Chapter 15
TUCKER
Stag family dinner is chaos as usual. My uncle’s house on the North Side of the city has plenty of room for all thirty of us, but everyone is crammed in the living room watching my cousin Wyatt on TV, playing in some summer soccer series.
Usually, I’d be invested—trash-talking and scanning the crowd for his girlfriend, Fern. Today, the game might as well be cricket for all I’m following the action.
"Pass it, you idiot!" Odin yells at the screen, throwing a handful of popcorn for emphasis.
"He can't hear you, genius," Alder points out from his spot on the floor, where he's leaning against Lena's legs. She's perched on the arm of the couch, her fingers absently playing with his hair. But we aren’t supposed to comment on their touchy-feely vibes.
Odin, oblivious to my inner turmoil, punches my cousin Petey next to him on the couch. “He should be able to feel my psychic energy telling him to PASS THE DAMN BALL."
Wyatt, predictably, doesn't pass. He takes the shot himself and misses.
The room erupts in groans and I-told-you-sos. Usually, I'd be right there with them. Today, I just feel hollow.
"Tuck, you want more potato salad?” My dad appears at my elbow, holding a plate piled high with food. "Your mom made extra."
I glance at his plate—perfectly charred ribs, grilled chicken. My usual Sunday dinner haul. My stomach turns.
"I'm good, Dad. Thanks."
Ty's eyebrows rise. "You feeling okay? You never turn down food.”
"Just not hungry."
He studies me for a moment longer, then sets the plate on the coffee table. "Well, here’s a plate if anyone’s hungry.” The food is gone in a flurry of grabby Stag hands. I’m not even sure if my brothers or my cousins are the ones who will win these Hunger Games.
Across the room, Gunnar is arguing with Stellan about something. My mom and one of my aunts are in the kitchen, their laughter carrying over the sound of the game. My Uncle Tim is on the deck with a beer, actually smiling as he talks to his own youngest brother.
It's all so normal. So perfectly, impossibly normal.
And I'm sitting here knowing that in a few months, everything is going to change. I'm going to be a father. Sloane is pregnant with my baby, and she doesn't want me involved, and I have no idea how to fix it. Will my kid even be able to come to Sunday dinner?
"Okay, seriously." Alder twists around to look at me. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. You've been weird for days. You're working out like a maniac, and now you're turning down food." He pauses. "Did you hear from Sloane?"
Several heads turn at the sound of a woman’s name.
"Who's Sloane?" Odin asks.
"No one," I say quickly. "Just drop it."
"Is she the one who called you out for parking like an asshole?" Gunnar asks, grinning. "Because Uncle Tim told me and Em that story, and it's hilarious."
"Glad my humiliation is entertaining."
"Oh, come on." Gunnar tosses a piece of popcorn at me. "You fucked up, you got called out, you made it right. End of story."
If only it were that simple.
"He's been moping about this woman for weeks," Alder supplies, clearly trying to help but making it worse.
"Weeks?" My mom appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Tucker, you've been upset about a woman for weeks and didn't say anything?"
"I'm not upset—"
"He's definitely upset," Odin confirms. "Look at him. He won't even eat ribs. This is serious."
“Maybe you all forgot that I lost a tooth,” I counter, but Lena starts explaining that the temporary crown she placed in my mouth should be entirely up to the task of chewing potato salad.
The attention is suffocating. Everyone is looking at me now, with various expressions of concern, curiosity, and amusement on their faces.
"Some of us have real problems, okay?" The words come out harsher than I intended. "Not everything is a joke."
The room goes silent. On the TV, Wyatt scores a goal and the commentators go wild, but no one here reacts.
My dad sets down his beer with deliberate care. "Outside, Tucky. Let’s chat.”
The back porch overlooks the city. The sun is starting to set, casting everything in gold and amber. My dad leads me to the far end, away from the windows where the family is undoubtedly watching.
"Sit," he says, pointing to one of the Adirondack chairs.
I comply. He takes the chair beside me, not looking at me, just watching the light fade across the glass buildings downtown.
"You want to tell me what's really going on?" His voice is calm, no judgment. Just concern.
"I screwed up."
"Yeah, I got that part. How badly?"
I take a deep breath. There's no point in delaying this. He'll find out eventually, and better he hears it from me first.
"I got someone pregnant."
To his credit, my dad doesn't react. Doesn't flinch or gasp or lecture. He just keeps staring at those skyscrapers, processing.
"The woman your brother mentioned? Sloane?"
"Yeah."
"And she… you’re not together?”
“She told me I don't have to be involved. That she can handle it on her own." The words taste bitter. I’m definitely not ready to tell my dad that she’s also my teammate's ex-wife. "She has ... she has had a lot of men let her down in the past.”
Dad nods slowly. "And how do you feel about a baby?”
"Terrified." The admission comes easier than I expected. "I'm a joke, Dad. I sell condoms on the side—condoms that clearly don't work very well. I party too hard, I travel half the year, I barely know how to take care of myself. How am I supposed to be a father?"
"Do you want to be involved?"
The question catches me off guard.
"Yes," I say without hesitation. “What kind of question is that? It’s my kid. But Sloane doesn't trust me. She thinks I'm going to be like her ex-husband—that I'll expect her to sacrifice everything while I keep living my life."
"Are you?"
"No! At least—" I stop, forcing myself to be honest. "I don't want to be. But I don't know how not to be, you know? I'm gone so damn much. How do I be an active father when I'm barely here?"
Dad leans back in his chair, and I can see him choosing his words carefully.
"You know your Uncle Tim practically raised us after your grandmother died, right?"
I nod. It's family lore—how Grandma Laurel died when Dad and his brothers were young, how Grandpa Ted spiraled, how Tim stepped up to hold everything together.
"What you don't know," Dad continues, "is how badly I repaid that sacrifice at first. Tim was working two jobs, trying to keep us fed and in school, making sure we had what we needed.
And I thanked him by getting into fights.
By being angry at the world. By making his life harder instead of easier. "
“Yeah, but you got your shit together and then everything was fine.”
Dad laughs. “You think it was some switch that flipped on? You know, I started dating your mom while she was my lawyer, right? We both could have gotten into so much damn trouble.” He shakes his head. “Man, I was so irresponsible."
I've never heard this aspect of the story. Dad always talks about his playing days with pride, about his success in the league. Never about being stuck in the minors for fighting.
"What changed?"
“Your mom," he says simply. “Once I met her, I realized what I wanted my life to look like.” He turns to look at me.
"Being a father isn't about your job or your reputation, Tucker.
It's not about being perfect or having all the answers.
It's about showing up. Every single day, in whatever way you can. "
"But how do I show up when I'm on the road?"
"Same way I did. Same way, plenty of guys do. You make the time you do have count for everything." He pauses. "But Tucker, before you can show up for this baby, you need to show up for Sloane. You need to prove to her that you're not going to be another man who takes her choices away."
The words hit hard because they're precisely what Sloane said. That she can't have another man dictate her life.
"I don't know how to do that."
"Yes, you do." Dad's voice is firm. "You do it by listening more than you talk. By asking what she needs instead of assuming you know. By being patient when she pushes you away, because she will push you away. She's protecting herself, and she has every right to."
"What if she never trusts me?"
"Then you keep proving you're trustworthy anyway.
Because that's what we do in this family.” He stands, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"You can become the man you need to be, Tucker.
But you have to prove it through actions, not words.
Words are easy. Anyone can make promises. It's the showing up that matters."
I nod, throat tight.
"Does anyone else know?" I shake my head. Dad’s brows shoot up. “Not even Alder?”
I swallow. “Sloane said she needs time to process. I'm not telling anyone else until she's ready."
Dad squeezes my shoulder. "Good. That's the right instinct. Respect her timeline, not yours."
I wince. “You’re not going to tell Mom? Or the family?”
Dad blows a raspberry. “I’m not going to pretend it’ll be easy to keep this news from your mother. She’s going to be a Grammy.” He nudges me with his shoulder, and I let my head drop back against the wooden chair. Dad pats my arm. “You’ll tell me when it’s time, okay, kiddo?”
He heads for the door, then turns back. "Tucker, I think you're going to be a great father. You just have to believe it yourself first."
After Dad goes back inside, I stay on the porch, watching the last light fade from the sky. I pull out my phone and open a new message to Uncle Tim:
Can we talk about parental leave policies for pro hockey players? I need to understand what's possible.
His response comes within seconds, and I crane my neck to see him studying his phone in the kitchen.
Uncle Tim:
Anything I need to know?
Just gathering information
Uncle Tim
Stop by the office tomorrow, and we’ll look over the contracts.
I pocket my phone and head back in, where the family is now arguing about whether Wyatt should have taken a different shot. Gunnar sees me and holds up his beer in a silent question. I shake my head—no alcohol tonight. I need to stay clear-headed.
Alder catches my eye from across the room and nods slightly. He knows something's shifted. He doesn't know what yet, but he knows.
I sink back onto the couch, and this time, when my mom offers me a plate of food, I take it. The pie feels dry in my mouth, but I eat it anyway, forcing myself to be present. To show up for this Sunday dinner with my family, because showing up is what matters.
And tomorrow, I'll start showing up for Sloane and our baby, whether she's ready to let me or not.