Chapter 52
Gail
3 weeks later.
T he roar of the crowd vibrates through my bones as Lucia and I push through the throng of Sabertooths fans, their cheers a wild cacophony in the electric air of the arena. Sweat slicks my palms, and my heart thumps against my ribs like it’s trying to escape—excitement and nerves are a heady cocktail that I can’t seem to stop sipping.
“Come on, Gail! This is going to be epic,” Lucia shouts over the din, her grin infectious as she tugs me along. “Sawyer’s been on fire all season. And with Soren and Mickey on the ice, damn, girl, we’ve got this in the bag!”
“Hope so,” I reply, my voice hitching a little higher than I intended. I can’t help it though, tonight everything gets decided down there on the ice.
We find our seats, prime real estate in the family section, and I peel off my jacket, revealing the outfit that’s a silent shout-out to my men. The long-sleeved Sabertooths colored crop top clings to my skin. It’s sheer enough that the black bra underneath is no secret. It’s bold, it’s scandalous, and I love how it makes me feel—a blend of exposed and powerful.
My fingers trace the numbers emblazoned right where my nipples are hidden beneath the fabric—7 for Mickey, 12 for Soren. My dark, low-waist maternity pants cradle the curve of my swelling belly, a reminder of another layer of our perfectly imperfect relationship.
“Girl, you’re looking like pure sin,” Luce teases, eyes twinkling as she appraises my choice of attire. “Mickey and Soren are gonna lose their minds when they see you.”
“Good,” I shoot back with a smirk, feeling the rush of daring that always comes when I push the boundaries just a bit further. “Let ‘em lose their minds. Keeps things interesting.”
As if on cue, the vibrator Soren inserted in my pussy this morning buzzes, making it hard not to moan. Bastards; both of them. If it wasn’t because they pleaded so prettily, claiming they wanted me to feel the anticipation and excitement they feel for tonight’s game, I woulda said no.
Then again… that’s a lie. No reason necessary. If my men want me to walk around all day, wanton and so fucking horny I feel like I’m dripping, I’ll do it.
“Interesting?” Luce laughs. “Honey, between those two and the baby, you’re living a whole damn saga.”
The anticipation of the game coils tight in my stomach. I’m not just here for the hockey; I’m here for them—for the raw power and grace they exude on the ice, for the possessive glances I know they’ll throw my way even as they play. It’s a game within a game, one of longing and lust, and I’m playing for keeps.
“Look at you, all knocked up and glowing,” Amy, Peter’s, the left winger, girlfriend now turned fiancée says, her voice softer now as she reaches out and gently touches my belly. “You’re handling all this like a champ.”
“Feels more like fumbling in the dark sometimes,” I confess on a laugh.
“You’re definitely glowing, and looking like a damn fertility goddess,” coos Danny’s, the right winger, girlfriend Lis. Her eyes fixated on my exposed midsection. I can’t help but feel a bit like an exhibit, but the warmth in their greetings is genuine and comforting. Her hand brushes my belly, which is something I’m still not used to.
Seriously, why is it okay for strangers to just touch your belly? I know I have mine out, but still. If I had a nip slip, I wouldn’t expect strangers to just start fondling my breast. But apparently it’s totally okay with my stomach.
I place my own hand over hers, cradling the life that swells within me—a life created in fervent whispers and the fierce embrace of my two Sabertooths. The others chime in with their well-wishes, their hands like feathers against my skin, each touch a silent prayer for health and happiness.
“Such a shame it’s not a boy,” Luce pipes up, her voice carrying over the hum of anticipation around us. “Then you could’ve named him Stanley, right after the Cup.” She winks at me, and we both burst into laughter, the sound mingling with the nervous energy that buzzes through the arena.
“I could name her Stanlina,” I deadpan, cackling as Luce makes an expression of pure horror.
The arena falls into a hush, the kind of silence that precedes a storm, and I’m caught in the eye, my pulse syncing with the palpable tension. The Sabertooths glide past, followed by the Denver Hawks, their presence an omen of the battle to come.
I watch Soren, his movements fluid and predatory as he takes his place before the net. Mickey streaks across the ice, his confidence etched into every line of his body.
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees as best as I can, the cool air swirling around my bare midriff, carrying with it the electric scent of ice and anticipation. Any moment now, the first clash of sticks will echo.
“Go get ‘em, boys,” I scream.
“I want at least one hat trick or no pussy tonight, Sy!” Luce shouts from beside me.
Hmm, maybe I should have screamed that, given them an incentive. Again, the toy inside me vibrates, reminding me it would have been an empty threat.
My fingers trace the numbers emblazoned across my chest—one for each man who has marked my soul with fire and ice. Tonight, I am not just a spectator; I am part of their world, woven into the fabric of this game, this life, this love.
The clink of metal against ice slices through the charged silence as the puck plummets center-ice. A collective inhale from the crowd, and then—chaos. Skates carve furious arcs, sticks flash like sabers, and I’m sucked into the whirlwind, my heart a piston firing in time with each breakaway rush.
“Come on, come on,” I chant between clenched teeth, blue eyes tracking black rubber as it zigs and zags, a blur of potential energy on the edge of kinetic ecstasy. My fingers curl around the edge of my seat, knuckles whitening.
“Shoot! Yes!” Amy screams as one of our guys lets loose a rocket, the puck slamming into the boards with a sound like a gunshot.
“Shit,” I gasp as bodies collide, a tangle of limbs and wills. Mickey’s in the thick of it. A punch thrown, another blocked—my gut twists, breath hitching. He’s okay, he has to be. He’s built of sterner stuff than bone and sinew; he’s desire made flesh, the embodiment of every dark whisper that’s ever starred in my dreams.
“Fight! Fight!” the crescendo of voices swells around me, primal, hungry. Lucia grabs my hand, her grip a lifeline anchoring me as I teeter on the precipice of dread and exhilaration.
“Kick his ass, Mickey!” I yell, voice lost in the cacophony, but I know he hears me, feels me, through every fiber of connection that binds us together.
And then it’s over, the referees prying them apart, sending players to the box with a stern jab of the finger. Mickey glances up, silver eyes meeting mine, and there’s a flash of something feral in his gaze that makes me shiver. The tension unwinds from my muscles as the play resumes. I lean back, the chill of the arena seeping through the fabric of my pants.
My heart’s a jackhammer in my chest, matching the violent rhythm of the game. The Sabertooths are on the defensive again, a symphony of blades carving desperation into the ice. One mistake, one misstep, and it could all go to hell. I watch with bated breath as they maneuver like warriors, each pass a calculated risk, each block a dance with fate. The sin bin is an ominous shadow, a steel cage claiming more of our own.
“Come on, boys,” I shout, my hands clenched so tight my knuckles ache. The Hawks circle, sharks scenting blood in the water, their power play a relentless tide against Soren’s fortress. He’s a titan between the posts, green eyes fierce beneath the mask, every inch of him radiating that untamed dominance I know all too intimately.
“Fuck!” The curse slips from someone behind me as a Hawk breaks through, a swift feint, a flash of puck—and it’s behind Soren before he can react. The red light blazes, a beacon of betrayal, and the arena erupts, half in cheers, half in groans.
Soren’s fury is immediate, a storm unleashed. He smashes his stick against the goal, the crack of it echoing like a gunshot. I flinch, knowing that rage, fearing its edge—not for myself since he’d never hurt me, but I worry for him. “Don’t,” I murmur, though he can’t hear me, can’t see the worry etching lines into my face.
The ref skates over, issuing a warning that has Soren’s jaw clenching, muscles taut beneath inked skin. I imagine his pulse pounding at the base of his throat.
“Keep your head, Soren,” Lucia mutters beside me, her voice low and tense. She’s right; we need him level, focused, not lost in the tempest of his own making.
The minutes stretch, endless, an eon crammed into seconds. Each shift of players is a gasp for air, each cleared puck a brief respite. The Sabertooths’ defense is a wall of muscle and sheer determination, Mickey at the helm, his presence on the ice is a promise of protection, a counterbalance to Soren’s wrath.
Luckily, the Sabertooths rally, a surge of adrenaline and skill that has everyone on their feet, shouting encouragement. The air vibrates with tension, thick as the ice beneath their skates. Sawyer’s on fire tonight, his body a blur of motion that culminates in the slap of puck against net—not once, not twice, but thrice. A hat trick. The crowd goes ballistic, a wave of sound that crashes over us, drenching us in a frenzy of excitement.
“Fuck yes!” I scream, my voice lost in the cacophony. Lucia is beside me, her face flushed with pride for her husband, her green eyes alight as we jump and hug.
“Did you see that?” she yells into my ear. “Sy’s a goddamn beast!”
I nod, grinning like a lunatic, my heart pounding in sync with the chants echoing around us. “Hat-trick hero!” I cheer, throwing my arms up.
But then the siren blares, slicing through the celebration. Regulation time bleeds out, the score still tied, and overtime looms—a sudden-death promise hanging over us all.
“Shit, this is intense,” Amy mutters. I agree and clasp my hands together, my nails biting into my palms.
The players are back, skating with a ferocity that defies human limits. Each pass is a prayer, each shot a plea, and I find myself holding my breath, releasing it in ragged gasps as chances come and go.
“Fuck!” Luce curses as a shot ricochets off the post, the metallic clang a taunt, a tease. Everyone up here is on edge, every nerve ending firing. It’s maddening, this waiting, this wanting, this need to see our men triumph.
“Score! Just score!” I urge them silently, my plea a mantra that I repeat over and over, a chant for the hockey gods, a supplication for fate to tip in our favor.
The puck glides across the slick, silvery expanse of ice, a beacon of hope in a sea of tension. My heart is a jackhammer against my chest, echoing the beat of ten thousand others in the arena. Time stretches, a taut string ready to snap with the next flick of a wrist.
My fists are clenched in my lap, as Soren blocks yet another shot, his body a fortress, unyielding and fierce. He’s goddamn majestic, a warrior in pads and helmet, guarding his realm with a ferocity that sets my blood afire.
Then it happens.
The moment fractures, shatters into a million glittering pieces as Mickey intercepts the puck, muscles coiled like a panther—like a goddamn sabertooth —as he passes to Sawyer, who feints once, twice, before sending it back to Mickey who winds up, his body a conduit of raw power and grace, and slams it home.
“YES!” The word explodes from my lips, a primal scream of victory. I’m on my feet without realizing it, jumping and cheering, caught in a whirlwind of ecstasy as the light blazes confirmation. We’ve done it. They’ve done it. The Sabertooths have won the Stanley Cup final.
“WE WON! WE FUCKING WON!” Luce’s voice is a wild cheer beside me, her joy infectious, all-encompassing.
The arena is a living entity, shaking with the roar of triumph. Strangers hug, high-five, their faces painted smiles of disbelief and elation. Every soul here is united in a single thought, a single feeling; Victory.
On the ice, the players toss their sticks, gloves, and helmets aside, embracing each other in a frenzy of celebration. Mickey and Soren find each other amidst the chaos, their arms wrapped tightly around one another, two halves of a whole. Their eyes meet mine, and the world falls away; it’s just us, our connection electric, transcendent.
Tonight, that’s when I’ll say it. Because to the victors goes the motherfucking spoils.
“My boys!” I shout, my voice hoarse with pride, my hands cradling my belly. Fet kicks, as if she too understands the magnitude of this moment, the legacy being written on the ice.
“Look at them, Gail. Just look.” Luce’s words are a breathless whisper filled with emotions. “They’re champions.”
Soren throws his head back, a victor’s howl piercing the din, while Mickey skates around, fists pumping the air. They’re glorious, my men, my protectors, my lovers—conquerors in a world of ice and steel.
My own voice joins the chorus of chants, willing them to feel the depth of my love, my admiration. I am theirs, utterly and completely, just as they are mine.
“Champions,” I murmur. And as the confetti rains down, sparkling like winter stars, I think of the future, bright and unwritten. Here, in this temple of ice, we’ve found triumph.
The air is electric, buzzing with a current that could light up the whole damn city. I’m standing, breathless and wild-eyed, as the players line up along the ice, their faces gleaming with sweat and victory. The Sabertooths have done it—they’ve snatched glory from the jaws of defeat.
“Give it up for your champions!” the announcer booms, and the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. We chant, stomp, clap—united in this pocket of time where nothing exists but the here and now.
“Sabertooths!” I scream, my voice blending with the surrounding chorus. My throat burns, but who gives a fuck? This is what it means to be alive—to feel every high, every low, every breathless moment of suspense and release.
The Stanley Cup makes its grand entrance, a shimmering beacon of dreams come true. I watch, awe-struck, as it passes from player to player, each touch a benediction, a sealing of destinies.
When it reaches Mickey and Soren, something inside me shifts, settles into place. They lift it together, and I see the future reflected in the silver curve—their names etched alongside the greats, their legacy intertwined with mine.
“Soren! Mickey!” I shout, over and over until my voice cracks, but who cares? Let it crack. Let the world hear how much they mean to me—how their love, their passion, their strength lifts me up, makes me more than I ever thought I could be.
And as more confetti swirls around us, little flecks of gold against the stark white ice, I think of Fet—our Fet. She’ll be born into a world where her dads are champions of the ice, where her mom found courage in the arms of two men who redefined her understanding of love and desire.
As the team takes a lap, hoisting the Cup high, I let myself revel in the present, in the raw, beautiful chaos of life.
“Sabertooths!” The chant from the crowd doesn’t die down—it grows louder, a testament to the power of unity.
“Sabertooths!” I join in, one last time, throwing my head back and letting the sound carry me away. Because this—this is just the beginning.
I’m still buzzing with adrenaline when Mickey and Soren, the twin titans of ice, break away from their team’s ecstatic huddle. They barrel toward me, their skates cutting a victory lap short, and I know that look—the one that says they’re coming for me.
The crowd parts like a sea of jerseys and caps, an electric current of anticipation snapping through the air as they make their way.
“Make way!” Mickey bellows, his voice thundering over the din, commanding attention in a way that sends shivers racing down my spine.
Soren doesn’t shout; he doesn’t need to. His presence alone parts the masses, his green eyes locked on mine with a predatory focus that promises things—wild, dark things—that send a thrill of excitement straight to my core.
The fans are in on it, cheering, clapping, lifting their hands to help usher me forward like I’m crowd-surfing on waves of human excitement. My heart pounds out a frenzied rhythm, and I can’t help but laugh, this wild, half-hysterical sound that’s part relief, part sheer joy.
“Look at you two,” I gasp when they finally reach me, their hands finding purchase on my hips, guiding me through the last barriers until I’m at the very front. “Stanley Cup champions.”
“Only because we had our lucky charm,” Mickey retorts, winking, his silver eyes gleaming with mischief under the stark arena lights.
“Fuck luck,” Soren growls, pulling me close enough that I can feel the chill from his jersey against my skin. “We fought for every inch.” There’s a possessive edge to his voice, one that echoes deep in my belly.
And then they’re kissing me, right there in front of the other Sabertooths, the Hawks, the press, and an arena full of hockey fanatics.
Mickey’s lips are soft, a featherlight contrast to the hard lines of his body, while Soren’s kiss is all-consuming, demanding everything and giving back just as much. They stake their claim with every touch, every nip of teeth against my swollen lips, and I melt into them, my fingers tangling in their sweat-dampened hair.
“Wow, get a room!” someone in the crowd yells, but it’s all in good fun, laughter bubbling up around us.
They pull back slightly, both sets of eyes dark with promise, hands now resting protectively over the curve of my belly. The fabric of my top stretches tight over my skin, their numbers emblazoned across my chest like a badge of honor—a talisman against the world. It’s raw, it’s primal, and it’s ours.
As the clamor of celebration continues to crescendo around us, I lean into their shared warmth, feeling the echo of their heartbeats against my back and front. In the chaos of confetti and flashing cameras, amidst the roaring approval of thousands, I find a moment of profound clarity.
This is more than a game won. It’s life, it’s love—it’s a shared victory against all the odds stacked so high we couldn’t see the summit. But here we are, standing tall, basking in the glow of triumph.
“Never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m falling for hockey,” I murmur, a sly smile playing on my lips as I revel in the afterglow of intensity and passion.
“Or maybe just for a couple of hockey players,” Mickey teases, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.
“Definitely the players,” I admit with a smirk, turning to catch Soren’s gaze, finding that spark of something fierce and tender that only he can ignite within me.
As the noise begins to ebb and the jubilant fans start to filter out, I stand sandwiched between my two champions, reflecting on this surreal slice of life. The Sabertooths have clawed their way to the top, defying expectations and rewriting narratives.
But so have I.
I’ve battled my own demons, skirted the edges of depression’s icy grip, and found solace in the arms of two men who taught me that strength isn’t just about enduring—it’s about embracing every facet of oneself. From responsible teacher to escort to expectant mother—I’ve worn many hats, played many roles, and each has led me here, to this nexus of joy and challenge.
Turning away from Soren, I wind my arms around Mickey’s neck, pulling him down so I can whisper in his ear. “I love you so fucking much, Mickey. Now, tomorrow, forever. You’re mine—” He cuts me off with a growl and quickly claims my lips in a desperate kiss.
With one last lick, I end the kiss before spinning around again, this time facing Soren. I slowly slide my hands up his arms until I reach his shoulders. Needing no prompt, he bends so I can place my lips against his ear.
“You’re mine,” I rasp. “And I love you so much it hurts—”
Again, I’m cut off by eager, greedy lips descending on mine. Soren kisses me bruisingly hard, and I love every minute of his tongue sliding against mine, of our breath mingling, of our bodies pressed tightly together.
All too soon, Mickey interrupts us. “So we only had to win the Stanley Cup for you to finally say it?” he teases.
I smile slyly and adjust where I stand so I can face them both. “Remember that email I sent you the day I moved into our new house?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. They both nod. “You may read it now.”
Knowing full well they don’t have their phones on them, I turn around and walk away. “I’ll see you outside the locker room,” I call over my shoulder, blowing them a kiss.
“You’re going to pay for that,” Soren growls.
The vibrator I barely noticed during the game pulses to life, buzzing more intently than it did earlier, and I can’t hold back a moan.
“You’re going to pay all night long,” Mickey rasps, shooting me a wink.
“God I hope so,” I grin.