Chapter 17
TUCKER
I'm staring at the ultrasound photo for probably the hundredth time since leaving Sloane's apartment three hours ago.
My babies.
Our babies.
The urge to call someone—anyone—is overwhelming. Alder. My dad. Hell, I want to post it on social media with some caption like "Plot twist!" but I know that would be the worst possible thing I could do.
Sloane needs time. She needs space. She gets to decide when and how to tell people.
But keeping this to myself feels impossible.
I stand, pacing the length of my living room. The space suddenly feels both too big and too small. Three thousand square feet of bachelor pad that will need to become... what? A home? A place where babies live?
I hate that Sloane and my babies are in that apartment building with unlocked doors and no security. I have a really strong urge to barrel over there and scoop her up and bring her here, but obviously that’s not the right approach.
I stop pacing in front of the bar cart, staring at the collection of expensive liquor. Glenlivet, Macallan, Japanese whisky I bought because the bottle looked cool. When did I become the guy with a liquor collection? When did that seem like a personality trait worth cultivating?
The weird art on the walls catches my eye next—abstract pieces the decorator chose that I thought looked sophisticated. Now they just look like what they are: empty attempts at appearing grown-up while remaining fundamentally immature.
My place might be secure, but it’s not a place to bring a baby, either.
This apartment is a monument to T-Stag the Enforcer. And that douche needs to go.
I pull out my phone and scroll to my designer's number, then hesitate. What am I even asking for? "Make my bachelor pad look less like a bachelor pad"? "I'm having twins, so please remove anything that suggests I've ever had fun."?
I skip texting her and move to my bedroom instead. The California king bed dominates the space, unmade as usual. The closet—bigger than my first apartment, as I once bragged to Sloane—is full of clothes I barely wear: designer labels, expensive fabrics, more shoes than any reasonable person needs.
What do you even wear when you're a father? Do I need different clothes? Or am I overthinking this? My dad always looks pretty slick, but did he when he had four sons pooping their pants all day?
I sit on the edge of the bed and open my laptop, typing "parenting advice” into the search bar. The results are overwhelming—articles about feeding schedules, sleep training, developmental milestones, the importance of establishing routines.
I immediately order the first book that comes up from the American Academy of Pediatrics, because that sounds important. Then I order Heading Home with Your Newborn, The Baby Book, and something called What to Do When You're Having Two.
My shopping cart is up to eight books, and I'm contemplating a ninth when my phone buzzes.
Alder
You alive? Haven't heard from you since Sunday dinner.
I stare at the message. My twin. The person who knows me better than anyone.
I should tell him. Alder would understand. He'd help me figure this out. And it’s been hard talking to him at all, knowing I can’t be totally honest with him.
But Sloane asked me to wait. And I promised I'd respect her timeline.
I'm good. Just been thinking.
Alder
About Sloane?
Yeah. Among other things.
Alder
Want to grab dinner? You're being weird, and I'm worried.
I want to say yes. Want to sit across from my brother and unload everything—the pregnancy, the twins, my terror that I'm going to fuck this up spectacularly. But I can't. Not yet.
Rain check? I've got some stuff to handle.
Alder
Tucker. Whatever's going on, you don't have to deal with it alone.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm about to be responsible for two tiny humans, and I can't even handle my own life without my twin trying to swoop in and help.
I know. And I will tell you. Soon. Just need a bit more time.
Alder
Okay. But I'm here when you're ready.
I set the phone aside and wonder how I’ll face the music with the Fury regarding Grentley.
I'm spiraling down a rabbit hole of increasingly gloomy thoughts when my phone rings. Dad's name flashes on the screen.
"Hey," I answer, closing my laptop guiltily.
"Just checking in," he says. "How'd the appointment go?"
Is it weird for a grown man to cry? Because I feel like crying to my dad right now.
"Good,” I manage to say. “Everything looks healthy."
"And Sloane? How's she doing?"
"Overwhelmed, I think. It's a lot to process."
There's a pause. Dad knows I'm holding something back. "Tucker. What aren't you telling me?"
I close my eyes, picturing his face when I tell him. The joy, the excitement. And then the inevitable question: when can he share the news with Mom?
"It's twins, Dad."
Silence. Then: "Twins?"
"Yeah. Two babies. Like me and Alder."
"Holy shit." He laughs, the sound pure delight. "Tucker, that's incredible! Twins! Your mother is going to—" He stops himself. “Crap. She doesn't know yet.”
"No. And Dad, you can't tell her. Not yet. Sloane needs time to process. To tell her own people first. I promised I'd respect her timeline."
"Of course. Of course." But I can hear the effort it's taking him to contain his excitement. "But Tucker, twins. That's amazing. Terrifying, but amazing."
"More terrifying than amazing right now."
“Buddy, this is gonna be terrific. I don’t mind saying I’m pretty great at twins.
Although your mom and I had practice with Odin and Gunny before we got slammed with double trouble.
” Dad is rambling about how awesome it is being a dad, and I should find it soothing, but somehow it just makes me feel less capable.
“Twins are special, kiddo,” he adds. “They'll always have each other. "
Like Alder and me, we've always been a team, even when we've driven each other crazy.
"I don't know how to do this, Dad. Be a father to one baby, let alone two. Especially when Sloane doesn't really want me involved."
"She let you come to the appointment?"
"Yeah."
"Then she wants you involved more than you think."
"So, what do I do?"
"Keep showing up. Keep being thoughtful. Keep proving you're not going to disappear or make demands or take away her choices."
"Thanks, Dad."
"Anytime. And Tuck? I'm proud of you. For being there today. For respecting Sloane's boundaries. For taking this seriously."
After we hang up, I sit with his words. I'm proud of you. When was the last time I did something actually worth being proud of?
I open a new browser tab and search for tea delivery services in Pittsburgh. Something thoughtful but not overwhelming. Ginger tea, maybe. Peppermint. Things that might help with morning sickness.
I find a company that does weekly subscriptions and set up a delivery to Sloane's address. Not extravagant. Just consistent. A reminder that I'm thinking of her, that I'm here even when she needs space.
Then I pull up my interior designer's number again. This time I send a text:
Need to talk about renovating my place. Making it more family-friendly. Can we meet this week?
Her response comes quickly:
Absolutely! How family-friendly are we talking?
Very. Like, babies will be living here, family-friendly.
Design Girl
!!! Congratulations! Yes, let's definitely talk. I have some great ideas.
I set the phone down, feeling slightly more in control. Small steps. Tea delivery. Planning renovations. Researching what babies need.
The list keeps growing until I'm overwhelmed again. I close the laptop and grab my gym bag instead. When in doubt, work out. At least that's something I know how to do.
Three hours later, I'm drenched in sweat at Fury headquarters and no less anxious. Even as I work my body to the max beside these guys, it’s like every breath I take is a lie until I come clean about Sloane.
Josh Grentley is going to find out eventually. The team is going to find out. And when they do, it's going to be a disaster. I knew this when I slept with her at the ski house. I knew it when I went back for more. And now...
I can already imagine the locker room gossip. The looks. The questions about whether I did this deliberately. Grentley's anger—justified anger. The way it'll poison team dynamics that are already fragile after our early playoff exit.
Coach Thompson will pull me aside. Management will get involved. I'll become the guy who knocked up his teammate's ex-wife instead of the guy who protects his teammates on the ice. Fuck—what if they trade me?
My phone buzzes as I'm toweling off. Alder again.
Alder
Seriously. You're worrying me, Fucker
His nickname has always bugged me, but it hits harder than usual right now. Fucker Stag. I’m deep in the bed I made, and I know how much work it will take to claw my way out. I need to remember the prize here: babies. Family.
I know Sloane has no reason to trust me yet, but I’m going to need the full power of the Stag herd to keep myself on track. I pull out my phone to call her and realize it’s late. She’s got babies to grow and needs her rest, so I send her a text instead.
Would you be willing to have dinner with my parents? I really need their support so I can support you. And the babies.
What I want to say is: I'm wild for you and I'm terrified and excited, and I want to be more than just a co-parent, but I don't know how to prove I'm different from what you think I am.
I want to tell her to move in with me, so I can keep our family safe while she figures out what she needs.
But that shit will scare her off faster than a puck off the boards.
Instead, I save the ultrasound photo as my phone background, so I’ll be reminded each time I pull it out. Two tiny beans that will become two tiny humans who will need me to be better than I've ever been.
Even if Sloane never sees me as anything more than a co-parent, I need to be that man anyway.
For those two tiny heartbeats that are counting on me to get this right.