Chapter 11
TUCKER
Stag Law occupies the top three floors of a gleaming building in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s got kick-ass views of Point State Park and, in the winter, the ice rink and giant tree. We have spent a lot of time here as a family over the years.
Parking sucks in the garage, so I pull up near the elevator and leave the blinkers on. I’ll just be in there a few minutes, and Uncle Tim gets pissy if I’m late.
I take the elevator to the twenty-third floor, where Uncle Tim's assistant, Donna, has reigned for longer than I’ve been alive. She still treats all of us nephews like we’re still toddlers in diapers.
"Tucker Stag," she says, looking me over with approval. "You seem to have documents with you. I'm impressed."
"Don't get used to it." I wave a folder around. “I’ll probably forget this here when I leave.”
She smiles and nods toward Tim’s office. “He's expecting you. Go on in."
Uncle Tim's office is a strange blend of sterile minimalism and family photos. He's on the phone when I enter, but he waves me toward a chair.
"No, that's not acceptable," he's saying into his headset, typing rapidly on his computer.
"My client isn't interested in incentive-based compensation at those rates.
We need guarantees." A pause. "Then we'll take our business elsewhere.
Get back to me with a real offer." He ends the call and focuses on me. "Tucker. Thanks for coming in."
"What's this about? The endorsement deals? Because if Thin Ice wants me to do another photoshoot, I'm going to need hazard pay—"
"Not the condoms." He slides a folder across his desk. "Your contract extension. The Fury's ready to talk terms for next season, and I want to make sure we're on the same page before negotiations start. Brian has already seen these.”
I nod, figuring my agent and my uncle probably spent hours together hashing out details. I flip open the folder, scanning the preliminary numbers. They're offering a two-year extension with a modest raise—not star money, but solid enforcer rates.
"Looks good," I say, though I'm only half-focused. My mind is still on Sloane, on finding a way to talk to her.
"Tucker." Uncle Tim's voice sharpens. "Are you actually reading this, or are you just pretending?"
I force myself to concentrate on the contract terms. Tim walks me through the key points—salary structure, performance bonuses, injury clauses. It's important, I know it's important, but my attention keeps drifting.
"All right, what's going on?" Tim finally asks, leaning back in his chair. "You've been distracted since you walked in."
"Nothing. Just off-season stuff."
He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me for a second. "Woman trouble?"
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Fair enough." He taps the folder. "Then let's wrap this up so you can go brood somewhere else."
A knock interrupts him. Donna pokes her head in.
"Tim, your three-thirty is here early."
"Send them to the small conference room. I'll be there in five."
"Actually," Donna says, "they requested to use the large room for accessibility. I thought you'd want to know."
"Of course. Give me five minutes."
Donna disappears, and Tim stands, gathering files. "Sorry, Tucker. This is a big meeting—potential new superstar hire. Do you feel satisfied?”
"Yeah, no problem." I'm already standing, grateful for the escape from my own distraction.
I follow Tim out of his office and toward the elevator. The main reception area has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and I'm admiring the view when I hear voices from the side hallway.
"...really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Stag."
That voice is familiar.
I turn just as Mel Ortega wheels into view, dressed in a sharp business suit, her resume folder balanced on her lap. She looks flustered and out of breath.
And right behind her, holding a briefcase and looking outraged, is Sloane.
Our eyes meet across the reception area.
She freezes. I freeze.
Uncle Tim, oblivious to the sudden tension, extends a hand toward Mel. "Ms. Ortega, wonderful to meet you in person. I've heard excellent things from Stellan."
Mel shakes his hand, but her attention is on me. Recognition flickers across her face—she knows exactly who I am from that awkward encounter at the café.
"This is my friend Sloane," Mel says carefully. "She offered to drive me since parking can be tricky."
"And since someone parked their car directly over the curb cut," Sloane adds, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. "We had to go around to the loading dock entrance. Which, by the way, required going through the service elevator."
Tim's expression shifts to concern. "I apologize. That's completely unacceptable. Donna, can you—"
“It’s a McLaren blocking the accessible entrance," Sloane continues, her eyes finding mine for the first time. The accusation in them is unmistakable. “A silver McLaren.”
My stomach drops. My car. I'd been in such a rush to get inside, distracted by thoughts of Sloane, that I hadn’t stopped to consider the impact of parking in a non-spot.
"That's mine," I hear myself say. "I didn't realize—"
"Of course you didn't." Sloane's voice could cut glass. "Why would you notice something like accessibility when it doesn't affect you?"
Tim's expression shifts from concern to clear disapproval as he looks at me. "Tucker. Move your car. Now."
"I will, I just—"
"Now," Tim repeats, his tone brooking no argument. He turns back to Mel with an apologetic smile. "Ms. Ortega, I'm deeply sorry about this. Let me assure you that Stag Law takes accessibility seriously, even if my nephew apparently doesn't."
The rebuke lands like a slap. Mel looks uncomfortable, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of this.
"It's fine," she says diplomatically. "These things happen."
"They shouldn't," Sloane says firmly. "Not at a law firm that claims to prioritize diversity and inclusion."
"You're absolutely right," Tim says. "Tucker—car. Now. Then we'll finish your contract discussion tomorrow when you've had time to think about how your actions affect others."
He's dismissing me. Uncle Tim, who's always had my back, who's negotiated every major deal in my career, is sending me away in front of Sloane like I'm a kid who got caught spray-painting the garage. And he’s right to do it.
Who the fuck have I become?
"I'm sorry," I say, looking at Mel. "I wasn't thinking. I was distracted and I just—I'm sorry."
Mel nods, gracious despite everything. "Apology accepted."
But it's not Mel's acceptance I'm desperate for. I turn to Sloane, who's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—anger, yes, but also something that might be vindication.
"Sloane—"
"Spare me," she says flatly.
Tim is already guiding Mel toward the conference room, and Sloane moves to follow them, but I step into her path.
"Please. Just five minutes after I move the car."
"So, you can explain how you're actually a really considerate person who just happened to block a wheelchair accessible entrance?" Her voice drips with sarcasm. "Or were you going to explain how you don't actually think before you act?”
The accusation stings more because there's truth in it. I didn't think. I was so wrapped up in my own problems, my own desire to figure out how to reach her, that I didn't consider how my parking might affect someone else.
I sent her unreturned messages after she left me with a very clear message.
She thinks everything about Tucker Stag is bad news. And I keep proving her theory.
"You're right," I say. "I fucked up. I should have paid attention. I'm sorry."
"Great. Apology noted. Now move your car."
She tries to step around me, but I shift slightly, not blocking her but making her acknowledge me.
"I really want to talk to you,” I say quietly, aware that Donna is absolutely listening to every word of this. "I know how it looks, but I swear to you, I just want to talk.”
Something flickers in her eyes—doubt, maybe, or the beginning of belief. But then her expression hardens again.
"It doesn't matter."
"How can it not matter?"
"Because it doesn't change anything." She adjusts her grip on Mel's briefcase. "I'm trying to build a life that has nothing to do with hockey or the Fury or any of that world. And here you are, parking like you own the place, proving exactly why I need to stay away from people like you."
"People like me?"
"People who don't think about consequences. People who take up space without considering who they're taking it from." Her voice drops. "People who are so used to getting what they want that they don't notice when they're making life harder for everyone else."
The words hit harder than any check I've taken on the ice.
Because she's not entirely wrong. I parked in that spot without thinking.
I've spent weeks trying to contact her without fully considering why she might need space.
I've been so focused on what I want—a chance to explain, a chance with her—that I haven't stopped to think about what she needs.
"You're right," I say again. "I've been careless. I'm sorry."
She blinks, clearly not expecting the admission.
"But I'm not sorry for wanting to explain," I continue. "I'm not sorry for wanting a chance with you. I know I don't deserve it right now, but—"
"Sloane?" Mel's voice carries from down the hallway. "You coming?"
Sloane walks past me before I can respond, her footsteps echoing in the reception area.
I stand there for a moment, watching her go, Donna's pointed stare drilling into the side of my head.
In the parking garage, I can see my shitty park job the way others must see it: some pompous, self-centered jerk who just takes what he needs and doesn’t think about how his actions impact anyone else.
The worst part? This is not the first time I’ve parked like a jagoff.
I honestly never considered the consequences before.
Of course, Sloane told me to fuck off. I’m not someone who deserves a second chance.
Not yet, anyway.
I think about Grentley’s admonishment, how I’m drinking away my opportunity to be a leader on this team. When did I become this fuckup, pretentious asshole?
I pull out of the garage without a plan, but with clarity.
I need to become someone worth believing in.
Even if Sloane never gives me another chance, I need to do this. For me.