Chapter 22 Tucker
TUCKER
I'm sitting in an uncomfortable chair across from Josh Grentley, with my brother Odin perched on a stool in the corner, and a woman named Paulina Rodriguez settled in the chair between us like a referee at a boxing match.
Given the physical altercation from the other day, everyone thought it was safest for Odin to observe as a bouncer.
I guess this is therapy.
"Thank you both for coming," Paulina says, like the two of us are at a party and she’s the host. She's probably in her forties, Latina, with dark hair pulled back and an expression that suggests she's seen it all.
"I know this isn't easy, but Coach Thompson and team management feel that mediation is necessary given recent events. "
Grentley snorts. "Mediation. That's what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?" Paulina asks evenly.
"Damage control. PR bullshit." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "The Stags fuck up, and the rest of us have to sit through therapy."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from responding. Odin shifts slightly in the corner—he's not allowed to participate since he's family. I can feel his tension as he slips out of the room.
"Josh," Paulina says, "that's not a productive way to—"
"Productive?" Grentley laughs bitterly. "You want productive? How about we talk about nepotism? About how there are four Stags on this team because Daddy played here twenty years ago?"
I snort before I can stop myself. “We earned our spots."
"Did you?" Grentley leans forward. "Or did management just figure having the Stag name would sell jerseys?"
"Gentlemen—" Paulina tries to interject.
"I've led the team in penalty minutes and fighting majors for two seasons," I say, my voice tight. "I do my job."
"Your job is to protect the team. Not fuck your teammates' wives."
The room goes silent. Paulina's eyes dart between us, assessing.
"Josh," she says carefully, "I'm not sure you're in the right headspace for this session today."
"I'm fine."
"You're clearly not fine." I can't help myself now. "You're pissed that Sloane ditched you when you're the one who got your balls snipped without telling her."
Grentley's face goes red. “The fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me. You made that decision—"
Grentley lunges across the space between us. I'm on my feet instantly, chairs clattering backward. Odin bursts back into the room and grabs Grentley from behind while Paulina shouts something about stopping, but I'm ready to fight, adrenaline pumping—
A whistle pierces the air, directly in my ear. Sharp, shrill, and probably causing permanent hearing loss.
We all freeze.
Coach Thompson heaves me back into my chair, whistle still at his lips, his face purple with outrage.
"What the hell is wrong with you two?" He looks between us. "This is a therapist's office. A place where you're supposed to be working out your problems like adults. And you're about to throw punches?"
"He started—" Grentley begins.
"I don't care who started it." Coach's voice is deadly calm now. "Get out of my building. Both of you. Go home. Come back when you're ready to act like professionals instead of fucking children."
"Coach—" I start.
"Out. Now." He points toward the door. "Before I suspend you both."
Grentley shoves past me, shoulder-checking me hard as he goes. Every instinct screams to retaliate, but I force myself to stay still.
Coach watches him leave, then turns to me. "I expected better from you, T-Stag."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix this. Your family name means something in this organization. Live up to it." He shakes his head.
I grab my jacket and leave, Odin following me into the hallway.
"That was bad," he says quietly once we're out of earshot.
“You think?” I flick my brother in the nipple, and he smacks my shoulder.
"Tuck, you can't let him bait you like that. He's looking for a reason to make you the villain."
"I'm aware." I run a hand through my hair. "I just—fuck. He makes it so easy."
"I know. But you're better than that." Odin squeezes my shoulder. "Go home. See Sloane. Remember what you're fighting for."
Home. Except Sloane specifically asked me not to be there while she was moving in. Said she needed to set up her space on her own, establish her territory before I was around.
So instead, I find myself driving to BabyLand—where apparently, I can get everything from cribs to car seats to snot suckers.
The automatic doors whoosh open, and I'm immediately overwhelmed. Rows and rows of tiny clothes, furniture, gear. A woman pushing a stroller passes by, twins asleep inside, and something in my chest clenches.
That's going to be me. In a few months, that's going to be my life.
"Can I help you find something?" A cheerful employee appears at my elbow, name tag reading "Sandra." She’s a petite white woman who looks like she could be everybody’s grandma.
"I need—" I look around. "Everything. I'm having twins."
Sandra's face lights up. "Congratulations! First time, Dad?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, let's start with the basics." She grabs a cart, not seeming to recognize me, which is a small mercy I will gladly accept right now. "Cribs, stroller, car seats, changing table..."
For the next hour, Sandra guides me through the store while I say yes to almost everything. Bamboo crib sheets because they're supposed to be hypoallergenic. An obscenely expensive European double stroller because it has the highest safety ratings. Uncle Tim will be so proud.
"You're going to want multiple changing pads," Sandra says, loading another item into the growing pile. "Trust me, with twins, you'll be grateful for backups."
"Add it."
By the time I'm done, my cart looks like I'm preparing for the apocalypse.
"Your partner is lucky," Sandra says as she processes the payment. "Not every dad gets this involved before the babies arrive."
"I'm trying," I say.
"That's all anyone can do."
I pull into my building's garage, Wyatt’s back seat loaded with the smaller bags, with the rest of it getting delivered later this week. I take the elevator with all my loot, suddenly nervous.
What if she's changed her mind? What if being here made her realize this was a mistake?
But when the doors open into my apartment—our apartment now—I find Sloane curled up on the couch, fast asleep.
A statistics textbook is open on her chest, rising and falling with her breath.
Her curls are pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing yoga pants and one of those soft-looking sweaters that makes her look impossibly small and vulnerable.
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
I leave the bags by the elevator and move quietly into the kitchen. The sink is full of dishes—I really should have cleaned up before I left for work. I roll up my sleeves and start washing, careful to keep the water running softly so I don't wake her.
Dish by dish, I work through the pile. Plates, glasses, silverware. It's meditative somehow. Calming after the disaster of the therapy session.
"Tucker?"
I turn to find Sloane sitting up, rubbing her eyes. The textbook has fallen to the floor.
"Hey there, gorgeous." The words slip out before I can stop them.
She groans, but there's no heat in it. "What time is it?"
"Almost five. You hungry?"
"Starving. And my feet are killing me." She looks down at them with betrayal. "Since when is unpacking so exhausting?”
"Since you're growing two Stags.” I dry my hands and move to the couch. "Here. Let me."
Before she can protest, I lift her feet into my lap and start rubbing. Her eyes close immediately, a slight sound of relief escaping. I will my crotch not to respond to that sound, and that’s probably the most challenging task of my day. And that’s saying something.
"Oh my god. That's amazing." She practically purrs.
"My dad said he used to do this for my mom when she was pregnant." I work my thumbs along her arch.
"Your dad's a smart man."
We sit like that for a while, me rubbing her feet while she relaxes into the couch cushions. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, painting everything gold.
This feels right. More right than anything has felt in a long time.
"I bought some stuff," I say eventually. "Baby stuff. It's by the elevator. I can put it in your room or wherever you want."
"What kind of stuff?" She talks with her eyes closed, and it’s familiar. Comfortable. I like it.
"Crib sheets. A stroller. Some other things Sandra said we'd need."
"Who's Sandra?"
"Lady at BabyLand. She was very helpful."
Sloane opens one eye. "How much stuff?"
"Some stuff."
"Tucker."
"A reasonable amount of stuff for someone having twins."
She tries to sit up to look, but I press gently on her ankle. "Stay. You're comfortable. I'll show you later."
"I can't believe you went baby shopping."
"I can go again. With you. We can take everything back if you want."
She laughs, the sound sleepy and warm. "That's excessive even for you."
"Nothing's excessive for our babies."
The words hang between us. Our babies. Not my babies or her babies. Ours.
Sloane doesn't correct me. She just settles back into the cushions, her feet still in my lap, and closes her eyes again.
"This is nice," she murmurs.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Don't get used to it, though. Still just roommates."
"Right. Roommates who co-parent."
"Exactly."
She falls back asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out. I sit there, one hand resting on her ankle, watching her.
I should probably get up. Start putting the baby things away, make dinner, and do something productive. But I don't want to move. Don't want to disturb this moment.
My eyes drift to the framed photo on the wall—me, Alder, and Gunnar in our Fury gear after our first pro game. We're all grinning, arms around each other, on top of the world.
Hockey has been my life since before I was conceived. The ice, the team, the game—it's shaped everything I am.
But sitting here with Sloane, her feet in my lap, thinking about the twins growing inside her—this feels important in a different way. Essential in a way hockey never quite has been.
I think about my dad leaving the pros when Mom had Odin. I never really understood it before. How do you walk away from something you love? Something you've worked your whole life for?
But now, looking at Sloane, I'm starting to get it.
My family isn't just hockey. My family is here, asleep on this couch, trusting me enough to let her guard down.
My family is two tiny heartbeats I can't stop thinking about.
My family is this life I'm trying to build, this future I'm trying to be worthy of.
Except... hockey is family too. Alder, Gunnar, Odin. The team. The ice that's thick in my veins.
How do I choose between those things? How do I balance them when they both matter so much?
The thin ice I'm skating on right now feels weaker by the day. One wrong move and everything will crack, sending me plunging into water I'm not sure I can swim out of.
Coach's words echo in my head: Your family name means something in this organization. Live up to it.
But which family? The one I was born into or the one I'm trying to create?