Chapter 23 Sloane #2
Back at the apartment, Tucker disappears to his room and returns with a printed Fury calendar. He spreads it on the kitchen island.
"I want to show you my schedule. So, you know when I'll be gone."
I study the calendar. It's color-coded—green for home games, red for away games, blue for practices. The away games are clustered in brutal stretches.
"Four days here," Tucker says, pointing. "Three days there. The longest stretch is six days in December."
"That's a lot of travel."
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "I hate it. Hate the idea of being gone that much when you're pregnant."
"It's your job."
"I know. But—" He stares at the calendar. "I'm going to miss things. Appointments, maybe. Important moments."
"We'll FaceTime," I offer. "And lots of people have jobs that take them away from home. We'll figure it out."
"My dad managed it," Tucker says, more to himself than to me. "When he was still playing. He made it work."
"Then so will we."
He looks at me, something unreadable in his expression. "You keep saying 'we.'"
"Isn't that what this is? Co-parenting?"
"Yeah. It is." But he sounds uncertain, like he wants to say something else.
The moment stretches between us, loaded with something I'm not ready to name. Then Tucker's phone buzzes and he breaks eye contact to check it.
“Almost time for anger management part deux,” he says. "You okay if I go?"
"Of course. Your job is important.”
“So is yours,” he says. "And I don't want to leave if you need something."
"I'm fine. I'm just going to work on my statistics coursework."
"Okay." He hesitates. "But text me if you need anything. I can come back."
After he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet. I settle on the couch with my laptop and statistics textbook, determined to make progress on the incomplete.
But I can't focus. My mind keeps drifting to Tucker asking the doctor about my exhaustion. To his hand holding mine during the doppler. To the way he keeps saying "our apartment" like he's trying to convince himself I belong here.
I give up on statistics and start unpacking boxes instead, claiming space in this enormous remodeled factory loft. My books go on the built-in shelves. My clothes in the walk-in closet that's bigger than my entire bedroom at the old place. My toiletries in those empty drawers Tucker cleared for me.
By the time he gets back, I've made significant progress. He finds me in the kitchen, arranging my mismatched mugs in the cabinet.
"You're nesting," he says with a grin.
"I'm unpacking."
"You're nesting. It's cute."
I throw a dish towel at him. He catches it, laughing, and that's when I notice how good he looks post-workout. Gray t-shirt clinging to his chest, hair damp, face flushed.
I look away quickly, focusing on the mugs.
"Mel's coming over tomorrow," I say. "To see the place. That okay?"
"Of course. She's welcome anytime." He moves to the fridge, pulling out a protein shake. "You eat lunch?"
"I had crackers."
"Sloane. That's not lunch."
"I wasn't hungry."
He gives me a look. "The doctor said small meals throughout the day. Crackers don't count."
"I'll eat later."
“Let’s eat now." He opens the fridge again, surveying the contents. "I've got stuff for sandwiches. Or I could make pasta. Or we could order something."
"You don't have to feed me."
"Someone has to." He's already pulling out bread, turkey, cheese. "You like mustard or mayo?"
"Both."
"Weirdo."
But he makes the sandwich exactly how I like it—both condiments, extra pickles, chips on the side. He even microwaves the deli meat so it’s safe for me to eat. He sets it in front of me at the island and leans against the counter, drinking his shake while I eat.
"This is good," I admit. “Thank you.”
He grins, taking huge bites of his own food, which I suspect is more of a pre-meal snack for him, given his size and my experiences with Josh.
“How was anger management?” I take a swig of water and am pleased that everything seems to be staying put in my stomach.
Tucker grunts and keeps eating. He wipes his mouth with a napkin eventually and says, “Maybe we can table talking about that? I’m beat and you seem like you have a lot of work.”
I nod, ceding his point. We fall into comfortable silence, me eating, him watching once he finishes. It should be weird, having him watch me eat, but it's not. It's... nice.
Domestic.
Dangerous.
The next afternoon, Mel wheels into the apartment and immediately starts exploring.
"Holy shit, Sloane. This place is huge."
"I know."
"And fully accessible." She rolls a big circle around the living room, into the kitchen, toward my room. "The hallways are wide enough, the bathroom has a roll-in shower—did Tucker do this on purpose?"
"I think the building is just fancy."
"No, look." She points to the kitchen. "The counters have different heights. The cabinets have pull-down shelves. This was designed for accessibility."
Tucker always talks about his designer being a genius. I guess I just felt so comfortable that I never noticed the kitchen's unique features. But she's right.
"That's..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"Hot," Mel supplies. "That's hot, Sloane."
"It's considerate."
"Same thing." She wheels further down the hall, peeking into the guest room where Tucker has moved his stuff. "This is his room now?"
"Yeah. He gave me the primary."
"Also, hot."
"Stop saying that."
She grins and continues exploring, finding the door to what will be the nursery. "Can I?"
"Go ahead."
She opens the door, and I follow. The room is empty except for the shopping bags Tucker moved in here—all those supplies, carefully stacked.
Mel starts going through them, pulling out items. "Bamboo sheets. Nice. Oh, this stroller—Sloane, do you know how much this costs?"
“Yes, in fact I do.”
She whistles and runs her hands over the box. "He's serious about this."
"I know."
She turns to face me, expression thoughtful. "Are you okay? Like, really okay with all this?"
"I think so?" It comes out as a question. "It's a lot. Living with him, seeing how much he's preparing, how invested he is. It's not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. That he'd offer money and show up for big moments but otherwise stay distant. That I'd be doing this mostly alone, like my grandmother did."
"But Tucker's not distant."
"No. He's..." I gesture helplessly. "He's here. He's present. He asks the doctor questions, makes me sandwiches, and buys ridiculously expensive strollers."
"And you thought he was just a party hookup."
The observation lands heavily. This was going to be the year of me going back to school. Finally stepping out of the cycle of having babies too young, with too little support. Tucker was a little treat on the way to bigger things. “He was supposed to be…”
Mel snorts and pulls out another item—a book. "Parenting Twins: The First Year." She sets it aside and grabs another. "What to Expect: The First Year." Another. "The Baby Book." She pauses, pulling out a pamphlet tucked between the books. "Black Hair and Skin Care: A Guide for New Parents."
We both stare at it. I’m immediately transported back to elementary school, when one of the Black neighbors took Grandma aside and offered to show her how to comb my hair. It was the beginning of a daily ritual of moisturizing and wrapping.
"He got a pamphlet," Mel says slowly, "about Black hair care."
"He's … binge reading.”
"He's doing the work, Sloane." She hands me the pamphlet, which has notes in the margins like I’ve seen him take on his phone during doctor appointments. "This isn't performative. This is him actually trying to understand what your kids will need."
I flip through the pamphlet. It's detailed—information about different hair textures, product recommendations, how to moisturize, protective styles for babies. Someone has highlighted sections in yellow.
Tucker highlighted sections about caring for our babies' hair.
"Okay," I admit. "That's kind of hot."
Mel laughs. "Finally! She admits it."
"Don't—"
"You have the hots for your baby daddy."
"I do not—"
"You absolutely do. Look at your face right now." She wheels closer. "Sloane. It's okay to be attracted to him. He’s hot.”
"We're supposed to be roommates. Co-parents. I set boundaries."
"Boundaries can adjust," Mel points out. "If both people want them to."
"I don't know what I want."
"Don't you?"
I look at the pamphlet again. At the highlighted sections. At the stack of parenting books, at the expensive stroller, at all the evidence of Tucker's preparation.
I think about his hand holding mine during the ultrasound. About him asking the doctor how to help me. About him giving me his bedroom, clearing out his drawers, and making sure the apartment is accessible for Mel.
I think about how he looks post-workout. About his hands on my feet, working out the soreness. About the way he called me gorgeous, like he couldn't help himself.
"I might," I admit quietly. "Want the boundaries to adjust."
"Then tell him."
"I can't just—"
"Why not? You're adults. You're attracted to each other. You're having babies together. What's stopping you?"
Fear, I think. Fear that I'm repeating patterns. Fear that I'll lose myself again. Fear that this is just pregnancy hormones and proximity, and not something real. This is all happening very fast. A few short breaths ago, he was day drinking on a tiki boat, hollering at me when I was trying to jog.
"I need time," I tell Mel. "To figure out what I'm feeling."
"Fair enough. But Sloane?" She picks up the hair care pamphlet again. "Don't take too long."
After Mel leaves, I sit in the nursery surrounded by baby supplies, holding that pamphlet.
I think about the man I was attracted to at that party—cocky, sexy as sin, carefree.
And Tucker is still those things. I hear him laugh on the phone with his brothers and see him smile when he writes texts to his mom.
He's not performing. He's not trying to control me. He's just... showing up. Consistently. Thoughtfully.
And I'm attracted to him.
Not just physically, though God knows that's there too. But attracted to who he is. How he's trying. The man he's becoming.
Despite my vow to take space and time, to make up for what I lost during my marriage … I’m attracted to my baby daddy.
And I have no idea what to do about it.