” he beams, steadying me with his hands on my hips.
“Good morning, seven,” I grin, referencing his tattoo and player number.
Bending down, he slants his mouth to mine, and I’m helpless against his tongue as it prods against my lips, seeking entrance. As I tangle my fingers in his shaggy, white hair, I open up to him, welcoming the languid strokes that start a fire in my lower belly.
His hands drop to my ass, squeezing the globes so hard I whimper into his mouth. But before it can go any further, Soren makes his presence known. “Do I have to pay for the show? Or is it only if I want you to help me take care of my boner?” he drawls.
My good mood vanishes as I pull away from Mickey and look at Soren. He’s leaning against the fridge, his arms folded across his chest, and he has one eyebrow cocked like his words were a challenge rather than a question.
“What’s up your ass?” I ask, forcing myself to sound cheery.
Mickey kisses the shell of my ear before whispering, “You hurt his pride, sweetheart, but he still just wants to help. Go on, go kiss it better.”
I scoff at the ridiculous notion that I’ve somehow hurt Soren, especially when he’s the one who must have carried me from his bed to mine in the middle of the night. You have to care about people for your feelings to get hurt, and beyond my orifices and maybe—and it’s a big maybe—the life inside me, he doesn’t care about me, not like that.
Stepping out of Mickey’s embrace, I walk over to Soren, tugging at his arms until he lets them fall lifelessly to his sides. What a drama queen. “Good morning,” I say, cupping his face. Not giving him the chance to reject me, I stretch onto my tiptoes and kiss each corner of his mouth before licking along the seams of his lips.
Just as I’m about to give up, he cups the back of my head, holding me to him as he opens to me, allowing my tongue to delve into his mouth. Our breathing turns ragged as he kisses me back with all the passion in the world. Seriously, each swipe of his tongue sends tingles to my clit, making me moan unabashed into his mouth.
I barely register his hand moving until it’s flexing around my throat, forcing me to stop the kiss. “Soren!” I half hiss, half moan.
“Good morning, whore,” he says so pointedly it can only be a reference to what I said last night.
I roll my eyes when he lets go of my throat. “I’m not your whore right now,” I volley, turning my back on him to face Mickey.
“Thought you might need this back,” Mickey says, his voice a low rumble that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
Huh? As I look down at his outstretched hand, my lips curve into a smile, gratitude flooding through me. “You have no idea how much this means, Mickey,” I breathe out, the weight of isolation lifting with the simple gesture. Taking the phone from him, our fingers brush, and a current of something forbidden sparks between us.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replies. “It was actually Soren’s idea.”
I turn back to Soren. “Thank you,” I repeat, clutching the phone like a lifeline. The promise of being reachable, of not being entirely cut off from the world, makes me feel a little less adrift in the sea of uncertainty that is my life right now.
As we eat breakfast together, I go through my messages and notifications, answering everything. When I get to Jamie’s text, I pull the 3D picture of Fet from my back pocket where it’s folded neatly, and snap a picture. I send it off with the caption “We’re both fine”.
Surprisingly, there are no messages from Luce. It’s like she’s fallen off the edge of the world. She hasn’t been to any of the practices, and she hasn’t even called me back. I try calling her five times, but it goes straight to voicemail which I know means she’s rejecting my calls.
“Guys,” I say, looking up from my bowl of soggy cereal. “I need to ask for one more favor.”
They both look at me with matching looks of curiosity.
“Yeah?” Mickey asks.
“Shoot,” Soren says at the same time.
Swallowing, I gather up the courage needed to ask for what I need. “I need… I have to see Lucia.” The words tumble out, laced with urgency. “Alone.”
Soren’s brows knit together, a silent storm brewing in his gaze. “And why would you need to do that?” he questions, his tone deceptively calm. “And more importantly, why would we let you out of our sights?”
“Because she’s my best friend, and I miss her,” I say, defiant yet pleading. “Please.”
Mickey shifts, an unreadable expression crossing his face. Well, it’s unreadable to me, but not to Soren who arches an eyebrow and scoffs at whatever Mickey’s expression tells him. “If we say yes, you need to check in with us every hour,” Mickey says, and I nod eagerly.
“I will,” I promise.
“Fine,” Soren says, managing to sound like he’s bored. “But if you don’t, we’ll hand you over to Cupid’s Court.”
The way he says it so casually makes anger so potent I can taste it explode. “What the hell?” I scream, standing so abruptly the chair skitters to the floor. “After last night… and giving me my phone… I thought…” I stop talking as a wave of nausea hits me. Clutching my stomach, I fight back the bile rising in my throat, determined not to show weakness.
“Hey, you okay?” Mickey’s voice slices through the fog of discomfort, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
“Morning sickness,” I manage to say, swallowing hard. “It’s nothing. I’ll push through it.”
“Like hell you will,” Soren interjects, standing up. He towers over me, his protective instincts flaring. “You’re not going anywhere if you’re sick.” The soft look in his eyes is so at odds with the dickish way he just acted that I feel like I’m getting whiplash from trying to keep up.
“No, I’m fine, really.” I force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. “I need to do this.”
They exchange a look—a silent conversation in a language I’m still learning—and after what feels like an eternity, they nod.
“Fine, but we’re serious about those check-ins,” Mickey says, his voice firm but caring.
“How are you planning on getting there?” Soren asks. When I explain I was going to get an Uber, he scoffs and shakes his head. “We’ll drop you off at your place so you can get your car.”
While they finish off their breakfast and get ready, I take full advantage of having my phone back by stalking Luce across different social media platforms. But apart from a few posts here and there, there’s nothing that tells me why she’s ignoring me. Well, nothing apart from the obvious; she’s not just pissed at me, she’s livid.
As we drive to my apartment, I mentally make a list of all the things I need to tell her. Jesus, that list is longer than Santa’s naughty list. Soren pulls up to my apartment, the engine’s purr a soothing balm against the turmoil bubbling inside me.
“Thanks for the ride,” I murmur. During the drive I’ve done my best not to think about what it means that they’re showing me this much trust so suddenly. It’s… unnerving, and, frankly, I don’t know what to think about it.
“Remember, every hour,” Soren reminds me, his gruffness betraying the worry creasing his brow.
“I promise,” I say seriously. “I won’t forget.” My fingers itch to reach out, to seek reassurance in the rough warmth of his hand, but I resist. Instead, I slide out of the car, and stride toward my own vehicle, a battered little thing that’s seen better days, much like myself at this point.
I drive to Luce’s, my thoughts a swirling eddy of anticipation and dread. The nausea from earlier has subsided to a dull thrum, a reminder of the life burgeoning within me—a secret shared by too few. As I park outside her familiar home, my heart thunders against my ribcage. I need her more than ever now, need to spill all the messy, complicated truths pent up inside me.
With trembling hands, I rap on the door, each knock echoing my pulse. “Luce, it’s me,” I call, hoping for her footsteps, for the creak of the door signaling her presence.
But silence greets me—a cold, unforgiving void that chills me to the bone. I press my forehead against the cool wood, willing her to answer, when movement catches my eye. There she is, Lucia, my buttercup, moving about the kitchen with a grace that belies the tension coiling in my gut.
“Luce!” I shout, louder this time, desperation sharpening my voice as I catch sight of her through the window. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge my plea, and it’s like a sledgehammer to my chest.
“Damn it,” I curse under my breath, my nails digging crescents into my palms. I’m here, standing on her doorstep like some sort of lost cause, while she’s mere feet away, oblivious or indifferent to my turmoil.
“Please, Luce,” I shout, my voice cracking. My body feels like it’s made of lead, heavy and inert, yet somehow, I manage to hover there, caught between hope and despair. “Look at me, damnit!” My gaze is locked on her figure moving beyond the glass. She’s always been my anchor, my lighthouse in the storm. Now, I’m adrift, floundering in uncertainty without her beacon to guide me home.
A sob claws its way up my throat, but I choke it back. Lucia wouldn’t want tears; she’d want laughter, courage—anything but this pathetic display. So I stand tall, squaring my shoulders as I did the day I walked into Cupid’s Court, determined and defiant.
“Fine,” I say to no one, a steely resolve settling over me. “You want space? I’ll give you space.” But not forever. No, I’ll be back, and we will talk, even if I have to camp on her damn doorstep.
Turning on my heel, I march back to my car, the taste of bile and betrayal bitter on my tongue. This isn’t over. It can’t be. Luce means too much, and I’ll fight tooth and nail to mend whatever rift has formed between us—even if it means going toe-to-toe with the very woman who taught me what it means to be fierce.