Chapter 6 #2
You're drunk. Go to sleep, Tucker.
I toss the phone aside, frustrated. The room spins slightly as I close my eyes, the necklace still clutched in my hand. The last thought I have before passing out is of Sloane, running away from me, always just out of reach.
The Fury team conference room is way too bright, loud, and definitely way too early the next morning.
I slouch in my chair at the back, slurping my second coffee and wearing sunglasses indoors like the cliché I am.
Coach Thompson stands at the front, going through his pre-season expectations with all the enthusiasm of a drill sergeant.
"Conditioning begins sooner than you think, gentlemen. I expect everyone to be at fighting weight by then." He glares around the room, his gaze lingering on me. "Some of you have further to go than others."
A few chuckles ripple through the room. I resist the urge to flip everyone off.
"This season is crucial," Thompson continues. "After last year's playoff disappointment, management expects results. We've made minimal roster changes, which means each of you needs to step up."
I tune out as he drones on about systems and strategy.
My attention drifts to the other side of the room, where Josh Grentley sits alone, with a full empty chair on each side of him.
He’s always been a loner, but there's something different about him now— a hardness to his features, a deliberate distance from everyone else. And I doubt it’s still lingering frustration over sharing a starting rotation with my brother, Gunnar.
"And T-Stag," Coach's voice snaps my attention back. "We're going to need your particular skills more than ever this season. The Eastern Division's getting nastier. Lot of teams targeting our skill players."
I straighten slightly, recognizing my cue. As the team's enforcer, my job is as much about deterrence as it is about actual fighting. Most games, my presence alone keeps opponents from taking liberties with our stars. When that fails, I make examples of people.
"I want you setting the tone early," Thompson continues.
"Let them know there's a price to pay for touching our guys.
But—" he raises a finger, "—I need you smart about it.
No stupid penalties when we're up by one in the third.
No getting ejected in the first period of playoff games. Controlled aggression. You understand?"
I nod, resisting the urge to remind him that I've been doing this job since I was fourteen. "Yes, Coach."
"Good." His gaze flickers briefly toward Grentley, then to my brother Alder and a few others who were involved in the mess that played out in the media at the end of last season. Coach mutters something about character and admirable behavior off the ice.
The meeting wraps up, and I'm one of the first out the door, eager to get home and back to bed. I'm nearly to the parking garage when a voice stops me.
"Stag."
I turn to find Grentley following me, his expression unreadable. I paste on an exaggerated grin. "What's up, G?"
"I saw your little boat party yesterday," he says, no preamble. "All over social media."
I bristle instantly. "And?"
"And we just sat through a meeting about character and training. About representing the team with dignity."
"It was a tiki boat, not a coke bender,” I retort. "Since when are you the fun police?"
His jaw tightens. "Some of us take this job seriously. Some of us understand what it means to be a professional."
The condescension in his tone sparks something hot and defensive in my chest. Fuck this guy. “Some of us also understand that it's the off-season, and what I do with my free time is none of your fucking business." And you don’t even know the half of it, asshole.
"It is when your drunken antics reflect on all of us," he says coldly. "Some of us are trying to maintain a certain standard."
Before I can respond, Howie appears at my side. "Everything cool here?" he asks, glancing between us.
Grentley steps back. "Just a friendly reminder about priorities. Nothing to worry about."
"Great chat," I say through gritted teeth, hating his self-righteous attitude, trying not to blurt something shitty about driving his wife away. "Let's do it again, never."
He walks off without another word, his posture rigid, shoulders set in a straight line.
"What was that about?" Howie asks.
"Hell if I know. Guy's got a stick up his ass the size of a ketchup bottle.” I push through the door to the parking garage. "Always has."
But as I slide into my car, I can't shake the feeling of being judged, of falling short.
It's a familiar sensation, one I've carried since I was the wild child among my more focused brothers, the enforcer on a team of skilled players, the Stag who seems perpetually out of step with the family legacy.
Man, if Grentley only knew the whole truth.
And what’s worse is I can’t stop thinking about her.
I am obsessed, and not because I’m bad or trying to get back at him.
We connected, me and Sloane. There was a spark between us.
A sizzle that had nothing to do with revenge or drama or anything other than two people, maybe meant to find one another.
I start the engine; the decision crystallizes. I'm going to find Sloane again. I'm going to show her—show everyone—that there's more to me than they think. That I'm worth a second look, a second chance.
My phone buzzes with a text from my agent about upcoming endorsement meetings, but I ignore it. That's the Tucker Stag everyone expects—the party boy, the entertaining loose cannon, the guy who sells socks and condoms with a wink and a smile.
But there's more to me than that. There has to be. And somehow, I'm going to prove it.