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Sawyer sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Just... think about it, alright? Just because Gail didn’t bite doesn’t mean there isn’t someone who will—”
“Fuck this peptalk shit,” Mickey snarls. “Either shut the fuck up or tell me how shit the world is.”
“God, you’re…” Sawyer shakes his head, standing up. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want one?”
“Fuck that,” Mickey answers, reaching for the whiskey bottle. “This is all I need.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
As Sawyer disappears into the kitchen, I look at Mickey, feeling like I should say something—anything. But nothing comes to mind.
“Abby,” Mickey whispers, half to himself. “You know what I’m usually like every year. But with Abby, I never thought about today until we got back home.”
Nodding, I acknowledge his words as the truth it is. Mickey’s pity party usually starts at the strike of midnight, but last night he never mentioned it once.
I glance over at Sawyer, who’s now leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His brows are furrowed, but there’s a softness in his eyes—a brotherly concern that’s been forged in years of shared battles on the ice.
“Maybe distraction isn’t what you need,” Sawyer suggests, nodding at Mickey. “Maybe it’s about facing it head-on, man.”
“Or maybe it’s about making new memories,” I add.
“You can’t buy your way out of pain, guys,” Sawyer interjects, his tone laced with caution.
“Can’t we?” Mickey challenges, a reckless fire lighting up his eyes. “Cupid’s Court says we can.”
With drunk, fumbly fingers he swipes at the screen on his phone, waving me over so I can look with him. “Oh, and would you look at that, Abby is free for the entire weekend of the fourteenth,” I grin.
“Fuck waiting that long,” Mickey chuckles, immediately booking her for one night the week before as well as the entire weekend I just mentioned.
Sawyer’s gaze holds mine in a way that makes it all too clear he wants me to talk Mickey out of it. Maybe I should… but don’t want to. Mickey isn’t the only one who had a great time, so why not go back for seconds, thirds, fourths, fifths… for however long we want to?
“Fuck,” Sawyer mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t let this become your new addiction.”
Mickey
1 month later
January is the cruelest month, I swear. That’s why I’m fucking glad to leave it in the rearview mirror, and it’s not a moment too soon. For a month, it’s felt like a ghost town in my head, one where Simone is starring as the miserable spectacle; clanging chains and crying boo in the darkest recesses of my mind. For thirty-one days, she’s been everywhere. In the frost on the windowpane, the steam rising off my morning coffee; her shrill laugh echoing in my blades cutting the ice.
I’ve never been able to shake her, and it’s driving me crazy. The only time I’ve felt the sweet release of not thinking about her, has been at Cupid’s Court. But now it’s finally a new month, and my brain finally feels fresh.
Adi-fucking-os, Simone.
Smirking to myself, I lace up my skates, feeling almost giddy now that the bitch isn’t haunting me anymore. I slide onto the rink, welcoming the chill biting at my skin.
“Welcome back, Missile,” Soren grins, slapping me on my shoulder.
I still live with him since my house isn’t done yet. Apparently, everything is slower than the contractors had promised. Something with the weather, materials, and maybe they missed the sacrificial goat. I don’t know and don’t care all that much either. They’ll be done when they’re done, and being at Soren’s isn’t half bad.
“Fuck off,” I chuckle, flipping him off.
I notice Sawyer and some of my other teammates looking at me like they’re waiting for me to lose my shit. Not that I blame them, that’s pretty much been the case for the last month. So I flip them off as well, for good measure and what not.
“He’s back,” Sawyer laughs, giving me a thumbs up that I return with two middle fingers this time.
Obviously, I’m amazing at this finger communication if I do say so myself.
During our practice, Coach barks orders, shouting himself hoarse. It’s nothing new, it’s just how the old man is. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t really smile, instead he scowls less when he’s in a good mood.
