Chapter 10
TUCKER
“Haven’t you had enough to drink?” Josh Grentley stands by the galvanized metal tub full of Iron City beer, arms crossed, as if he's been assigned to guard the contents.
“Are you fucking serious right now? This is my brother’s wedding.” I shove him aside and reach for one of the bottles. I wasn’t even planning to have another one until this asshole decided to insert himself.
I was aiming for the cucumber water since I’m already drunker than I wanted to be, sweating in my dress shirt and loose tie.
I twist off the cap and flick it right at Grentley, laughing into the neck of the bottle when the cap bounces off his shoulder and hits the deck with a clink. He scrunches up his face, nostrils flaring.
“You going to do something about it? Here?” I gesture around the sea of Stags and all the rest of our teammates.
He stares at me for long enough that I worry I missed him saying something, but then he stoops, picks up the cap, and slides it into his pocket. “We were both in the team meeting, Stag. It takes sacrifice and discipline to be a champion.”
I want to pour my beer on his shoes, maybe pee on his pants while I’m at it. But my mother is here, and I have just enough dignity left to walk away.
“I thought so,” he says, when I turn toward the party.
Oh, fuck this guy sideways. I drop the beer and grab his shirt. “You think I don’t know how to win, asshole? I already beat you, and you didn’t even know there was a prize.”
“You’re drunk, Tucker.” He wrests his shirt from my grasp and runs his hands down his chest while I look around, not sure what to do with the rage throbbing beneath my skin.
A knock on the deck railing behind me makes me jump.
"Tuck? You good?" Alder's voice carries concern. I relax all the way down to my cells and drape an arm around his shoulders. My twin takes one look at my face, and his expression shifts from concerned to alarmed.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Just—" I run a hand through my hair, making it stand up even more. "I need to get some air."
Grentley shoves past us, striding toward the grass, where he stands facing the river with his hands shoved in his pockets. I move to follow.
"Tucker." Alder blocks my path, using the same immovable presence that makes him an elite defenseman. "What's going on?"
I glance around the party. This isn't the place for this conversation.
"Not here," I say.
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Let’s walk.”
Gunny and Emerson got married in the backyard of their apartment building, right along the Allegheny River. Alder leads me along the gravel path away from the extended Stag family. String lights twinkle overhead, and the setting sun casts everything in gold. But I feel like I’m wearing lead shoes.
"Talk," he says, sitting down on a bench and fixing me with that twin-telepathy stare that says he already knows this is serious.
I stand and stare at the river, thinking about Grentley’s stupid face, about Sloane coming around my cock. The water makes me remember the pool, talking to Sloane in the sunshine, thinking I found myself an actual, living goddess.
I can’t tell my brother about any of this. And I know he’s hiding shit from me, too.
Why the hell did Sloane have to be married to Grentley of all people?
My goalie. The guy on my team who treats everyone like they're gum on his shoe. The guy who's been extra hostile toward me all season, though I'd chalked that up to his general asshole demeanor.
I hooked up with my teammate's ex-wife. Twice.
And I knew it was a terrible idea. And I did it anyway.
And, god, if given the chance, I’d do it again.
“I know you’re banging the dentist,” I say, rather than air my own hockey gloves.
He kicks me. “Knock it off. Don’t talk about her that way.”
I kick him back. “Don’t pretend like you’re not. Not with me.”
Alder sighs and stares up at the lamp above the bench. “I asked you what’s bothering you, man. Come on. You don’t pick fights at family functions.”
I drop beside him and hang my head in my hands. “I met someone.”
“Hey!” His voice brightens, like I’m sharing exciting news or something. “I thought so. You’ve been—”
“It’s Grentley’s ex.”
Alder blinks at me, then emits a low whistle. “So the incredible woman from Stellan’s party—”
“I never told you shit, man. Did Stelly blab?”
Alder nods slowly. “Obviously.”
"I know how it looks." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "But I swear, Alder. We have a connection. I know it’s wrong.”
Then again, is it really so bad?
Grentley never talks about his personal life.
Ever. The guy's a vault, showing up to practice, doing his job, and leaving.
I'd heard rumors about a divorce—locker room gossip travels fast—but I'd never heard a name, never seen a photo. It’s not like he ever brought his wife to team parties or showed up to the parties himself.
I think about Sloane in the pool at the ski house, the way she looked at me like I was someone worth knowing. The feel of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh, the way she challenged me and pushed back and met me exactly where I was.
Alder sighs, leaning back against the bench. "You're in deep."
"I'm not—" But I stop because he's right. Two nights together and I can't stop thinking about her. Can't stop wanting to know more, to see her smile, to hear her voice saying my name.
“She left,” I say quietly. “I asked her to stay, like a sap, and she left.”
"Can you blame her? Her divorce is really public. Now here you are, connected to the part of her life she's trying to escape."
The truth of that hits hard. Sloane told me about dropping out of school, about rebuilding her life. She's trying to move forward, and I'm a direct link back to everything she's running from.
"What do I do?" The question comes out more desperate than I intended.
Alder is quiet for a moment, watching the string lights sway gently in the evening breeze. “I wish I knew, brother.”
I rest my head on his shoulder, savoring the stillness and unwavering acceptance from the person I’ve known since conception. “You going to tell me about your love life?”
“Absolutely not,” he grunts, resting his head on top of mine. One problem at a time, I guess.
We head back up to the deck, where the reception is in full swing. Gunnar and his wife are cutting the cake while the crowd cheers. My parents are laughing with my uncles at a corner table. Odin has somehow convinced one of the bridesmaids to teach him a complicated dance move.
It's all so normal, so happy. And I feel like I'm watching it through glass.
Alder and Lena sneak away like they’re about to bump uglies.
I catch sight of Grentley across the yard, talking with one of the forwards.
He looks relaxed, almost human, in a way I've never seen him at practice.
For a brief, irrational moment, I consider walking over there and demanding to know every detail of his marriage to Sloane.
What did he do to make her leave? Why is she so determined to avoid anything connected to hockey?
But Alder's right. That road leads to ruin.
Instead, I grab another beer and find a quiet corner, pulling out my phone to text the last woman I ought to contact.
I wish we’d met under different circumstances
I meant what I said at my apartment. You're the most interesting woman I've met in a long time. That hasn't changed.
I'm not giving up on this. On us. Whatever this is.
I hit send on each message, watching them deliver into the void.
"Talking to yourself?" Howie appears at my elbow, drink in hand. "That's a bad sign, man."
"Just checking scores," I lie, pocketing my phone.
"In the summer? What scores?"
"Baseball," I recall that Sloane’s grandma liked the Detroit Tigers.
He squints at me suspiciously. "Since when do you care about baseball?"
"Since now. Leave me alone."
Howie laughs and wanders off to harass Spinner, and I stay back, trying to focus on being present for Gunnar's big day.
Two weeks crawl by like I’m moving through mud. I start going to the Fury facility daily, using the gym, skating on my own, anything to burn off the restless energy that's been eating me alive since Gunnar's wedding.
I've sent Sloane countless text messages. Drafted a thousand more.
I considered showing up at the café where I'd seen her, but that felt too much like stalking.
Why can’t I stop obsessing over a woman I cannot pursue?
Since when do I fucking pursue a woman at all?
I'm in the middle of a punishing workout—my fifth this week, and it's only Wednesday—when my phone buzzes with a text from my uncle Tim.
Need you to stop by the office this afternoon. Contract stuff.
I grin despite my mood. Uncle Tim has been handling legal negotiations for various Stag family members since before I was born. He's brilliant, rigid, and one of my favorite people.
And this will definitely be something to do that takes my mind off the woman who might drive me to destroy my own career.