Chapter 34
Mickey
T he cold steel blade of my skate cuts through the freshly zambonied ice, a familiar chill seeping into my bones. The arena looms around me like a coliseum, and I try to shake off the weight of expectation resting on my shoulders. Tonight’s more than just another home game—it’s personal. The Jersey Jags are in town, and that means facing Jared, the one guy I refuse to lose to.
My breath comes out as a cloud of determination in the frigid air. It’s not just about the scoreboard—it’s about proving something. Proving I can rise above. The silver eyes that stare back at me from the reflection on the ice are steely, unyielding. They’ve seen battles, heartache, and betrayal.
Betrayal—that still stings the most. Jared and I used to be tight. Brothers on the ice, until he started fucking Simone behind my back. Yet he wasn’t man enough to admit it and own up to it when she became pregnant. Both of them were happy to let me think it was my baby.
Fucking cowards.
So unlike Gail, who has been nothing but honest and open, accepting all of me; the good, the damaged, and the darkness.
So yes, tonight’s as personal as it can get. And I’ve got a score to settle.
Every time Jared and I clash, it’s a spectacle. The refs might as well take a seat and enjoy the show because there’s no stopping the storm we bring. Penalties rack up like debts, and fights break out as sure as night follows day. We’re like two raging bulls on the ice, neither willing to give an inch.
I flex my fingers around the grip of my stick, the tape rough against my skin. This isn’t just a game; it’s a war waged on a sheet of ice. And I’m ready for battle.
The roar of the crowd is a living thing, vibrating through the walls of the locker room like a promise and a threat rolled into one. I sit there, lacing up my skates with meticulous care, each pull of the laces a tether to reality. Soren claps his hand on my shoulder, grounding me further.
“Remember, you’re not alone out there,” he says, his intense green eyes locking onto mine. “We’ve got your back, Mickey. Every play, every check.”
His words are more than just a pep talk; they’re a lifeline. “Thanks, man,” I reply, offering him a wry grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Just make sure to keep your fists to yourself until the gloves drop. We need you on the ice, not in the sin bin.”
A chuckle ripples through the room, easing the tension coiled in my gut. Sawyer, leans against his locker, tape circling his knuckles like a boxer ready for the ring. “Hey, Mick,” he quips, “don’t hog all the fun. Save a punch or two for me.”
“As long as you leave Jared to me,” I counter, rising to my feet.
The camaraderie here—it’s tangible, a bond forged in sweat, blood, and the chill of countless rinks. These guys, they’re more than teammates; they’re brothers-in-arms. We skate together; we fight together, and tonight, we’ll either triumph or burn out together.
No, fuck that. Tonight we’ll triumph together. Again.
Stepping onto the ice is like entering another world. The arena is an electric storm of anticipation, chants, and cheers cascading down from the stands. They know what’s coming. Hell, half of them are here just to watch Jared and me attempt to decimate each other.
“Davis! Davis! Davis!” The chant builds, resonating deep in my chest. My silver eyes sweep across the sea of faces, all hungry for victory—or maybe just blood.
I glide over to the bench, feeling the weight of every gaze, every expectation. It’s more than a game; it’s a reckoning. The ice gleams under the harsh lights, a blank canvas waiting for the story of tonight to be carved upon it.
“Let’s show ‘em what we’re made of,” I shout to my team, my voice barely piercing the cacophony surrounding us. “For pride, for honor, for the damn love of the game!”
They answer with a chorus of sticks banging against the boards, a war drum heralding the battle to come. And as we line up for the face-off, I can feel Jared’s stare like a physical force. Our rivalry isn’t just a fire; it’s an inferno that consumes everything in its path.
“Time to dance, Frank,” I mutter under my breath, watching as he takes his position across from me, our histories etched in the ice beneath our feet.
The puck drops. The world narrows to this moment, to the chase, to the clash of wills. This is where I belong. This is where I’ll prove myself. Not just to the fans, not just to my team, but to the demons that lurk in the shadows of past betrayals and lost faith in so many things.
It’s game time, and I’m ready to set the rink ablaze.
Sweat beads at my temples, the chill of the rink a stark contrast to the heat coursing through my veins. As I skate back to our defensive zone, my muscles coil, ready to spring into action. I shoot a glance at Jared Frank on the opposing wing—that smug bastard with his predatory grin, thinking he’s got this in the bag.
“Watch the breakouts,” Sawyer yells from somewhere.
The puck slides to our center, and we’re off. My skates carve the ice, slicing through the cold air as I barrel down the wing. The defensemen set up the wall, but I’m not stopping—not for them, not for anyone.
I fake left, cut right, feeling the weight of the puck on my stick and the anticipation of the crowd buzzing around me like an electric current.
“Shoot!” someone screams from the stands, but I’m looking for the pass, trying to outsmart rather than overpower.
“Here!” Sawyer calls, finding open space, and I send the puck his way. It’s a dance we’ve practiced a thousand times, a symphony of motion and intent as the Sabertooths weave our strategy across the canvas of the ice.
But then there’s a crash, a jarring hit that sends vibrations up my spine. I spin around just in time to see Jared slamming one of our rookies into the boards. The kid crumples, and suddenly it’s not about the game—it’s personal.
“Son of a—” My fists clench, the fire inside me turning my vision red.
“Keep your head, Mick!” Sawyer shouts, but it’s too late.
Jared’s gloating eyes find mine, and the line is crossed. I’m barreling toward him before I can think better of it, and we collide with the force of our shared history. Punches thrown, gloves dropped—this is more than a game; it’s a war.
“Break it up!” The refs are pulling us apart, the crowd erupting in a mixture of boos and cheers. I’m panting, my knuckles raw, the taste of iron on my tongue. Penalty box for both of us, a forced hiatus to cool down. But the flames don’t die; they simmer, waiting to ignite again.
“Focus, man,” Soren advises when I’m finally released back to the wild. “We need you sharp, not in the sin bin.”
He’s right. Dammit, he’s always right. The fury simmers down to a focused burn, fueling each stride, each check, each shot. Jared’s presence on the ice is a constant taunt, but I channel that rage into something constructive. I have to be better, do better. For the team, for myself.
“Nice assist, Davis!” The coach slaps the boards as I feed the puck to Sawyer, who rips a shot past the Jersey goalie. We’re in this together, every play a testament to our unity against the Jags’ onslaught.
My legs ache, my lungs scream, but I push harder. Every shift is a chance to prove that I’m more than my past, more than Jared’s shadow. My heart pounds in sync with the ticking clock, each second drawing us closer to the edge of victory or defeat. And I refuse to let it be the latter.
“Keep it tight,” I grunt to the guys during a timeout. “We got this.”
“Damn straight we do,” Soren replies, and I can see the same fire in his eyes that’s burning in mine. “And no one touches Jared, he belongs to Mickey.”
As the final minutes wind down, it’s a blur of motion, a clash of wills. The fans are on their feet, the tension palpable. Every pass, every save carries the weight of years, of rivalry, of unspoken words between Jared and me.
And when the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, I’m gasping for breath, my body spent but my spirit unwavering. We’re not done yet, not by a long shot. And as I skate off the ice, I can feel the anticipation thickening, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
“Nice game, Davis,” Jared sneers as he passes by.
“At least I’m not hiding behind my enforcers like a fucking pussy,” I shoot back, the fire still alive within me.
Sweat drips down my spine, the cold of the ice arena a stark contrast to the heat coursing through my veins. Overtime is a beast—a relentless, gnawing tension that sets my nerves on edge. The Jersey Jags are circling, hungry for the kill, but I’m hungrier.
My breath fogging in front of me as I crouch for the face-off. Time stretches, and at the moment before the puck drops, there’s silence—a hush that blankets everything.
Then, we explode into action.
I win the draw, snapping the puck back to Soren who slams it against the boards with a resounding crack. My muscles coil and release as I barrel down the ice. Sawyer’s got the puck now, weaving through defenders like they’re pylons. He flicks a look my way, and I know what’s coming.
“Here!” I call out, voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
With an arrogant smirk, Sawyer sends the puck toward me. Normally, he’d take the shot, but not tonight. This is the last goal attempt, and we all know I need it more than anyone else. Jared tries to reach me as the puck sails toward me. But Sawyer and the rookie keep him busy making it easy for me to catch the puck with my stick, settle it, and with every ounce of strength I have, I let it fly.
The goalie’s good—damn good—but not good enough. The puck hits the back of the net with a sound sweeter than any symphony, and the world erupts.
“YES!” My shout is primal. We’ve done it. We’ve beaten the Jags, and at this moment, nothing else matters.
“About time you stepped up and stopped making us do all the hard work,” Soren grins, clapping me on the back so hard I nearly face-plant on the ice.
“Yeah,” Sawyer agrees. “Now we definitely know you’ve been slacking all this time.”
The locker room is chaotic—cheers, laughter, the stink of sweat and victory. I peel off my gear, the weight of it leaving my body but not my soul. Underneath, there’s a new weight, lighter but no less significant—the weight of triumph.
We shower quickly, the hot water doing little to cool the adrenaline still pumping through us. I dress in my suit, knotting the tie with fingers that tremble with the adrenaline still burning through my veins.
Although we won tonight, we still have to beat them again next week where they have the home game advantage. And with the way they’ve played this season, there’s a chance we’ll meet them in the playoffs.
My pulse still races, the afterglow of victory clinging to my skin like sweat as we stride through the corridor. The Sabertooths’ win hangs heavy in the air, a triumph that’s personal, a slapshot straight to Jared Frank’s ego. Serves the fucker right.
Stepping out of the locker room, we’re met with a spectacle. True to tradition, the women who belong to players are waiting to congratulate us, their cheers another layer of warmth to wrap ourselves in. Wait, someone is missing…
“I don’t see her either,” Soren mumbles from next to me. “I thought she’d be with Lucia.” But as Sawyer and his wife draw attention with their very public display, it becomes clear that isn’t the case.
“Maybe she left?” I suggest.
“Was she even here?” Soren asks, and I shrug since I don’t know.
I haven’t talked with her since this morning where she said she was meeting up with Lucia and they were getting ready together. So I kinda figured she’d be here, but maybe… “Maybe she got sick,” I suggest. There’s no denying her morning sickness is anything but. It seems to hit at random times. “Or maybe something happened to her or Fet.” Sweat beads on my forehead as my thoughts immediately go to the worst-case scenario.
Before Soren can reply, someone pokes me on the shoulder and I turn around. “Simone,” I growl, looking at the woman I once thought the world of. “The fuck are you doing here?”
“Mickey,” she purrs, batting her eyelashes. “It’s so good to see you.”
I snort. “Can’t say I feel the same way.”
Turning my back on her, I go to say something to my teammates, but I’m interrupted when Simone moves around me, making it clear she won’t let me ignore her. “Can’t we talk?” she whines.
Has her voice always been that shrill? “No,” I snap.
As Simone opens her mouth, I sense movement out of the corner of my eye—a streak of black and white hair that’s all too familiar.
Gail.
She moves with unexpected assertiveness, her blue eyes locked on mine, and there’s a fire there I’ve only seen when she’s standing up for herself or Fet. Without acknowledging my ex, she uses her shoulder to push my ex out of the way. “Mickey, there you are.” Her voice rings out clear and decisive, completely ignoring a stunned Simone.
“Didn’t see you there,” I rasp. My eyes roam all over her body, and I can’t help the pride swirling in my chest as I take in her outfit.
She’s sporting a long-sleeved crop sweater emblazoned with mine and Soren’s player numbers; seven and twelve. The Sabertooths’ colors make the top stand out even more. It’s so short that when she reaches out for me, the underside of her tits teases just beneath the hem.
Paired with her sexy as fuck top are dark jeans that hug her curves in all the right places, and low enough to show off the very slight swell of her belly. The way they accentuate her ass is downright sinful. Her black and white hair cascades in loose curls, framing her face perfectly.
“Like what you see?” she purrs exaggeratedly, her deep red lips spread into a sly grin. “I wore this just for you.”
“Just for me?” I question, knowing damn well she’s putting on a show.
Gail throws her arms around my neck, which is much easier for her to do since her killer fuck-me stilettos make her look less small next to me. “Well, fifty percent for you,” she grins, looking briefly in Soren’s direction.
There’s something in her gaze, a fiery challenge mixed with a raw vulnerability that grips at my chest. Without another word, I cup her cheek, thumb brushing over the skin there as if trying to memorize the feel of her. Then, our lips meet—a collision of need and longing.
Gail immediately parts her lips, whimpering into my mouth as I slide my tongue against hers.
The kiss is a conflagration, igniting every nerve in my body. There’s nothing soft about it—it’s all-consuming, demanding, and so fucking addictive.
Before I can get too lost in the kiss, she’s pulled out of my arms, and Soren spins her to him, kissing her with the same fervor. I should probably care that we’re being so open, but since we’re still inside the arena, it’s only the players and their partners present. Oh, and maybe our Coach, PR team, and GM. But honestly, who gives a shit?
Needing more, I place my hands on Gail’s waist and spin her back to me. She goes willingly, and this time, it’s her tongue that invades my mouth. Her fingers twist into the fabric of my suit jacket, and her soft tits are pressed against my hard chest.
A throat clears behind us, and we break apart, but not before I catch the flash of desire in Gail’s eyes. It mirrors my own—the kind that burns slow and hot, promising more than just stolen moments in crowded hallways.
“Really, Mickey?” Simone’s voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts, dripping with contempt. “You’re making out with puck bunnies now.”
Damn, I’d kinda hoped the bitch would have scurried away and left me alone. Of course, I can’t be that fucking lucky.
Gail runs her fingers across my lips, showing me the smeared lipstick before she turns around. I wrap my arms around her naked middle, keeping her close as she squares her shoulders. “Just for the record, I’m not a damn puck bunny. But even if I were, what’s that got to do with you?” she sneers.
Even with the things we’ve put her through, I’ve never seen Gail like this. But I don’t mind admitting it’s fucking hot to see her stand her ground like this.
“Honey,” Simone says, flinging her hair over her shoulder. “Could you step aside and let the important people talk?”
“Fuck off,” I growl. I want to say more, but Gail’s elbow connecting with my stomach lets me know she wants to run this show.
Her stance is defiant, protective in a way that sends a ripple of warmth through me. She’s staking her claim, and damn if that doesn’t make me want her even more. “I could,” Gail volleys, perfectly matching the condescending tone Simone is using. “But I’m not going to. You see, unlike you, I know a good thing when I have it. So why would I leave Mickey’s embrace?”
The shrill laughter coming from Simone is grating on my fucking nerves. “Oh, honey. You’re nothing more than a warm place for their cocks. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking you’re important,” Simone hisses, taking a step closer.
I instinctively tighten my hold on Gail, ready to pull her out of Simone’s reach if needed.
Gail tilts her head to the side. “I know what I am.” Her tone is practically dripping in venom. “But I also know what you are. I know all about you, Simone. I know that you’re nothing but an unemployed two-timing gold digger who is worried she can’t support her three kids. I mean, that’s why you’re here, right? Because you know that Jared’s one penalty away from losing his contract with the Jersey Jags.”
What the fuck? I didn’t know any of that… as far as I knew, Simone and Jared only had one kid. Then again, it’s not like I’ve been keeping up with their lives, so I guess anything is possible. But if Jared was that close to losing his contract, I feel like I would have heard it somewhere.
I look at Soren, who just shrugs, and Sawyer’s reaction is the same. Guess they didn’t know either. I’m about to turn my attention back on Simone when I’m jostled from behind, and I momentarily lose my hold on Gail.
That’s all it takes. Quicker than I can react, my ex steps forward, raising her hand like she’s about to slap Gail. Soren and I move at the same time, but it’s too late. Before either of us can do anything, Gail’s hand connects with Simone’s cheek. It’s one of those slaps that reverberates and ricochets off the walls despite the movement and noises around us.
“You bitch!” Simone screeches. “You fucking hit me. I’ll make you pay for that.”
Lucia moves closer, protectively standing next to Gail, shrugging Sawyer’s hand off her shoulder when he tries to hold her back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucia hisses. Sawyer’s quick to position himself next to her. “That’s not what I saw.”
While Lucia talks, Soren moves next to Gail, taking her hand. “I didn’t see that either,” he grins.
I stay at Gail’s back, pulling her flush against me. Though there’s plenty I want to say, I keep it all in, and instead of paying Simone any attention, I nuzzle my face against the crook of Gail’s neck. “You’re so fucking sexy right now,” I rasp, only loud enough for her to hear.
If I thought my words would make her relax, I’m proven wrong when she snorts. I half expect her to curse me out, but she doesn’t. Instead, she remains locked in a staring contest with Simone. Luckily, my ex thinks better of it, and without another word, she slinks off.
As soon as she’s gone, Lucia turns to Gail. “You okay?” she asks.
Not caring one bit about Lucia’s need to be reassured, Soren turns Gail around so she’s facing the both of us. His green eyes dip to her exposed stomach. “Are you okay?” he rasps.
Gail’s eyes are soft as she looks between us. “Fet is fine.”
I chuckle. “That’s not what we asked, sweetheart.”
“Abigail Rosie Wilson, I need to know you’re okay!”
Gail rolls her eyes at Lucia’s dramatic use of her full name. “I’m fine. Now, are we going to celebrate or what?”
“Umm…” I trail off, not sure what the right answer is. I kinda just assumed Gail would want to go home, so that’s what I was prepared for.
“I want to go dancing,” Gail insists, making Lucia whoop with excitement.