Chapter 12
SLOANE
I settle into a chair in the hall to wait for Mel during her interview, my body trembling slightly with residual anger over my encounter with Tucker Stag.
"Again, my deepest apologies," Tim says, his professional warmth restored now that Tucker has been dismissed. "That sort of thoughtlessness is unacceptable, especially from a family member that should know better."
"It's really okay," Mel says, though we both know it's not. "I appreciate your response."
I open my mouth to add something—probably something less diplomatic—but Mel shoots me a look that clearly says let it go. This is her interview. Her future. I'm just the angry friend who needs to shut up and wait.
Tim shuts the door to the conference room, and I’m alone in the inner office where the admin sits at her desk, eyeing me with curiosity.
"That was quite the scene," she observes as I sink into one of the leather chairs. Her nameplate reads Donna.
"Your boss's nephew parked over a wheelchair accessible entrance."
"I noticed." Donna's tone is dry. "I also noticed you tore into him pretty thoroughly. Good for you."
I don't know what to say to that, so I pull out my tablet, determined to use this time productively. Statistics. Exam on Monday. Focus.
But the numbers blur before my eyes as my mind replays the confrontation. Tucker's face when he realized what he'd done. The genuine shame in his apology. The way he'd said I was right without making excuses.
Josh never said I was right. Not once in five years.
Stop comparing them, I tell myself firmly. Stop looking for reasons to forgive him.
My stomach churns—that same unsettled feeling I've been fighting all week. I shift in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, and catch a whiff of something from the break room. Coffee, maybe. The smell hits me wrong, making bile rise in my throat.
"Restroom?" I ask Donna, my voice tight.
She points down a hallway. "Second door on the left."
I make it just in time, my breakfast making an unwelcome reappearance. When the wave passes, I lean against the cool tile wall, breathing carefully through my nose.
Stress. Has to be stress. Between school, Tucker, and this whole debacle, no wonder I lost my muffins.
I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection. When I finally look up, I barely recognize myself. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair escaping from its ponytail. I look exhausted and unwell, and exactly how I felt during the worst parts of my marriage.
You're not there anymore, I remind myself. You're rebuilding. You're in school. You're moving forward.
Even if forward apparently means running into my two-night stand at every turn.
When I return to the reception area, Donna is waiting with a bottle of water and a small pack of crackers.
"You look pale," she says, her tone softer than before. "Figured you might need these."
The unexpected kindness makes my throat tight. "Thank you."
"For what it's worth," Donna continues, her voice low enough that it won't carry, "I've worked for Tim Stag for almost thirty years. I've watched Tucker grow up. That boy can be thoughtless—too used to everything coming easy. But he's not cruel. When he realizes he's messed up, he tries to fix it."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I just nod and open the crackers. The bland taste settles my stomach slightly.
Tries to fix it… Donna’s words dislodge a memory of my ex-husband, and his face when I confronted him with the paperwork I’d found after his secret vasectomy.
Josh had been in the kitchen portioning out meals—identical containers of bland chicken, broccoli, and brown rice.
I had been digging in a drawer looking for insurance cards when I saw the benefits statement.
I asked him what it meant, and he shrugged, not looking up from his containers.
“You know my background,” he said to me. “I fixed it.”
Not angry. Not defensive. Certainly not a man who was open and honest with his wife.
My husband was supposedly a “good man” who overcame a rough start in life. So Donna referring to Tucker as a “good man” does nothing to soften my response.
"We barely know each other," I say, not sure why I’m continuing this conversation with a stranger.
Donna gives me a look that says she doesn't believe that for a second, then returns to her desk, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my statistics notes.
Mel rolls out of the conference room looking like she might explode with whatever news she got in there. We make it to the elevator before she squeals and claps her hands.
"He basically offered me the job!" she says the moment the doors slide shut. "Pending my passing the bar, but he said everything looked excellent and he'd love to have me join the team."
"That's amazing, Mel!" I force enthusiasm into my voice, genuinely happy for her despite the emotional exhaustion dragging at me. "You deserve it."
"I know!" She laughs, bright and unrestrained. "God, I can't believe it. Stag Law. Do you know how many doors this opens?"
I do. I've spent enough time helping her prep to know Stag Law represents some of the biggest names in professional athletics. Including a hockey team I wish I could ignore.
"When do you start?"
"After the bar exam. Probably early August." Her excitement dims slightly. "Which means I'll need to move out sooner than we planned. The firm has connections to accessible housing, and I want to get settled before I start.”
My stomach sinks. I'd known this was coming, but hearing it confirmed makes it real. I'll be alone again, trying to figure out how to build a life that doesn't feel like I'm just treading water. Trying to forget a man who was supposed to scratch an itch and has now bored into my psyche.
"That's great," I manage. "You should definitely take advantage of their resources."
"I'm sorry to leave you with the apartment situation," Mel says, her practical brain already problem-solving. "I can help you find a new roommate, or—"
"Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out." I start the car, needing to move, to do something. "Maybe I'll finally use some of the settlement money. Get my own place."
"You should," Mel says firmly. "That money is yours, Sloane. Legally, ethically, completely yours. Using it doesn't mean anything except that you're taking care of yourself."
I know she's right. Dr. Rivera said the same thing in therapy. But every time I think about spending Josh's money, I feel sick. Like I'm accepting payment for five wasted years.
We get situated in the car and drive in silence for a while. My stomach still feels unsettled, and I crack the window, hoping fresh air will help.
"So," Mel says eventually, "are we going to talk about Tucker?"
"No."
"He looked genuinely sorry about the parking."
"He should be sorry. He blocked a wheelchair accessible entrance."
"And then apologized immediately and moved his car."
"After being called out by his uncle."
"True." Mel fiddles with her phone. "But Sloane…the way he looks at you.”
“Come on, Mel. We can’t make life decisions based on people’s facial expressions.” I focus on the road, careful in the traffic as we head back to our shitty apartment. She’s going to leave.
“From what you’ve shared, he has some pretty good actions, too…”
"It doesn't matter," I insist, but the words feel hollow now. "He's still Josh's teammate. Still part of that world."
"Is it the world you're avoiding? Or the person you became in that world?"
The question stings, because Mel knows me. Knows what my marriage did to me.
"I don't want to talk about this," I say as we pull into our apartment complex.
"Okay." Mel lets it drop, but as we head inside, she adds quietly, "Just think about whether you're avoiding Tucker because of who he actually is, or because of what he represents. There's a difference."
That evening, I try to study. I really do. But the statistics formulas blur together, and my mind keeps circling back to the same thoughts:
Tucker's face when he realized what he'd done.
Flashes of fights with Josh.
Visions of Tucker fighting with Josh.
My phone buzzes. I grab it reflexively, half-expecting a text from one of the men I’m obsessing over, but it’s just a notification about office hours for my upcoming stat exam.
The thing I should be focused on instead of obsessing over Tucker Stag and his thoughtless parking and his apparent inability to stop thinking about me.
I force myself to return to my notes, but the nausea is back, worse now. I set down my highlighter and press my hands against my stomach, breathing carefully.
This isn't everyday stress. This is something else.
I pull out my phone and open my calendar app, scrolling back through the weeks. When was my last period?
My hand stills as I count backward. Six weeks. Maybe seven.
No. That's not possible. Tucker used condoms. Multiple condoms. Those Thin Ice prototypes he was so proud of.
But condoms aren't foolproof. Nothing is foolproof.
My heart pounds as I do the math again. The party hookup was mid-June. It's now mid-July.
You're being paranoid, I tell myself. Stress can delay periods. You've barely been eating. You're sleeping terribly. Of course your body is off.
But the nausea. The sensitivity to smells. The exhaustion that won't quit, no matter how much I sleep…
I should take a test. Just to rule it out. Just to stop this spiraling panic.
But if I take a test and it's positive...
I can't think about that. Can't let myself go there.
Instead, I close my textbook and my laptop, admitting defeat for the night. I'll go to office hours on Friday. I'll ace the exam on Monday. I'll figure out the apartment situation when Mel moves out.
And I'll take a pregnancy test tomorrow, just to confirm that stress is stress and nothing more.
Because the alternative—being pregnant with Tucker Stag's baby after telling him to leave me alone, after blocking his number, after making it abundantly clear that I want nothing to do with him or his hockey world—is too complicated to even contemplate.
I curl up on my bed, my grandmother's necklace warm against my throat, and try not to think about Tucker's hands fastening the clasp, his voice telling me how beautiful I am.
I close my eyes and try to manifest sleep…maybe until after the exam on Monday…maybe until I figure out what to do next. Above all, I pray I have food poisoning instead of a very serious complication involving Tucker Stag.