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Where the hell have the last three months gone? I swear I blinked, and then poof, New Year’s, my January of misery, Abby and Gail, the pregnancy—it’s all blurring together. Each event highlighted by the way it’s made me feel, and the fact that I’m going to be a dad is by far the best of all the things that’s happened in such a short time.
Me, a dad, to a little baby girl.
Fuck me!
Most of the time, I can barely believe it. But since we got the news three days ago, when I go to sleep with Gail in my arms and my fingers in her pussy, there’s no denying how overwhelmingly right it is. With her sandwiched between me and Soren, I know I’ve found my family.
As I lace up my skates, I grin as I think about how fucking perfect life is right now.
“Hey, Mick, you spacing out on us?” Sawyer’s voice booms, snapping me back.
“Just thinking about Gail,” I grunt, giving him an eye roll.
“Ah, the soon-to-be mama,” he winks. “How’s she holding up now that she knows the kid’s yours?”
“Ours,” I snap. “She’s all of ours.” I don’t need to say Soren’s name for Sawyer to know what I mean.
“Man, you’re glowing more than she is,” Soren chuckles as we walk onto the rink.
“Fuck off, Soren.” But I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. Truth is, I can’t remember feeling this hopeful for the future. Used to be I’d see a glass as half empty with a good chance of shattering.
Now? It’s like I’m learning the glass can be refilled or some philosophical crap like that.
The ice beneath my blades is a blank slate. Each carve, each cut into the frosty surface, a testament to the grind of the season. We, the Sabertooths, have already clinched a spot in the Stanley Cup playoffs, so even though we still have two games left, one home and one away, we’re in it.
“Keep your heads in the game!” Coach bellows from the bench, the echo bouncing off the rink walls like a warning shot. I take a breath, let it cloud in front of me. This is it—push hard or go home.
Practice winds down, bodies slamming against the boards, pucks ricocheting like rapid-fire. It’s controlled chaos, a symphony of grunts and shouts, the scrape of steel on ice—a sound that’s become my pulse. Tomorrow night, we face the New Jersey Jaguars, and shit, if there wasn’t bad blood brewing before, there sure as hell is now.
Jared Frank. Just thinking his name makes my blood sizzle, my grip tightening around my stick. He’s the face I picture when I’m throwing punches at shadows, the ghost of betrayal that fuels my drive. Used to be he and I would tear up the ice together, but that’s a memory as cold and dead as the stare I plan to give him when we line up on opposite sides.
“Nice hustle out there,” I grunt to the rookie as we clear the ice, the tension in my gut winding tighter than a triple overtime.
The locker room hums with the energy of warriors prepping for battle, the stench of sweat an oddly comforting perfume.
“Frank’s gonna eat shit,” Soren says, slapping my back, his voice a growl of solidarity.
“Let’s make sure he chokes on it,” I shoot back, a smirk twisting my lips.
The room vibrates with nods and muttered agreements, a pack ready to defend its territory. But for me, it’s more than just a game. It’s redemption. It’s proving that the past doesn’t get to write my future.
“Yo, Mick, think you can keep it in your pants long enough to score on the ice tomorrow?” one of my teammates shouts as he chucks a tape roll at me, his shit-eating grin as wide as the goal Soren guards like a damn fortress.
“Only if you promise to quit hogging the puck like it’s your last meal,” I shoot back, catching the roll and tossing it into my bag. I zip it up with a satisfying rasp, feeling the camaraderie of the locker room wrap around me like a second skin.
“Boys, boys,” Soren interjects, his voice that deep rumble that commands attention even when he’s not decked out in pads and helmet. “We all know I’ll be the one to save the day when I block all their pathetic goal attempts.”
“Alright, wrap it up!” Coach bellows from the doorway, his whistle clenched between teeth that have seen too many hockey fights. “Focus on tomorrow. We win as a team, we lose as a team. Don’t forget that.”
“There’ll be no fucking losing tomorrow,” I mutter under my breath as we file out of the locker room.
The drive home is quiet, the kind of silence that’s heavy with anticipation. Soren’s hands grip the wheel like he’s strangling the life out of an opponent’s scoring chances—not that anyone gets past “The Wall” easily.
“Frank’s gonna be gunning for you, Mick,” Soren says, breaking the stillness. His green eyes flick to me briefly, a silent question hanging between us.
“Let him come,” I reply, leaning back against the leather seat as a cold smile stretches across my lips.
Normally, I’m a fucking mess when it’s time to face the Jags, especially since we’re pretty equally matched. But this year, it’s all overshadowed by the fact I’m going to be a dad, and this time, no one can take it from me. It’s mine.
