Chapter 26
TUCKER
She's staring at me again.
I pretend not to notice, keeping my eyes on the TV where my cousin Wyatt and West Ham are getting demolished by Liverpool. But I can feel Sloane's gaze tracking across my shoulders, down my bare chest, lingering on my stomach.
It's been happening for weeks now.
Ever since that night I came home from St. Louis with a bruised face and she looked at me like she wanted to jump my bones.
At first, I thought she thought I looked weird, especially as the bruise shifted to a weird yellow-green.
But something shifted. I see it in the way she watches me move around the apartment. The way her eyes drop to my mouth when I'm talking. The way she bites her lip when I walk past her in the hallway.
I’ve had my nose to the ice, totally focused on working out, keeping my cool around Grentley, and calling the players union every fucking afternoon to talk about actual time off for when these babies show up.
And all the while, Sloane’s been looking at me like she’s starving and I’m a bowl of ice cream.
It's driving me insane.
"How was class?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the game, adjusting myself before I spring a chub in my sweats.
"Fine." Her voice sounds strained. "Lots of reading."
"You need help with anything?"
A pause. Then: "No. I'm good."
I glance at her. She's standing by the kitchen island in leggings and an oversized sweater, her backpack still on one shoulder. Her curls are loose today, framing her face. Her cheeks are flushed.
She's staring at my sweatpants.
The ones I threw on after my workout this morning because I didn't think she'd be home until later.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip.
Christ.
I turn back to the TV, willing my cock to cooperate and stay soft. "Game's almost over if you want to watch something else."
"No, it's fine. I'll just—" She doesn't finish the sentence.
I hear her walk toward her room, then stop. The apartment goes quiet, except for the announcers commenting on Liverpool's third goal.
"Tucker?"
"Yeah?"
Another pause. "Never mind."
Her bedroom door closes.
I drop my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling.
More weeks pass in a haze of tension and restraint.
Sloane’s belly has bloomed, and it’s so fucking sexy. But it’s also my babies in there, and all I want to do is feel them and talk to them. I’m trying to keep my distance like a good co-parent respectfully. Lord knows, I’m trying.
Sloane is full-time at school, determined to prove she can handle it. I watch her leave in the mornings with her backpack, watch her come home tired but animated, talking about her professors and assignments.
Sometimes she has Mel with her, and they roll around the apartment talking about my uncle and uptight lawyers. My cousin Pete, Tim’s oldest, is back in town after his fellowship and he’s been working with Mel, so sometimes he comes over to rag on me for becoming boring.
Like, Pete hasn’t always been boring.
He doesn’t seem to think it’s boring to get a law degree, and write for some law journal, and move back to Pittsburgh to write boring contracts.
I should be grateful that boring people like Pete and Mel exist, since they tell me they’re making progress with the hockey players’ association and getting me some parental leave in my contract.
Pete keeps pointing out that Stag Law has a good record with this sort of thing for women’s pro sports already.
Meanwhile, Sloane seems less exhausted. The second-trimester glow everyone talks about is real—her skin looks amazing, her energy is up, and her belly is finally starting to show.
She's beautiful. She's always been beautiful, but now—
Now I can't stop staring at her.
And she can't stop staring at me.
The apartment is thick with want. With everything we're not saying, not doing.
I think about asking her to come to a game. Want her there, want her to see me play, want to look up in the stands and know she's watching.
But Grentley and I are still navigating our forced therapy sessions, our mandatory team-building exercises. Things are better—less hostile, more professional—but fragile. I don't want to risk that progress by parading his ex-wife around the arena.
So, I keep my distance on both fronts, and my dick suffers for it.
In mid October, I have a rare day off and I'm sprawled on the couch watching West Ham play Chelsea in men’s soccer. It's a lazy afternoon—no practice, no commitments, and I already jerked off in the shower, so I’m treating myself to sports on TV.
Sloane’s at class, so I’m shirtless in gray sweatpants, barefoot, wondering if I should grab one of Wyatt’s jerseys for luck since the game is tied 1-1. But then I hear the elevator.
Sloane steps into the apartment, backpack on her shoulder, keys in her hand. She looks tired, distracted, like she's had a long day of classes.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes go wide. Her keys clatter onto the side table. The backpack slides off her shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.
She just stares.
I raise my eyebrows, unable to help the small smile tugging at my mouth. "Something you need?"
She shakes her head. But she doesn't move. Doesn't look away.
Enough of this shit.
I stand slowly, letting her look. Letting her see exactly what she's been staring at for weeks. "You sure about that?"
Her chest rises and falls, breath coming faster.
I take a step toward her. Then another. Moving slowly, giving her time to stop me, to tell me to back off.
She doesn't.
"I read somewhere," I say, my voice low, "that pregnant women have a high libido in the second trimester."
Her lips part. Her eyes are huge, dark with want.
"Is that true, Sloane?" I take another step. "You feeling that?"
She nods.
"I need words, Sunshine. You need to tell me what you want."
Her voice comes out breathless, desperate. "Please fuck me. For the love of God, Tucker, please."
Something in me snaps.
I close the distance between us and scoop her up, one arm under her knees, one supporting her back. She wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face against my shoulder.
"I've got you," I murmur against her hair. "I've got you."
I carry her to her room and lay her on the bed carefully. She's breathing hard, her hands already reaching for me.
"Wait." I catch her wrists gently. "What's comfortable for you? I don't want to hurt the babies. Or you."
“Ugh,” she says immediately. "My belly—it's too much pressure if I'm on my back. And I can't—I need—"
"Show me."
She rolls onto her hands and knees, that perfect ass in the air, and looks back at me over her shoulder. "Like this. Please, Tucker. I need you like this."
I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die from wanting her this much.
I move behind her, my hands spanning her hips. "Sloane, I need you to know—I haven't been with anyone else. Got a physical last month, everything's clear."
"Good." Her voice is strained, and she starts ripping off her clothes, revealing so much golden brown skin I’m actually drooling. "Now please—"
"Use your words."
"Fuck me. Now. Please."
I hook my fingers in her panties, dragging them down. She kicks them off impatiently. She's naked and on her knees and the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
My sweatpants hit the floor. I stand behind her, one hand steadying her hip, the other guiding myself to her entrance.
"You sure?" I ask one more time.
"Tucker, I swear to God—"
I slide into her in one long thrust.
She gasps, her back arching, her hands fisting in the sheets. I freeze, terrified I've hurt her.
"Don't stop," she breathes. "Don't you dare stop."
I don't stop.
I fuck her the way she asked—fast and hard and desperate, like our very first time together.
My hands grip her hips, probably too tight, but she's pushing back against me, meeting every thrust. The sounds she's making are going to live in my head forever—little gasps and moans and my name, over and over.
"Tucker. Tucker. Oh God, Tucker—"
She comes, her whole body shaking, clenching around me and I didn’t even touch her. It’s so fucking hot that I follow seconds later, burying myself deep and spilling inside her, my vision going white at the edges.
I slump forward, careful not to crush her, my forehead resting against her back. Her skin is hot, slick with sweat. Her breathing is ragged.
I should move. Should give her space. Should say something.
But all I can think is: How am I ever going to stop wanting this?
I press a kiss to her spine, right between her shoulder blades. She shivers.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"Yeah." Her voice is soft, sated. "More than okay."
I ease out of her carefully and help her roll onto her side. She curls up immediately, one hand on her belly, her eyes heavy-lidded.
I lie down beside her, not touching but close. Close enough that I can see the freckles on her shoulder, the way her curls are tangled and wild, the satisfied smile playing at her lips.
"That was—" she starts.
"Yeah." I look at the rounded globe of her stomach, knowing half of my heart is inside there. I can’t resist the urge to touch, so I rest my hand there gently. “Is this okay?”
She purrs and nods, so I rub and hold her. And I feel … like everything in my life has been pointing to this. All my fucking around, partying, letting myself be the irresponsible Stag child…all of it has led to this perfect moment with this woman and these babies I can’t wait to meet.
Sloane pushes up on one arm and meets my gaze. “We should probably talk about—"
"Later," I say. "Just... let me look at you for a minute."
Something passes between us. Something bigger than sex, bigger than co-parenting, bigger than any of the boundaries we've tried to maintain.
But I don't say it. Don't push.
I just lie there beside her, watching her drift toward sleep, knowing that everything just changed and there's no going back.
And wondering how the hell I'm supposed to protect my heart when it's already hers.