Chapter 13
TUCKER
The puck hits the boards with a crack that echoes through the empty Fury facility.
I chase it down, my legs burning, lungs screaming for air.
I've been skating for two hours straight—sprints, drills, shooting practice—anything to burn off the self-loathing that's been eating me alive since yesterday.
I wind up for another slap shot, channeling every ounce of frustration into the movement. The puck sails wide, missing the net entirely, and clanging off the glass.
"Fuck!" I slam my stick against the ice.
"Easy there, Stag." Mayhem's voice carries across the rink. "That's your third stick this week."
I turn to find him leaning against the boards with Howie and Spinner, all three in workout gear. They must have come in for an optional session.
"What are you guys doing here?" I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation.
"Could ask you the same thing," Howie says, skating onto the ice. "It's July. Training camp doesn't start for another month."
"Just getting some work in."
"Looks more like you're punishing yourself," Spinner observes, gliding past me to retrieve the puck I missed. "What's got you so twisted up?"
I don't answer, lining up another shot. This one finds the net, but there's no satisfaction in it.
“Speaking of twisted up.” Mayhem pulls out his phone. “You guys see what resurfaced on Insta?”
Howie and Spinner crowd around him, and I watch their expressions shift from curious to amused to outright gleeful.
"No way," Spinner cackles. "Is that from the Monaco trip?"
"Nah, man, this is older. Look at Tuck's hair—that's at least two years ago."
My stomach drops. "What are you talking about?"
Mayhem skates over, holding out his phone. "Someone dug up your greatest hits, bro. It's making the rounds on socials.”
I take the phone, and my own face stares back at me from the screen.
It's a carousel of photos—me at various clubs and parties over the past few years.
In one, I'm surrounded by women in barely-there dresses, a bottle of champagne in my hand, and a cocky grin on my face.
In another, I'm doing shots off someone's stomach.
A third shows me stumbling out of a bar with a different woman under each arm.
The caption reads: “Hockey bad boy Tucker Stag living his best life. #PartyAnimal #LivingTheDream #StagNation"
"Classic T-Stag," Howie says, laughing. "You were a legend, man."
"Were?" I hand the phone back, feeling sick.
"Well, you've been pretty tame lately," Spinner points out. "No puck bunnies, barely going out. We figured you were finally growing up or something."
"Or he's got a girl," Howie suggests, waggling his eyebrows. "That's usually what tames the wild ones."
"I don't have a girl," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, Sloane's face flashes in my mind. Her green eyes, hard with anger and disappointment. People who don't think about consequences. People who take up space without considering who they're taking it from.
"Then what's your problem?" Mayhem asks, his tone more serious now. "Because you've been off for weeks, man."
I stare at those photos on his phone, at the guy I was. The guy who thought being "T-Stag the Party Animal" was something to be proud of. The guy who parked wherever he wanted because he never considered that someone might actually need that accessible entrance.
"That guy's a fucking asshole," I say quietly.
The three of them exchange glances.
"What?" Howie looks genuinely confused.
"That guy." I gesture at the phone. "He's a selfish asshole who only thinks about himself. Who treats women like accessories and thinks rules don't apply to him."
"Dude, those were just good times—" Spinner starts.
"No." I cut him off, the words coming faster now. "It wasn't good times. It was shallow bullshit. I was shallow bullshit. I still am."
Mayhem studies me with those thoughtful eyes that always see too much. "What happened?"
"I met someone," I admit. "Someone who made me realize what a fuckup I've become. And she was right." I trail off, not sure how to articulate all the ways I've let myself become exactly what Sloane accused me of being.
I tell them about yesterday—about being at Stag Law, parking carelessly, Mel and Sloane, the confrontation. I leave out the part about Sloane being Grentley's ex-wife.
By the time I finish, even Howie looks sobered.
"Shit," Spinner says. "That's rough."
I pick up another puck, turning it over in my gloved hand. "Someone couldn’t get to their job interview because of me. Because I was too wrapped up in my own shit to pay attention."
"So pay attention now," Howie suggests. "If you don't like who you've been, be someone different."
"It's not that simple."
"Sure it is." Spinner shrugs. "You're Tucker Stag. If you decide to be better, you'll be better. You're annoyingly good at everything."
I want to tell them it's not a fast process. That I've spent years building this reputation, this identity. That "T-Stag the Enforcer” is who everyone expects me to be—my teammates, my sponsors, even my family to some extent. The wild one. The animal on and off the ice.
Sloane went for me because I looked like a fuck-boy. And I was. But I don’t want to be anymore.
"I need to go," I say abruptly, skating toward the bench.
"We just got here," Howie protests.
"So stay. Skate. I'm done."
I'm already unlacing my skates, pulling off my gear with mechanical efficiency. My body is exhausted, but my mind won't stop racing. Those photos. Sloane's face. The way Tim had dismissed me like a child. The realization that I've become exactly the kind of person I never wanted to be.
The drive home feels longer than usual. I park carefully in the garage, dead center between the lines, checking twice to make sure I'm not blocking anything or anyone.
Small steps. Maybe that's all I can do. Small steps toward being less of an asshole.
I walk over to the elevator, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder. I step into the entryway.
And freeze.
Sloane is leaning against the door.
She looks terrible. Her curly hair is pulled back messily, her face pale, dark circles under those green eyes that have haunted my dreams. She's wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, and she looks smaller somehow, more fragile than I've ever seen her.
Our eyes meet, and something in her expression makes my chest tight.
"Tucker," she says, her voice rough like she's been crying. "We need to talk."
My heart pounds. I want to ask a thousand questions—how she got past building security, how long she's been waiting, what changed her mind about talking to me. But something in her face stops me.
This isn't about second chances or explanations.
This is something else. Something bigger.
"Okay," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the way my hands are shaking. "Let's talk."
I swipe my key fob to open the elevator and gesture for her to enter first. We ride up to the top floor in silence, and she walks past me into my apartment.
She doesn't look around, doesn't seem to notice or care about the space.
She just moves to the windows, staring out at the city with her arms wrapped around herself.
I set down my bag and wait. Every instinct is screaming at me to fill the silence, to apologize again, to plead my case. But I force myself to stay quiet. To give her the space to say whatever she came here to say.
Finally, she turns to face me.
"I'm pregnant," she says.
The words hit me like a Russian offense. For a moment, I can't breathe, can't think, can't process what she just said.
"What?"
"I'm pregnant," she repeats, and now I can see she's trembling.
"With your baby. And before you say anything, I'm keeping it.
I've already decided. But I also need you to know that you don't have to be involved.
I have money. I can handle this on my own.
I just—" Her voice cracks. "I thought you had a right to know. "
Pregnant. Sloane is pregnant. With my baby.
Our baby.
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My mind is racing—how, when, what does this mean, what do I do, what does she need—
"Say something," she whispers.
I cross the distance between us in three strides. "Are you okay? Are you healthy? Have you seen a doctor?"
She blinks, clearly not expecting those to be my first questions. "I... yes. I mean, I took a test this morning. I haven't seen a doctor yet, but I will. I'm fine."
"When? When will you see a doctor?"
"I don't know. I just found out today, Tucker. I came here before I even—" She stops herself. "It doesn't matter. The point is, you know now. And I meant what I said. I don't expect anything from you."
"Don't expect—" I can't even finish the sentence. "Sloane, this is my baby, too."
"I know. But I also know you didn't sign up for this. We barely know each other. And I've already decided I'm keeping it, so if you don't want to be involved—"
"Stop." I reach for her hands before I can stop myself, and she lets me take them. "Just stop. I need a minute to process this, okay? But don't for one second think I don't want to be involved."
She searches my face, looking for something I hope she finds. "You aren’t exactly father of the year material.”
The comment throws me. I absolutely never thought about myself as a parent before right now, but something deep inside me recoils at the idea that I’d be bad at it. "What?"
“The two of us together are bad news. Look how this child was conceived. What kind of father would—" She stops, pulling her hands away and pressing them to her face. "I'm sorry. That's not fair. I'm just... I'm scared. And you're Josh's teammate, and I promised myself I wouldn't—"
"I'm not Grentley,” I say firmly. "And yeah, I fucked up. I've been fucking up a lot lately. But Sloane, I swear to you, I will not fuck this up. I will be the father this baby deserves, even if that means becoming someone completely different than who I've been."
I’m a professional fucking athlete. I know how to work hard, and obviously, I have a tough road ahead of me. But this is my kid. Operation Be A Dad started yesterday, as far as I’m concerned.
She looks at me with those impossibly green eyes, tears streaming down her face now. "I cannot have additional complications, Tucker.” She seems so, so angry and determined. “I have to focus everything I have on this baby and on starting my career. I can't lose myself again."
"You won't," I promise, even though I have no idea how to make sure that's true.