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Her makeup is smeared, tears have streaked down her cheeks, and there’s a bit of cum on her cheek. But fuck me, she’s never looked more perfect.
“You did good, whore,” Soren says, sounding benevolent.
I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but I feel like something is changing inside me. The more I look at Gail, the more awestruck I become. This woman is… she’s mine—ours.
Mickey
The cold steel blade of my skate cuts through the freshly zambonied ice, a familiar chill seeping into my bones. The arena looms around me like a coliseum, and I try to shake off the weight of expectation resting on my shoulders. Tonight’s more than just another home game—it’s personal. The Jersey Jags are in town, and that means facing Jared, the one guy I refuse to lose to.
My breath comes out as a cloud of determination in the frigid air. It’s not just about the scoreboard—it’s about proving something. Proving I can rise above. The silver eyes that stare back at me from the reflection on the ice are steely, unyielding. They’ve seen battles, heartache, and betrayal.
Betrayal—that still stings the most. Jared and I used to be tight. Brothers on the ice, until he started fucking Simone behind my back. Yet he wasn’t man enough to admit it and own up to it when she became pregnant. Both of them were happy to let me think it was my baby.
Fucking cowards.
So unlike Gail, who has been nothing but honest and open, accepting all of me; the good, the damaged, and the darkness.
So yes, tonight’s as personal as it can get. And I’ve got a score to settle.
Every time Jared and I clash, it’s a spectacle. The refs might as well take a seat and enjoy the show because there’s no stopping the storm we bring. Penalties rack up like debts, and fights break out as sure as night follows day. We’re like two raging bulls on the ice, neither willing to give an inch.
I flex my fingers around the grip of my stick, the tape rough against my skin. This isn’t just a game; it’s a war waged on a sheet of ice. And I’m ready for battle.
The roar of the crowd is a living thing, vibrating through the walls of the locker room like a promise and a threat rolled into one. I sit there, lacing up my skates with meticulous care, each pull of the laces a tether to reality. Soren claps his hand on my shoulder, grounding me further.
“Remember, you’re not alone out there,” he says, his intense green eyes locking onto mine. “We’ve got your back, Mickey. Every play, every check.”
His words are more than just a pep talk; they’re a lifeline. “Thanks, man,” I reply, offering him a wry grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Just make sure to keep your fists to yourself until the gloves drop. We need you on the ice, not in the sin bin.”
A chuckle ripples through the room, easing the tension coiled in my gut. Sawyer, leans against his locker, tape circling his knuckles like a boxer ready for the ring. “Hey, Mick,” he quips, “don’t hog all the fun. Save a punch or two for me.”
“As long as you leave Jared to me,” I counter, rising to my feet.
The camaraderie here—it’s tangible, a bond forged in sweat, blood, and the chill of countless rinks. These guys, they’re more than teammates; they’re brothers-in-arms. We skate together; we fight together, and tonight, we’ll either triumph or burn out together.
No, fuck that. Tonight we’ll triumph together.Again.
Stepping onto the ice is like entering another world. The arena is an electric storm of anticipation, chants, and cheers cascading down from the stands. They know what’s coming. Hell, half of them are here just to watch Jared and me attempt to decimate each other.
“Davis! Davis! Davis!” The chant builds, resonating deep in my chest. My silver eyes sweep across the sea of faces, all hungry for victory—or maybe just blood.
I glide over to the bench, feeling the weight of every gaze, every expectation. It’s more than a game; it’s a reckoning. The ice gleams under the harsh lights, a blank canvas waiting for the story of tonight to be carved upon it.
“Let’s show ‘em what we’re made of,” I shout to my team, my voice barely piercing the cacophony surrounding us. “For pride, for honor, for the damn love of the game!”
They answer with a chorus of sticks banging against the boards, a war drum heralding the battle to come. And as we line up for the face-off, I can feel Jared’s stare like a physical force. Our rivalry isn’t just a fire; it’s an inferno that consumes everything in its path.
“Time to dance, Frank,” I mutter under my breath, watching as he takes his position across from me, our histories etched in the ice beneath our feet.
The puck drops. The world narrows to this moment, to the chase, to the clash of wills. This is where I belong. This is where I’ll prove myself. Not just to the fans, not just to my team, but to the demons that lurk in the shadows of past betrayals and lost faith in so many things.
It’s game time, and I’m ready to set the rink ablaze.
Sweat beads at my temples, the chill of the rink a stark contrast to the heat coursing through my veins. As I skate back to our defensive zone, my muscles coil, ready to spring into action. I shoot a glance at Jared Frank on the opposing wing—that smug bastard with his predatory grin, thinking he’s got this in the bag.
“Watch the breakouts,” Sawyer yells from somewhere.
The puck slides to our center, and we’re off. My skates carve the ice, slicing through the cold air as I barrel down the wing. The defensemen set up the wall, but I’m not stopping—not for them, not for anyone.
