Chapter 7
SLOANE
I'm lost. Completely, totally lost.
The professor's voice washes over me like white noise as incomprehensible symbols fill the whiteboard.
Statistical Analysis for Public Health seemed like a straightforward class to take, but fifteen minutes in, I'm already drowning.
I glance around the lecture hall at my fellow students—most look fresh out of high school, furiously typing notes.
I stare down at my nearly blank notebook page. I've managed to write the date and "Statistical Analysis" at the top, followed by a single formula that might as well be written in Sanskrit.
"When we talk about standard deviation, we're discussing the dispersion of a dataset relative to its mean," the professor, Dr. Khan, explains. She clicks to the next slide in her presentation—a bell curve covered in Greek letters that makes my head spin.
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes briefly. What was I thinking? That I could just waltz back into academia after five years away and pick up where I left off?
I can’t imagine what I was thinking, leaving so close to finishing and then never actually doing so.
I started college early and earned credits from my advanced government classes in high school.
I was hot shit, academically. But then Josh had been drafted to play for Pittsburgh, and I'd been so sure that being with him was more important than my degree.
I remember packing up my dorm room, giddy with excitement about starting our new life together.
The glamour of being with a professional athlete, traveling to different cities, living in luxury—it had all seemed so romantic.
My roommate had thought I was crazy. "You can finish your degree in Pittsburgh,” she'd said, helping me fold my clothes into suitcases. “They have college there. You don't have to drop out."
But Josh had wanted me with him immediately. There were apartments to tour, social events to attend. "You can go back anytime," he'd promised, kissing my forehead. "We're young. We have our whole lives ahead of us."
Five years and one divorce later, here I am, starting over, surrounded by kids who probably still get an allowance from their parents. Not that I’m any better, with my alimony lump sum that doesn’t change anything about my crushed dreams to start a family.
But I’ve also got to wrestle with drunk party hookups hollering to me from a booze cruise, surrounded by my ex’s teammates. I can’t escape it.
What did Tucker think would happen, calling to me like that with half the Fury around him? If he’d shown up at my apartment, alone, in the dark, I probably would have opened the door. But in public? I can’t even let myself imagine it.
"For tomorrow, please read chapters one through three and complete problem sets A through C," Dr. Khan says, jolting me back to the present. People around me start packing up, and I realize with horror that I've missed most of the lecture.
I shove my notebook into my bag and escape into the hallway, gulping air like I've been underwater. This was a mistake. All of it—coming back to school, thinking I could just pick up where I left off, believing I could build a new life after wasting so many years.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mel.
How's the first day of school? Made any friends to sit with at lunch?
Despite my panic, I smile.
Currently having an existential crisis. Want to meet for coffee in an hour? I need to vent.
Her response comes immediately.
Mel
Let’s grab lunch at Green Bowl in 45.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, feeling marginally better. At least I'm not entirely alone in this city.
Green Bowl is a trendy café near campus, with exposed brick and reclaimed wood, mismatched vintage furniture, and local art on the walls. Mel has already claimed our favorite corner table, the one with extra space for her wheelchair and power outlets for our laptops.
"That bad, huh?" she asks as I collapse into the chair across from her. Her law books are spread across half the table, color-coded tabs sticking out from every direction.
"Worse," I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "I understood maybe ten percent of what the professor said."
"First day jitters," Mel says, pushing a mug toward me. She's already ordered my usual—bush tea with honey. "You're smart, Sloane. You just need to get back into student mode."
"I don't think I remember how to be a student," I admit, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "Everyone else seemed so... together. Taking notes on their laptops, asking intelligent questions. Meanwhile, I was having flashbacks to the day I dropped out."
Mel's expression softens. "Having regrets?"
I stare into my drink. "Not exactly. I mean, yes, I regret not finishing school back then. But at the time..." I trail off, remembering the excitement, the certainty that I was making the right choice. "At the time, it felt like an adventure."
"You were in love," Mel says simply. "People make decisions in love they wouldn't make otherwise."
"And look how that turned out." I take a sip of my tea, savoring the bitterness beneath the sweetness.
"First of all," Mel says, tapping her pen against her legal pad, “I know you feel a certain way about your settlement.” She was the one who recommended my lawyer and then held my hand and told me to say yes to the money.
“Half his shit is legally yours, and holding onto that guilt isn't helping anyone, especially not you.
Second, you're twenty-five, not ninety-five.
You have plenty of time to build the life you want. "
I know she's right, but the panic from the classroom still lingers. "I just don't know if I can do this. Statistics? What was I thinking?"
"That public health is important to you, and statistics is part of the package," Mel says pragmatically. "You'll get it. We'll study together. School and serenity, right?"
I pull out my textbook and flip it open. The symbols swim before my eyes, and I feel that wave of panic rising again.
"I don't know," I murmur. "Maybe I should—"
The bell above the café door jingles, and I glance up reflexively.
The world stops.
Tucker Stag stands in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his tousled blond hair, wearing a Pittsburgh Fury t-shirt that stretches across his broad, muscled shoulders. He looks tired, irritated, and unfairly gorgeous.
Our eyes meet, and his entire demeanor changes. The scowl vanishes, replaced by genuine surprise that quickly transforms into a smile that could power the whole city.
Oh no.
"Isn't that..." Mel starts, following my gaze.
"Shh," I hiss, ducking my head as if that could somehow make me invisible.
Too late. He's already weaving through the tables toward us, his face lit with a kind of boyish excitement that makes my stomach flip.
"Sloane," he says, stopping at our table. "Hey."
I manage a smile that I hope doesn't betray the riot happening in my chest. "Hi, Tucker."
He turns to Mel, extending his hand. "We met at Stelly’s party.”
"I remember," Mel says, shaking his hand with an amused expression I know all too well. "I'm Mel."
"Right, Mel. Tucker.” He nods, then turns back to me, his eyes so intensely blue I have to look away. “Whatcha doing here, Sloane?”
"Just studying," I say, gesturing lamely at the open textbook. "First day of class."
"You're in school?" He sounds genuinely interested, which is... unexpected.
"Just started. Public health." I'm painfully aware of how awkward I sound, like I've forgotten how to form complete sentences.
"That's awesome," he says, and he seems to mean it. He shifts his weight, looking like he wants to say more but is holding back. "Actually, I've been trying to find a way to contact you. You left something at the house.”
My hand flies instinctively to my throat. "My necklace? You found it?"
His smile broadens. "Yeah. It was wedged between the bed and the wall. I've got it at my place."
"Oh my God, thank you." The relief in my voice must be palpable. "It was a gift."
"I figured it was important." He glances at the counter where a barista is calling out an order number, then back to me. "I should let you get back to studying, but..."
He pulls his phone from his pocket and slides it across the table to me. "Will you type your number? So we can figure out how to get your necklace back to you."
"Thanks," I say, taking the device. Our fingers brush, and I try to ignore the small jolt that runs through me as I quickly add my number to his contacts.
He grins and texts me a smiley face, smiling even bigger when my phone vibrates with the incoming message.
"I'm grabbing a green smoothie," he gestures toward the counter.
“Gotta ramp up my nutrition…anyway, I'll let you get back to it," he says, backing away, clearly reluctant to leave.
My heart pounds, probably because he found my treasured gift.
"But text me, okay? About the necklace."
"I will," I promise, and he flashes that smile again before turning toward the counter.
The moment he's out of earshot, Mel leans forward. "Holy shit," she whispers. “He is, like, fully in love with you.”
I feel my face heat up. "Keep your voice down!"
"He's gorgeous," she continues, unabashed. People actually approach him in line, and he snaps selfies. Because he’s a famous hockey player who works with my ex-husband. "And he was looking at you like you hung the moon."
"It was one night," I mutter, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. "It doesn't mean anything."
"That man did not look like someone who thinks it meant nothing," Mel says, gesturing with her pen toward Tucker, who's now waiting for his order, sneaking glances in our direction. "And he found your necklace. That's basically the plot of a rom-com."
“I would have had the necklace days ago if you actually texted your friend, the host, about it.” I roll my eyes, but my heart isn't in it.
She squints and taps her lip with her pencil. “I’m trying to decide how bad it is that he works with Josh.”
I resist the urge to pull Mel’s hair or pour soup on her lap. “Can we please focus on statistics? I'm having an academic crisis here."
Mel gives me a look that says she's not fooled, but mercifully turns her attention back to my textbook. "Okay, so standard deviation. It's actually not that complicated..."
I try to concentrate on what she's saying, but I'm acutely aware of Tucker at the counter, of his number burning a hole in my pocket. When he finally leaves with a small wave in our direction, I feel both relieved and disappointed.
"You should text him," Mel says once he's gone, not even pretending to talk about statistics anymore.
"I will. About the necklace."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it." She leans forward. "Sloane, when was the last time you saw a guy look at you like that? And don't say Josh, because he never looked at you like that."
The comment stings, partly because it's true. Josh had always looked at me with approval, like I was a sensible purchase he'd made. Tucker looks at me like I'm something extraordinary.
"It doesn't matter," I say, flipping a page in my textbook without reading it. "I'm trying to put my life back together, not complicate it with... whatever that would be."
"Fun?" Mel suggests. "Happiness? Mind-blowing sex with a hottie who clearly knows how to use all of that.” She makes lewd hand gestures.
I glare at her, but she just shrugs, unrepentant. Things were simpler when Mel and I were undergrads. Now, I’m well aware that amazing sex doesn’t cancel out all the other risks that come along with Tucker Stag.
"I'm just saying, you don't have to marry the guy. But maybe getting your necklace back isn't the only reason to call him."
I stare down at my statistics book, the formulas blurring before my eyes.
Part of me—a bigger part than I want to admit—wants to pull out my phone right now, to text Tucker and see him again.
To feel that rush, that electricity that I'd forgotten could exist between two people.
Because even though I was embarrassed and frustrated when he waved at me the other day, I still went home and remembered every …
single … detail of what we did together at that ski house.
But the part of me that spent five years becoming someone she barely recognized in service to a man's career and ego is terrified. I remember how it started with Josh, too. The excitement, the butterflies, the feeling of being swept away.
I'd put my entire life on hold once for a man. I'd disappeared into his world, his needs, his dreams. I never even got to enjoy the perks of being an athlete’s wife since Josh was so superstitious and reclusive. We didn’t party.
Paparazzi didn’t mob us. I hardly even went to his games—he said it messed with his focus, and after a while, I stopped asking.
I'd emerged with nothing to show for it but a pile of money I’m too ashamed to spend and a hole where my self-worth should be.
I can't do that again. I won't.
I push my phone deeper into my pocket and force myself to focus on the formulas in front of me, trying to ignore the lingering warmth of Tucker's smile and the quiet voice in my head, wondering what would happen if, just this once, I let myself follow that feeling again.