Chapter 4
TUCKER
I wake to sunlight streaming through the small basement window, my arm stretched across empty sheets. For a moment, I'm disoriented—where the hell am I? Then it all rushes back: the law school party, the pool, and Sloane.
Grentley’s ex.
I bolt upright, scanning the bunk room. Her bikini isn't on the floor where I'd tossed it last night. The space beside me is cool to the touch. She's been gone for a while.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, checking for any messages or missed calls.
Nothing but social media notifications—mostly my teammates, Howie, Spinner, and Mayhem, posting stories from Monaco.
Pristine turquoise water, women in tiny bikinis, bottles of champagne.
I should be there with them instead of waking up alone in my cousin's basement.
But then I wouldn't have met Sloane.
Or boned my goalie’s ex-wife. Am I that much of a fuckup?
Something catches my eye as I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
A glint of gold between the wooden bunk frame and the mattress.
I reach down and fish out a delicate gold necklace with a small sun pendant—the one Sloane was wearing last night.
My fingers close around it, the metal still warm somehow, like it holds her essence.
For a brief instant, I’m elated that I’ll get to see her again to return it.
Then I realize that I will have to see my teammate’s ex-wife again, knowing what she looks like with me splattered all over her skin, and somehow act professional.
Im-fucking-possible. The Fury defense is already held together with non-stick athletic tape.
I can’t imagine how the team would react if they knew I was intentionally acting on these caveman urges.
I shower quickly and head upstairs, hoping against reason that she might still be around.
The kitchen is alive with activity, law students in various stages of breakfast preparation.
They all look annoyingly alert and put-together, having apparently spent the evening studying for the bar exam rather than partying.
Stellan stands at the stove, expertly flipping pancakes in our massive cast-iron skillet. He raises an eyebrow when he spots me.
"The dead do rise,” he says, sliding a hot pancake onto a plate. “There’s still coffee.”
I grunt in response, making a beeline for the pot. As I pour, I survey the room, looking for honey-colored curls and green eyes. Nothing.
"Looking for someone?" Stellan asks, too perceptive for his own good.
I shrug, aiming for casual disinterest. "Just seeing who's around."
"Uh-huh." He turns back to his pancakes. “Most people headed back to the city already.”
I take my coffee to the counter, adding enough sugar to make my dentist weep. But I don’t want to think about my teeth right now. "So, who was that woman? The one with the curly hair? In the pool?"
"Subtle," Stellan murmurs. Then louder, "Mel's roommate. They drove up together."
"Mel?"
"Mel Ortega. My study partner from law school." He slides me a plate of pancakes. "She was the one in the wheelchair."
I vaguely remember seeing a woman in a wheelchair chatting with a group of Stellan's friends last night, but I'd been too focused on Sloane to pay much attention.
“So you know Mel and her friend?” I try to sound only mildly interested, like I'm making conversation. “Have they lived together long?”
Stellan gives me a knowing look. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
"Would if I could," I mutter. “Where is she?”
"She and Mel left around six, apparently. Mel has a bar exam prep class today." He studies me curiously. "This isn't like you, Tucker. Aren’t you usually the one sneaking out before dawn?”
I don't have a response to that because he's right. I've perfected the art of the unattached hookup, the clean exit, the no-strings policy. So why am I standing here like a lovesick teenager, trying to extract information about a woman I spent one night with?
Given who this specific woman is, it’s really better if I just let last night be what it was: absolutely perfect.
And utterly forbidden.
After breakfast, I pack up my stuff, carefully wrapping Sloane's necklace in a clean sock and tucking it into the side pocket of my duffel. I check under the bed, half-hoping to find some other forgotten item, another excuse to see her again.
"You coming back for the Fourth of July?" Stellan asks as I load my bag into the McLaren.
"Probably. Dad usually insists everyone shows up for the fireworks."
"Good luck with that." He claps me on the shoulder. "Drive safe. And Tucker—"
"Yeah?"
"If you're that interested, I could get her number from Mel."
I consider it for a moment, then shake my head. "Nah, I'm good. Just curious."
The lie tastes stale on my tongue, but my pride won't let me admit I'm genuinely disappointed she ditched me. Stellan nods and heads back inside.
The drive back to Pittsburgh gives me too much time to think. I find myself replaying moments from last night—the way Sloane laughed, how she traced my tattoo, the sounds she made when I was inside her.
I no longer care that she’s entangled with Grentley. I just want more of her. Which sucks, because obviously I can’t have her. Grentley would put his fist in my jaw, for starters.
My phone rings through the car's speakers, Alder's name flashing on the display.
"What's up, mirror image?" I answer, forcing cheerfulness into my voice.
“Where the hell are you?” he asks without preamble.
"Dramatic much?"
“I literally held your hand while you cried as Lena worked on your mouth the other day.”
“Ah,” I merge onto the turnpike. “So she’s Lena now.” My brother is so obviously smitten with the new team dentist. Which is great, because he just got out of a truly terrible relationship and needs something good in his life.
My twin sighs. “She’s my roommate, Tuck. I can call her by her first name.”
“Sure,” I mutter, trailing off as I remember Sloane breathing my name into my ear. My mind is still very much back at the ski house.
"Are you even listening? I thought we were working out today.”
"Sorry, just driving. Got distracted by..." I trail off, not wanting to explain.
Alder is quiet for a moment. “I guess I’m working out without you.”
I drag a hand along my unshaven jaw. I hate disappointing my twin. All my brothers. “You can’t get Gunny to sweat with you? Or Odin? We have all these siblings, Alder…”
He growls into the phone. “Something’s up with you, Fucker. Where even are you?”
I sigh and stare at my darkened phone on the magnetic holder. “Hung out with Stellan and his friends. Nothing big.”
I consider telling him about Sloane, but something stops me. I don't want to hear Alder's take on it, don't want him to reduce it to just another conquest story.
"Bullshit. Stellan’s in some cave doing bar exam prep."
"Look, can we talk about our family whereabouts later? I'm trying not to die on these mountain roads."
Alder sighs. "Fine. But I'm coming over tomorrow with kettlebells."
"Whatever you need, bro."
We hang up, and I crank the music, trying to drown out my thoughts.
Back in Pittsburgh, I pull into the private garage beneath my building and take the elevator up to my loft.
The doors open directly into my living room, all floor-to-ceiling windows and sleek modern furniture that my decorator picked out.
I toss my keys onto the floating glass console by the door and drop my bag on the leather sofa.
The place feels emptier than usual. Sterile. I wander to the kitchen and open the refrigerator, staring at the sparse contents—protein shakes, sports drinks, and takeout containers from restaurants I don't remember ordering from.
Without really thinking about it, I find myself searching for Sloane online. There are paparazzi photos of her and Josh doing regular shit like walking into buildings. He never has his arm around her. She never smiles in any of the photos.
Some sports blogs mention the divorce, and, of course, they make it all sound like her fault, but none of them list any specifics. Sloane is way too classy to talk to the press about whatever went down with her and Josh. I only knew her for a few hours, but I could tell that much.
Frustrated, I toss my phone onto the counter and unzip my duffel. I pull out Sloane's necklace again, the gold sun catching the afternoon light streaming through my windows. It's simple but elegant, probably not expensive but clearly meaningful to her. I should find a way to return it.
It’s the chivalrous thing to do.
I walk into my bedroom and open my underwear drawer, carefully placing the necklace inside. Not because I'm some creep who collects trophies, but because I don't want it to get lost. Because I need to know it's safe until I can find a way to get it back to her.
Because it's all I have left of a night that felt like something more than what it probably was.
I close the drawer and sit heavily on the edge of my bed. My phone buzzes from the kitchen—probably Howie or Spinner sending more yacht photos, rubbing it in that I'm missing the trip of a lifetime.
But I'm not sure I would trade last night for anything, not even Monaco with the boys. And that thought scares the shit out of me.