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“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.
