Chapter 25
SLOANE
Tucker’s been gone for days on a long series of away games, but he’s coming back tonight.
After he plays at seven.
Despite saying I would never watch another one of these games, I’m on the couch by six-thirty with the pre-game show on Tucker’s massive television. I have my laptop open like I'm going to work on my sociology coursework, but really, I'm just waiting.
When the broadcast starts, I close the laptop.
The St. Louis arena is loud, the camera panning across a sea of blue jerseys in the crowd. The announcer runs through the lineups, and I hold my breath until I hear "Number 41, another Stag—Tucker, right wing."
There he is, skating onto the ice with the rest of the team. Even through the TV screen, I can pick him out—something about the way he moves, confident and loose.
Number 34 skates past him. Josh Grentley. They don't look at each other.
Well, I don’t want to look at Josh, either. I try to ignore him as the game gets going, and it goes about as well as me trying to ignore the swoops in my belly as I watch Tucker glide around the ice, swoops that have nothing to do with his babies inside me.
The first period is fast, aggressive. Pittsburgh scores early, then St. Louis answers back. I find myself leaning forward, tracking Tucker every time he's on screen.
He's not a scorer—I've tangled myself with another defender. But Tucker’s also an enforcer. His job is different. Harder to see unless you're looking for it.
Halfway through the second period, I see it.
A St. Louis player—huge, mean-looking—slams into Alder near the boards. Tucker’s twin goes down hard and doesn't get up immediately. Before I can even process what's happening, Tucker is there.
He drops his gloves. The other guy does too. And then they're fighting—actual fighting, fists flying, crowd roaring.
My stomach lurches. I should look away but I can't.
Tucker takes a hit to the face but lands two solid punches in return. The refs finally pull them apart, both players breathing hard, Tucker's face already swelling from the look of things as he skates toward the box.
I should know more about the strategy of it all by now.
I realize that in a few years, these kids will ask what it means if Tucker gets a five-minute penalty for fighting.
They’ll want to know if his team is angry with him.
The camera catches his face as he sits in the naughty chair, hand on a hockey stick.
He’s smiling while he gnaws on a mouthguard, split lip and a rising bruise on his cheek.
“Damn,” I whisper to the empty apartment.
This is his job. This is what he does.
I watch the rest of the game with my hand on my stomach, feeling the babies flutter. They're moving more now, little tumbles and kicks that Dr. Patel says are perfectly normal.
Are they feeling my anxiety? Can they sense when I'm scared?
Pittsburgh wins 4-2. Tucker’s aggression was a big part of that victory. The announcers call him "a force out there tonight" and "exactly what this team needs."
I turn off the TV and sit in the quiet apartment, processing.
Tucker protects people. That's his role. And it's violent and dangerous and I watched him get punched in the face on national television.
But he was also protecting Alder. Making sure his teammate could play without fear.
It's complicated. He's complicated.
I try to go about my bedtime routine, rubbing lotion into my skin, trying not to remember what it felt like when Tucker’s hands slid along my legs in much the same way.
I'm still thinking about it when I hear the elevator at almost midnight. I'm in the bathroom, wrapping my hair for bed—the silk scarf carefully positioned to protect my curls overnight.
I freeze. Tucker hasn't seen me like this yet. Other white guys I've dated haven't understood the ritual, the care required, and I brace myself to explain.
But I hear Tucker moving around the kitchen and I need to see if he's okay after that fight.
I step out of the bathroom, scarf tied securely, wearing one of his old t-shirts left behind in the dresser in what’s now my bedroom.
Tucker's at the sink, drinking water straight from the tap. He's still in his suit from the flight—tie loosened, jacket discarded somewhere. When he straightens and turns, I see the bruise on his face.
His beautiful face now blooms purple, blue eye swollen.
"Tucker—"
"Hey." His voice is rough, tired. His eyes track from my head wrap to my shirt, and something in his expression softens. "I wake you?"
"No. I was up." I move closer, instinct overriding self-consciousness. "Your face."
"It's fine. Just a bruise." He sets down the glass. "Fighting is part of the job."
I reach up without thinking, my fingers hovering near the bruise but not quite touching. "Does it hurt?"
"Not really. I've had worse." He's studying my face like he's looking for something. "You okay? You look upset.”
"I am worried. I watched you get punched."
"It's part of the job."
"I know. But—" I drop my hand. "It's different seeing it. Understanding what you do out there."
Tucker's quiet for a moment. Then: "You want me to stop? Fighting?"
"I don't know." It's the honest answer. "I don't know what I want."
We stand there in the dim kitchen, both of us showing parts of ourselves we usually keep hidden.
"Your hair…" Tucker says quietly. "I was reading about bonnets and silk pillowcases."
"Yeah.” I smile. “I saw you were doing some studying.”
“Purple is a good color on you." His voice is firm. “I want you to feel comfortable here.”
Something in my chest loosens. "I am. Comfortable, I mean."
"Good." He adjusts his stance, and we're suddenly very close. Close enough that I can smell him—ointment and soap and something underneath that's just Tucker.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine drops to his split lip.
This would be a terrible idea. He's injured. We're both exhausted. We're supposed to be roommates, co-parents, nothing more.
But I want to kiss him so badly I can barely breathe.
"Sloane," he says, and there's a warning in his voice. Or maybe a question.
"I should go to bed." I don't move.
"Yeah. Me too." He doesn't move either.
The moment stretches between us, loaded with everything we're not saying. Everything we're not doing.
Then Tucker steps back, putting space between us. "Goodnight, Sloane.”
I shouldn’t love the sound of my name in his mouth, the way his tongue moves against his teeth when he says it. I shouldn’t want this man. “Goodnight."
I flee to my room—his room, that he gave me—and close the door.
My heart races. The babies are tumbling around like they can feel the adrenaline coursing through me.
This is getting complicated.
No—this has been complicated from the start. I'm just finally admitting it.
I climb into bed, the sheets expensive and soft, and stare at the ceiling.
Down the hall, I hear Tucker's door close. Hear the shower start up.
I imagine him in there, washing off the flight, the violence. Taking care of his bruised face. Being alone when maybe he doesn't want to be.
Is he touching himself in there, the way I touched myself in his tub, just thinking about the lightning that struck when we slept together?
I could go to him. Could knock on his door. Could tell him I don't want to be just roommates anymore.
But fear keeps me frozen. Fear of losing myself again. Fear of making the same mistakes. Fear that this is just proximity and pregnancy hormones and not something real.
So, I stay in bed, hand on my stomach, feeling his babies move and wondering how much longer I can resist their father.