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“I’m fine,” I reassure him, flashing a grin.
“I almost like you better when you don’t talk,” Soren says, clapping me on the back so hard I almost topple forward. Dick.
“Aww come on, Soren. Don’t be like that just because I didn’t make you coffee this morning.”
Sawyer barks out a laugh. “Just how close are you guys? I mean…” Trailing off, he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Soren throws his empty water bottle at him. “Fuck off.”
Knowing that won’t deter our friend, I take another route. “Why? Did you want a kiss?”
This makes all of us laugh. I know none of my friends would judge me if I swung that way, but that’s not what our sharing is like. It’s just… our dynamic. That’s the best and only way I can explain it.
“Speaking of which,” Soren says out of nowhere. His tone shifts just a smidge softer. “Nana’s been hounding me to come watch a game. Keeps saying she’ll bring her famous oatmeal cookies.”
“Your nana’s cookies?” Sawyer’s face lights up like we’re talking about the holy grail. “Hell, tell her to come to every game.”
I grin. “Why hasn’t she been around lately? Everyone loves Nana,” I say, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the exertion of practice. “She’s like the unofficial team mascot.”
“Better not let Coach hear you say that,” Soren chuckles. “But she hasn’t been well. So I didn’t think bringing her to the rink was a great idea.”
Wait… why the hell is this the first I’m hearing about that? Just as I’m about to ask more questions, Coach’s voice booms across the ice. “Alright, enough chit-chat! Back on the ice!”
“Let’s show ‘em what Sabertooths are made of!” I shout, tapping my stick against Soren’s and Sawyer’s before we hit the ice again, the echo of our laughter mingling with the sound of skates carving into the frozen surface.
Hours pass by as we continue our practice. I feel like I’m about to fucking puke from exhaustion. Every muscle is burning from overuse, yet I can’t stop grinning. This is what I live for.
The screech of skates carving ice dwindles to a hush as Coach’s voice booms across the rink, “Wrap it up! Interviews in twenty.” The old man doesn’t ask; he commands, his words clipped like his military buzz cut.
I pull off my helmet, sweat plastering hair to my forehead and dripping down the back of my neck. I shoot Soren a look that says ‘here we go again,’ and he rolls his eyes in solidarity.
“Remember Davis, you’re representing the Sabertooths,” Coach grunts, fixing me with a glare that could freeze a bonfire. He knows I hate the dog and pony show, but hell, we all have our parts to play.
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else, Coach,” I say, sarcastic enough that Soren snorts a laugh but subtle enough so that Coach just nods gruffly and stalks off.
We file into the locker room, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. As I strip out of my gear, the camaraderie of the team hums around me like a high-voltage current. It’s electric, and despite myself, it charges me up for what’s next.
After we’ve all showered and dressed, we head to the interview room. Jo, the Sabertooths PR guru is waiting for us, making sure no one sneaks away. She never used to manage us this closely in the past. But thanks to Sawyer escaping an interview to go spend time with Lucia, we now get our names checked off a list like kids.
The interview room is all white walls and fluorescent lights, too bright after the dimness of the rink. We settle into chairs that feel too small, facing the firing squad of cameras and microphones. I adjust my Sabertooths cap and lean back, trying to look at ease. Sawyer’s already fielding questions about plays, his answers measured and thoughtful.
Then it’s my turn, and I’m hit with the usual; stats, expectations, the upcoming game. It’s a script I know by heart, but then comes the curveball.
“Any thoughts on when you’ll settle down, Mickey? Any special lady or gentleman in your life?” The interviewer bats her lashes, one corner of her mouth quirking up.
“Settle down?” I quirk an eyebrow, the corners of my lips twitching into a mischievous grin. “And miss all the fun? But hey, if you’re offering…” I wink, letting the tease hang in the air.
There’s a ripple of laughter, the tension breaking like thin ice under a heavy boot. I don’t miss the way Soren’s lips twitch, trying to suppress a smirk. The interviewer, flustered but laughing, moves on to the next question.
“I just meant, you once said you couldn’t wait to be a dad. Has that changed?”
Before I can retort, Jo intervenes. “You know we don’t talk about that,” she says, icily. “If you want to maintain a good relationship with the Sabertooths, you need to remember your place.”
The interviewer juts out her chin. “It’s a normal question, Jo. You can’t coddle your players forever. The fans have a right to know.”
The old shame I felt when Simone played me for a fucking fool comes back in full force. I remember exactly how excited I was when she announced her pregnancy. Fuck, I dedicated every free moment to learn everything there was to know about expecting. If there’d been a test, I would’ve gotten a damn gold star.
Ironically, the one thing I wasn’t prepared for is what happens when the bitch is a two-timing slut and the baby isn’t yours. That’s the shame that still fucking clings to me. I gave her everything, and she spat in my face, publically.
