Chapter 6
TUCKER
My head throbs in time with each rep of the kettlebell swing, and not because of my knocked-out tooth. I grunt, pushing through the pain of my self-inflicted hangover as sweat drips onto the training mat I've rolled out in my living room.
"Your form is shit," Alder says from where he's doing perfect Russian twists: my twin brother, ever the technician, ever the perfectionist. Even our workouts are a study in contrasts—his movements precise and controlled, mine powerful but erratic.
"Your face is shit," I mutter, regretting the bottle of bourbon I nursed alone last night while scrolling through social media, scouring the internet for traces of Sloane Campbell Grentley.
“Real mature.” Alder switches to mountain climbers without missing a beat. "Seriously, Fucker, you're going to wreck your back if you keep swinging like that."
I drop the kettlebell with a thud that reverberates through my skull along with the entire building. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic." He pauses, studying me. "You look like hell, by the way."
"Thanks for noticing."
"Late night?"
I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face. “Maybe I’m just road weary. Some of us had to drive back from the mountains yesterday."
"Right. Stellan's thing." Alder takes a long pull from his water bottle. "You seemed distracted on the phone. Meet someone?"
The question is casual, but my brother knows me too well. I consider lying, but what's the point? "Maybe."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Maybe? Since when is Tucker Stag uncertain about his conquests?"
"She's not a conquest," I snap, with more heat than intended.
Alder sets down his water bottle, suddenly interested. "Well, shit. Tell me.”
I shake my head, regretting having said anything. "Nothing to tell. Met a woman, had a good time, she left before I woke up. End of story."
"Except it's not, or you wouldn't be moping around your apartment getting drunk alone and looking like someone stole your favorite Bauers.”
"I'm not moping. Maybe I’m depressed about my tooth.” I pick up the kettlebell again, channeling my frustration into another set of swings. “Speaking of… How's Lena?"
Alder's expression shifts, his ears reddening slightly. "She's fine."
"Just fine? Not spectacular, amazing, life-changing?" I force a grin, grateful to turn the tables. "Still just roommates sharing longing glances across the breakfast table?"
"Fuck off."
"That's not a denial."
He throws a towel at my head. "We're colleagues. Roommates. Friends."
"Sure. And I'm Mother Teresa."
"You know it's complicated. She's the team dentist, I'm a player. There are rules."
I snort. "Since when do you care about rules?"
"Since I actually like my job and want to keep it," he says, but there's something in his expression—a softness when he mentions Lena that I've never seen before.
"You want more with her," I say, and it's not a question.
Alder stares at the ceiling, suddenly fascinated by the recessed lighting. "Maybe. I don't know. It's... different with her."
I understand more than he realizes. Something was different with Sloane, too—something I can't articulate without sounding like a lovesick teenager.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, saving me from having to respond. It's a group text from the guys.
Howie
Tiki boat. Today. 1 pm. It’s a paddle boat, so that’s exercise.
They don’t even pause for jet lag, I guess. They just got back stateside. However, it’s not like we aren’t used to constant travel. Immediately, the replies start flooding in.
Spinner
Already packed the cooler.
Rookie
I'm bringing the smoke show I met at Diesel last night.
Mayhem
No, you're not. Bros only. I'm not listening to you try to impress some rando all afternoon.
I glance at the time: 11:23 AM. Usually, I'd be the first to respond, the instigator of such plans rather than a recipient. Today, though, I hesitate.
"The children are summoning you?" Alder asks, nodding toward my phone.
"One of those tiki booze pedal boats."
"Sounds exactly like the healthy decision your liver needs right now." He stands, gathering his things. "I've got plans with Lena. We're sending manure to our cheating exes.”
“Wholesome,” I tease, but there's no bite to it. Part of me envies the simplicity of his day ahead.
"Better than playing 'who can get alcohol poisoning first.'" He heads for the door, then pauses. "You good, Tuck? For real?"
I force a smile. "Never better. Go play with poop.”
After he leaves, I stare at my phone, debating. The last thing I need is more alcohol, but the alternative is sitting here alone with my thoughts, which feels even less appealing.
I'm in. But someone else has to pedal. My thighs are wrecked.
The Pittsburgh Party Pedaler is precisely what it sounds like—a floating tiki bar powered by bicycle pedals, drifting down the Allegheny River on a perfect June afternoon. Howie, a self-appointed captain, wears a plastic pirate hat as he steers us around a small motorboat.
"Hard to starboard!" he shouts, clearly having no idea what the terms mean.
"That's right, dumbass," Spinner corrects from his pedaling station, already three beers in. "We're going left."
"Whatever. Just go faster. We’re professional fucking athletes.” Howie adjusts his sunglasses, scanning the shoreline for women to heckle. So far, we've received three middle fingers and one phone number written on a napkin, thrown from another boat.
I'm stationed between Rookie and Mayhem, pedaling halfheartedly while nursing my second beer. The hangover has mellowed into a dull throb, but I'm not eager to replace it with a fresh one.
"T-Stag, you're slacking," Mayhem says, his massive quads powering his cranks with twice the effort of anyone else.
Despite his intimidating appearance—six-foot-five with tattoos crawling up his neck—Mayhem is the most thoughtful guy on the team.
He reads philosophy books on road trips and sends his mother flowers every Sunday.
"Just pacing myself," I reply, taking another sip of beer that's growing warm in the afternoon sun.
"Since when?" Rookie laughs. "You're usually halfway to blackout by now."
"Maybe I'm evolving."
Spinner snorts. "Yeah, and I'm joining a monastery."
"You have been pretty quiet," Howie observes, leaning closer. "Still bummed about missing Monaco? Because I've got to say, those yacht models were something else."
I shake my head. "Nah, just tired. Didn't sleep great."
The conversation shifts to Rookie's alleged conquest from the flight home, a tale that grows more implausible with each adjustment. I let my mind wander as we drift past Point State Park, where the rivers converge at the heart of downtown Pittsburgh.
That's when I see her.
Sloane is jogging along the riverside trail, her honey-colored curls pulled back in a pouf, her athletic figure showcased in running shorts and a fitted tank top. She's even more beautiful in daylight, her skin glowing with exertion.
Before I can think, I'm on my feet, nearly capsizing our floating bar.
"Sloane!" I call out, waving my arms like an idiot. "Hey! Sloane!"
She turns her head in our direction, shading her eyes against the sun. For a moment, I think she sees me—her pace falters slightly. Then she adjusts her earbuds and continues running, disappearing around a bend in the trail.
"Did she just ignore you?" Howie asks, incredulous.
I sink back onto my seat, deflated. "Guess so."
"Who the hell is Sloane?" Spinner demands.
"No one," I mutter, but it's too late.
"Holy shit," Rookie crows. "Did T-Stag just get rejected? In public?"
"She probably couldn't hear me," I say, but the excuse sounds weak even to me. I don’t know what I was thinking anyway, calling our goalie’s ex-wife, surrounded by Fury players. That’s low even for me.
"The great Tucker Stag, shot down like a duck in hunting season." Howie clutches his chest dramatically. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"Maybe you're losing your touch," Spinner suggests. "When's the last time you even hooked up with someone?"
The irony isn't lost on me. "Two nights ago, actually."
"Wait." Rookie's eyes widen. "Is that her? The one who just curved you?"
I take a long swallow of beer instead of answering, which is answer enough.
"Oh man," Howie cackles. "This is too good. The enforcer lost his rizz.”
"She didn't curve me," I insist, worrying this is low behavior, even for me. "She probably just didn't recognize me from that distance."
"Sure, buddy." Rookie pats my shoulder condescendingly. "That's definitely it."
"You know what you need to do," Spinner says, already mixing another round of drinks at the boat's small bar. "Next time, you need to really make an impression. Show up at her place with a boombox over your head. Women love that John Cusack shit."
"Yeah, because stalking is super attractive," Mayhem interjects, giving me a look that says he sees more than I'm letting on. "Maybe just let it go, man."
"Agreed," Howie adds, "you move on. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?"
I force a laugh and accept the drink Spinner hands me. "You guys are reading way too much into this. It was just a hookup."
But as the afternoon wears on and the drinks keep flowing, I find myself checking the riverside trail every time we pass it, hoping for another glimpse of her. By the time we dock at sunset, I'm significantly more drunk than I'd intended to be and no closer to forgetting Sloane.
Back at my apartment, I pull out my phone and navigate to my texts with Stellan before I can overthink it. I drop the damn thing a few times but eventually manage to tell Stelly what I need.
Needfavor. Your frind Mel. The one in the wheelchair. You sed you’d get roommate’s info.
The response comes nearly an hour later, by which time I'm sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, Sloane's necklace dangling from my fingers.
Stellan
Why? You planning to stalk her?
I scowl at the phone.
No. She lft something at the house. Trying to rtrn it.
Stellan