Chapter 46
Mickey
I grip the steering wheel of my car—a little too tight, maybe. I’m parked down the block from Jamie’s house. The buzz of anticipation is a live wire under my skin. I know Gail was with Soren yesterday, and that fact twists something in my chest, but it’s not jealousy. More like… excitement.
We both planned to take her out, to show her who we are without all the other complications, games, and, well, lies. After a coin toss—yep, we really did that—it was decided Soren would go first, but today it’s my turn.
Stepping out of the car, and into the chill of the Minneapolis breeze, my boots crunch as I walk over the gravel, approaching Jamie’s apartment. One deep breath and I’m rapping my knuckles against the wood, heart knocking just as hard inside my chest.
The door swings open, and there she is. Gail. My throat goes dry at the sight of her. Her belly has grown, the curve less subtle than the last time I saw her. Damn, I’ve missed her.
“Sweetheart,” I breathe out, and without thinking, I pull her into me. My arms wrap around her. She smells like vanilla and something wild, like freedom. Or maybe that’s just what she represents to me.
“Hey, Mickey,” she says, voice muffled against my chest. Her warmth seeps into me, thawing places I didn’t even know were frozen. I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself just feel—her presence, her body, the life growing inside her.
“God, I’ve missed you,” I confess, pulling back just enough to see her face. Her blue eyes are wide and searching, and I can tell she’s reading me, seeing all the shit I’m trying to hide behind my cocky grin.
“Come in, it’s freezing out here,” she laughs, though there’s an edge of nervousness to it. We’re dancing around each other, two stars caught in each other’s gravity, and hell if I don’t want to collide.
“Only for a minute,” I tell her, stepping past the threshold. “I’ve got plans for us.” Her eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued.
“Plans?” she echoes, and I nod, feeling the weight of what I’m about to suggest settle heavy on my tongue.
“Yep, but it’s a surprise. You game, Gail?”
She bites her lip, considering, and I’m struck by how much I want to do that for her—taste her uncertainty until it turns into pleasure. I watch her face, that perfect mix of apprehension and excitement as she processes my invitation. Her eyes, those deep pools of blue, are wide and searching, trying to suss out what I’ve got in mind.
“Come on, Gail,” I coax. “Let’s shake things up a bit. Spend the day with me. I promise you won’t regret it.” My voice is laced with an edge of challenge, always works wonders with her.
“Okay, Mickey,” she responds, her voice tinged with a smile. “I’m curious. What did you have in mind?”
“First off, we’re going to a Partner Support pregnancy class,” I say, watching for her reaction. I’ve been reading up, trying to figure out how to be there for her, how to be a dad. It’s not something I ever expected, but now that it’s happening, I want to get it right.
She blinks, surprise etched across her features. “Really?” The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken emotions. “That’s… thoughtful, Mickey.”
“Only the best for my baby mama,” I tease, but there’s a gravity in my chest, a sincerity that grounds the words.
“Give me a minute to change,” she says, and disappears into what I presume is her bedroom.
Through the half-open door, I catch glimpses of her silhouette moving with purpose. She emerges minutes later, and damn if she doesn’t look like some kind of goddess. She’s swapped her comfy sweats for form-fitting leggings that hug her curves and a loose, flowing, long-sleeved top that dips low enough for me to glimpse the swell of her breasts. Practicality and sex appeal wrapped in one—only Gail could pull that off.
“Ready?” I ask, my throat tight with anticipation.
“Let’s do this,” she replies, a daring glint in her eye that tells me she’s up for the adventure. We might be heading to a class, but with Gail, it’s clear there’s a lesson or two I’ll be learning outside the curriculum. And I can’t wait to get started.
I grip the steering wheel, a twist in my gut that’s part excitement, part nerves. Never thought I’d be heading to some pregnancy class with Gail, but here we are—me, her, and the life growing inside her.
“Think they’ll have one of those fake baby things for us to practice on?” she asks, breaking into my thoughts. Her voice is light, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper, something like wonder.
“Wouldn’t put it past them,” I reply, throwing her a grin. “As long as it doesn’t pee on me, I’m good.”
She laughs, and God, the sound is like a hit straight to the chest—reminding me what I’ve been missing without this woman by my side.
We pull up to the community center where the class is held, and I can’t help but notice how Gail’s hand tightens on her purse strap. She’s trying to play it cool, but I can tell she’s just as keyed up about this as I am.
“Ready to dive into the deep end of diaper changing and late-night feedings?” I quip, hoping to ease some of her tension.
“Only if you’re ready to catch when I throw the dirty diapers at you,” she shoots back, and I chuckle. That’s my girl—always quick with a comeback.
The instructor greets us at the door—a warm, motherly type who seems like she’s seen it all. The room’s set up with clusters of chairs, soft lighting casting a comforting glow over a mix of couples. There are posters on the wall showing diagrams of the pregnant body, stations with baby dolls and diapers, and even a model of a birthing suite.
“Welcome to Partner Support,” the instructor says with a smile that feels like a hug. “We’re so glad you could join us.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, feeling suddenly out of my element. This isn’t the ice rink where I know every play, every angle. This is new territory—an arena where Gail and I are both rookies.
“Looks cozy,” Gail murmurs beside me, her hand finding mine. I squeeze it, grateful for the contact.
“Cozy” isn’t a word I’d normally use for a place with plastic babies and birthing charts, but when I look around again through Gail’s eyes, I see it differently. This isn’t just a classroom; it’s a starting line for something huge. For family.
“Let’s find seats,” I suggest, guiding her toward a pair in the front. As we sit down, I feel her bump against my arm, and I’m struck by a fierce protectiveness.
“Think they’ll let me take notes?” Gail whispers, half-joking.
“Sweetheart, if you want to write a novel on prenatal care, I’ll get you the paper,” I say, dead serious. And I mean it. Whatever Gail needs, whatever this kid needs, I’m all in.
“Deal,” she replies, her voice steady, her blue eyes meeting mine. There’s trust there, mingled with a spark of something else—something like hope.
Good, then I’m not the only one feeling that.
The instructor kicks off the class with an explanation about prenatal vitamins. My hand shoots up before I even realize it’s me doing it. “Yeah, uh, what if she forgets to take them sometimes? Is there, like, a backup plan?”
“Great question,” she nods approvingly, and Gail’s eyes widen slightly as they flicker to me, an unreadable expression crossing her face for a moment. “You don’t need a backup plan. It’s generally not a cause for significant concern. Prenatal vitamins are designed to support your nutritional needs during pregnancy, but missing a dose here and there isn’t likely to have a major impact.”
As I pull my phone out and write the answer down, Gail leans closer. “Just so you know, I haven’t forgotten to take a single one,” she whispers, making me smile.
The instructor moves on to explaining diet supplements and the importance of folic acid. I lean in, absorbing every word like a sponge. This isn’t a game strategy meeting where I can rely on muscle memory; this is real life, flesh and blood. My daughter’s future.
“Is there a chart or something for the best foods?” I ask.
“Absolutely, we’ll cover that next,” the instructor beams at me, and I can almost feel Gail’s gaze, warm and intense, burning holes into my profile. “It’s nice to see when a dad is this involved.”
“Never knew you were such a teacher’s pet,” Gail teases under her breath, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
“Only when the subject’s worth it,” I shoot back without missing a beat, meeting her teasing with a grin. Though it’s laced with humor, it’s the damn truth.
Moving on to birth plans, more dads are asking questions and making observations. I chuckle to myself, knowing it’s because she praised me for doing it. But hey, at least it got people from just sitting here, to actually interacting.
During a hands-on demonstration of breathing techniques, I volunteer us as tribute. The instructor guides my hands to Gail’s shoulders, prompting me to help her practice. There’s nothing sexual about the touch, but my fingers tingle with the contact, the desire to protect her surging through me.
“Deep breaths, just like that,” I murmur, following along because hell, I need the calming effect just as much as she does.
“Look at you, getting all involved,” Gail whispers, her voice a mixture of amusement and something softer, warmer. It’s a sound that strokes over my nerves like a caress, soothing and igniting all at once.
“Wait ‘til I get to the diaper-changing demo,” I quip, trying to keep the mood light, even though part of me is dead serious. I want to master every shitty task that comes with parenthood—even the literal ones.
“Can’t wait to see that,” she laughs, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. But behind the laughter, there’s a shine of appreciation that wraps around my chest like a vise grip.
The determination to show her—show myself—that I can do this, is strong. I need her to trust that I can be the man she needs, the dad my daughter deserves. As we move through the class, every question I ask, every note I take, is a silent promise to them both; I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m kneeling on a plush, violet mat, my hands awkwardly cupping a plastic baby doll. Gail’s beside me, her laughter bubbling up as she watches me fumble with the tiny diaper. “Like folding a damn napkin,” I grumble, but there’s a grin tugging at my lips.
“More like origami,” she teases, reaching over to adjust my grip. “Here, let the pro show you how it’s done.”
Her fingers brush mine as she corrects the fold, and electricity dances up my arm. My pulse hammers in my ears, not just from the contact, but from the sight of her—so radiant, so fiercely focused. It’s like watching a piece of art come to life, and I’m struck by the thought that this, right here, is a masterpiece I want to be part of every damn day.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I say, voice low as I master the diapering technique. I catch her eye, and there’s that spark again, that shared thrill of something new yet ancient as time—a bond forming, solidifying with each giggle and touch.
The instructor drones on about the third trimester, detailing the importance of everything on the list on the monitor we’re all looking at. Gail’s taking notes, her brows furrowed in concentration as she taps on her phone. I lean closer, whispering, “You’re gonna ace this mom thing, you know that?”
“Only if at least one of my two baby daddies is half as dedicated as he pretends to be while wrestling with diapers.” Her cheeky retort has warmth flooding my chest.
“Who says I’m pretending?” I shoot back. But the truth is, I’m dead serious. Every question I ask about birthing plans—from water births to epidurals—is me clawing my way through the fog of my past.
“Alright, let’s discuss breastfeeding versus formula feeding,” the instructor announces, and my eyes snap to Gail. She’s licking her lips nervously.
I shift discreetly in my seat, using my hands to hide my unbidden wood. Fucking hell. Who the hell gets hard during a class like this? Someone with a lactation kink, that’s who. I didn’t even know I had one until Gail left, and I started doing more research into the world of pregnancy. All the articles and videos about breastfeeding… yeah, the second I imagined Gail doing it, I had to rub one out.
“Both have their benefits,” the instructor continues, “and it’s important to choose what’s best for your family and lifestyle.”
We move on to parenting techniques—positive reinforcement, the dangers of shaking a baby, and the importance of skin-to-skin contact. With each topic, I find myself imagining scenarios, envisioning Soren, Gail, and me triple-teaming this parenthood gig, supporting each other through sleepless nights.
“Skin-to-skin is great for bonding,” the instructor says. “It helps regulate the baby’s heartbeat, improves oxygen levels, and promotes a sense of security.”
“Next, we’ll talk about the signs of labor,” the instructor moves on, and Gail’s hand finds mine under the table, holding on as we learn about contractions, water breaking, and when to head to the hospital.
“Scary stuff, huh?” I murmur, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“Less scary with you here,” she admits, and my heart does a somersault. That’s all I need to hear—that I’m making a difference, that she wants me here, with her, with our baby.
“Always,” I promise, and it’s not just a word. It’s a vow, etched deep in my heart, as real as the growing anticipation between us, as tangible as the heat of her skin against mine.
The entire class takes almost four hours from start to finish. The website only said two-point-five hours, but with all the questions—and yes, half were probably mine—we almost doubled it. Oops.
As we start walking out, I get stopped by some of the dads-to-be, all of them congratulating me on the Sabertooths favorable place in the playoffs. One even wants to know if I can get him tickets. I mean, I could, but fat chance I’m going to do that for someone who’s stopping me and Gail from leaving.
Finally free of questions, we step out of the classroom, and the look in Gail’s eyes tells me I’ve nailed it. Surprise lights up her blue orbs like fireworks on a damn dark night. She’s floored, and it’s all because of me.
“Wow, Mickey,” she exhales, her voice a cocktail of awe and something deeper—appreciation maybe, or the beginnings of trust re-blooming. “I can’t believe you planned this.” Her hand rests lightly on her growing belly, a protective gesture that sends a jolt straight to my heart.
“Nothing but the best for my baby girl,” I say, puffing out my chest a little. But then I lean in close, dropping the bravado as I capture her gaze with mine. “And nothing but the best for you, Gail. I want this, us, more than anything.”
Her eyes water, and I know I’ve hit home. A smile breaks across her face—a sunrise after the longest night—and she bites her lip in that way that drives me wild.
“Thank you, Mickey. This means so much.”
“Come on,” I urge, offering my arm like we’re old-timey courting or some shit. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
The restaurant we go to is one of those places where you cook your own food at the table, a Korean BBQ joint that smells like heaven if heaven were marinated in soy and garlic. It’s busy and loud, the kind of noisy that makes you feel alive and buzzing. We snag a booth in the back, and there’s an electric grill between us begging for a sizzle.
“Ever done this before?” I ask, tossing an apron her way. The headshake I get in return is answer enough.
We throw slices of beef onto the hot metal, the sound of searing meat mixing with our laughter. Gail’s got this glint in her eye, the one that says she’s up for anything, and I’m just the guy to give it to her.
“Watch out, it splatters,” I warn as I flip a piece, but it’s too late—a drop of grease lands on her cheek, and she yelps, mock-angry.
“Ah, you’ll pay for that!” she threatens, but the playful lilt in her voice undercuts the menace.
“Promises, promises,” I tease back, leaning over the grill to wipe the spot with my thumb. The contact is brief, but it’s like I touched a live wire—we both feel the buzz.
“Is that how it’s gonna be?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Only if you want it to be,” I say, my voice low, thick with promise.
This is how it should have been between us all those days we spent together; easy and fun instead of the intense anger we’ve both experienced. Talk about regret.
The food cooks, we eat, and every bite is an explosion of flavor. But it’s nothing compared to the taste of her lips when I steal a kiss between mouthfuls. Her laugh is my favorite song, and the way she leans into me, her body language shouting that she’s right where she wants to be, sends my pulse rocketing.
“Damn, Gail,” I murmur, licking my lips after a particularly delicious bite, “this is perfect.”
“Everything’s more fun with you,” she says, her foot finding mine under the table and stroking up my calf in a move that’s anything but innocent.
“Careful now,” I warn, my voice rough, “or we’ll be giving these folks a show they didn’t pay for.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she purrs, but her footwork says otherwise.
I slide my hand under the table, feeling the heat of her skin through the fabric of her leggings. It’s a dangerous game we’re playing, teasing each other like this with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses around us. My fingers inch up her thigh, slow, deliberate. Gail’s breath hitches, but she keeps up her end of our playful banter.
“Having fun?” I murmur, leaning in close as if to steal another taste of her lips.
“Yes,” she whispers back, her eyes darkening, betraying the wildfire building inside her.
Her legs part slightly, an invitation I can’t—and don’t want to—refuse. The edge of my thumb brushes against the sensitive spot I know will have her gasping. She bites her lip, hard enough to hold back any sound that might escape as my fingers slip beneath her leggings and the lace of her panties.
“Fuck, Mickey,” she breathes so low it’s almost lost in the ambient noise of the restaurant. Her hand grips the edge of the table; knuckles white.
“Shh… wouldn’t want to cause a scene, sweetheart,” I tease, though we both know that’s exactly what we’re doing. My finger circles, dips, then slides home. She’s wet, so damn wet for me.
Gail’s eyes lock onto mine as I start to move, slowly at first, then building a rhythm that has her thighs trembling. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I know she’s close. I press just a bit harder, curl my finger, and that’s all it takes. Her orgasm rolls through her silently but fiercely, her grip on my hand under the table like a lifeline.
“God, you’re beautiful when you come,” I rasp, my voice rough with desire.
We’re both breathing heavy when I withdraw my hand, and I lick my finger clean right there at the table. Her blush is delicious, her eyes shining with that mix of satisfaction and disbelief at our audacity.
“Ready to go?” I ask, already knowing the answer from the way she nods, eager.