Chapter 30
TUCKER
Sloane hasn't let me touch her in eight days.
She pulls away when I reach for her, doesn’t smile when I make jokes about dicking her down. Instead of eager smiles, I get closed doors and shouted “I’m tired” responses.
I feel like I’m losing something, but not understanding what.
I thought maybe she just needed space after the family shower. My family can be a lot—I get that. But it's been over a week and she's still distant, still locked behind walls I can't break through.
"You going to bed?" I ask, standing in her doorway. She's at the desk, laptop open, surrounded by textbooks.
"I have a lot of reading to do."
"It's almost midnight."
"I know what time it is." Her voice is sharp, then softens. "Sorry. I'm just stressed about this project."
I lean against the doorframe, studying her. She's wearing one of my old t-shirts, her hair in a wrap, her shoulders tight with tension. "Sloane, talk to me. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"You've barely spoken to me in over a week. You won't—" I stop myself. "You won't let me near you."
She closes her laptop, turns to face me. Her eyes are tired, with shadows underneath. "I'm just overwhelmed right now. School, the pregnancy, everything. I need space."
Space. She needs space. From me.
"Okay," I say, even though nothing about this feels okay. "I'm here if you need anything." It feels so inadequate, but what else can I say?
"I know."
I retreat to my room and lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Down the hall, I can hear her moving around. The bathroom door closing. Water running.
I want to go to her. Want to hold her, make her tell me what's wrong. Rub her shoulders at least. But she asked for space, and I'm trying to respect that.
Even though it's killing me.
Morning practice is brutal.
“T Stag! Where's your head?" Coach Thompson yells as I miss an easy pass. "You're playing like you're asleep!"
"Sorry, Coach."
"Sorry doesn't win games." He blows his whistle. "Line drills. Everyone. Again."
I catch Alder's eye. He gives me a concerned look but doesn't say anything, just licks at the gap in his upper teeth. We run the drills until my legs are screaming, until I'm too tired to think about Sloane pulling away from me.
After practice, I'm headed to the showers when Brian catches me in the hallway.
“T-Stag. Got a minute?"
"Sure."
We step into an empty office. Brian looks serious, which is never a good sign.
"The parental leave advocacy," he says. "It's getting pushback." I texted him about this weeks ago at my father’s advice. I should have been following through on this … been a thorn in their side.
"What kind of pushback?"
"Management's concerned about your commitment. There's talk that you're becoming a distraction."
My stomach drops. “Seriously? Mayhem just wrecked a motorcycle. I’m just trying to be a good dad…”
"Your play's been off lately. Everyone's noticed." Brian leans against the desk. "And with all this talk about wanting time off—some people are questioning if you still have the edge."
"I'm still doing my job."
"Are you?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because from what I've seen in the last few games, you are distracted. Slow. Not protecting your teammates the way you used to."
"That's not—"
"Tucker." His voice is gentle but firm. "I'm on your side. But you need to figure out what's going on. Because if your play doesn't improve, management's going to start asking harder questions."
He pats me on the arm with a folder. “I gotta go snag one of your brothers before he leaves me high and dry over a dog food endorsement.”
Brian breezes down the hall like we were just casually chatting about the weather.
Meanwhile, I feel like I got hit with a monsoon.
My play is suffering. I know it is. But it's not because I'm soft or distracted by family.
It's because Sloane won't talk to me, and I don't know how to fix it.
One thing I do know: Sloane has enough on her plate, and worrying about my job isn't going to relieve any of the stress she’s feeling.
I have to keep this shit on lock until I find a solution.
On Thursday, I have to leave for a short road trip—just two days, games in Columbus and Detroit. Sloane has a doctor's appointment while I'm gone.
"Text me after?" I ask before I leave. "Let me know how it goes?"
"Sure."
"And if you need anything, my parents are around. My mom said she'd be happy to—"
"I'll be fine, Tucker. Go and win, okay?"
I kiss her forehead. She lets me, but doesn't lean into it. Doesn't kiss me back. Definitely not the time for me to tell her I don’t even know if I’ll get play time on this trip.
I need to make progress with the parental leave policy pronto.
What’s the point of being related to your lawyer if he can’t even rattle the bars with the big guys?
It occurs to me that my cousin Pete is working at Stag Law now that he’s back in town.
He can help me figure out what’s up with my negotiations.
I call him on the team bus, hoping no one can hear my conversation over their Showgirl sing-along.
“Tuck? Where the hell are you?” Pete sounds like I just interrupted him while he was working out.
“Hey, man. This is a genuine work question.”
He sighs, and I hear a door close. Wonder where he actually is. But that’s a personal question, and I’m calling him as a client right now. “What’s up?”
“I need you to go full Stag on the players’ association about my contract amendment. They’re being dicks about giving me leave.”
“Hm.” The line crackles, like Pete’s scratching beard stubble. Which shocks me because my straight-laced cousin is as fastidious as his father when it comes to grooming. “That project isn’t on my docket.”
“Well, can you put it on there? I want family handling this, Pete. Honestly, I thought your dad was on it.”
Another growling sound, more scratching. Pete finally says, “Dad’s dealing with a crisis from a player injury. But … yes. I’ve added this to my workload.” My cousin guffaws. “Oh, man, they’re setting themselves up to be sued. Do they even see how gendered this is? It’s discrimination.”
“That’s what I thought!” Pete says something about precedent with the women’s national team and calling up Ortega, so I know he and Mel are going to actually get on this.
By the time I get him off the phone, I’m feeling a lot more confident that I’ll actually get to see these babies while they’re babies, without putting an end to my hockey career.
The road trip is terrible, though. I’m still not playing my best. I play badly in Columbus, take a stupid penalty that costs us the game. In Detroit, I'm benched for the third period after missing an assignment.
Coach pulls me aside after. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You’re playing like shit.” He crosses his arms. "Is this about the baby mama drama? Because I need you focused, Stag. I can't have you playing like this."
"I'll figure it out."
"You’d better. Because right now, you're a liability."
On the bus back to the hotel, Sloane texts.
Appointment went fine. Babies are good.
That's it. No details. No "wish you were there" or "miss you."
That's great! What did Dr. Patel say? Any updates?
Sloane
Just the usual stuff.
I stare at my phone, that uneasy feeling growing stronger.
I might be keeping my worries from Sloane, but she’s clearly holding something back from me, too.
Friday night, we're back in Pittsburgh for a home game against Philadelphia, and my entire family is there. I can see them in the stands during warm-ups—Mom, Dad, all my brothers, uncles, cousins. A whole Stag section, loud and proud.
But Sloane's not there.
I knew she wouldn't come. She's been avoiding anything that feels too couple-y, too public. But seeing that empty seat hits harder than I expected.
"You good?" Alder skates up beside me.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Liar." He knocks his stick against mine. "She'll come around. Just give her time."
But what if time isn't what she needs? What if she's pulling away because she's decided this isn't what she wants?
The game starts, and I try to focus. Try to be present, to do my job.
But I keep looking up at the stands. At my whole family cheering, and that one empty seat.
Halfway through the second period, Philadelphia's enforcer—a huge guy named Morrison—goes after Grentley behind the net. It's a dirty hit, late and high. Grentley goes down hard.
I should move. Should drop my gloves, should protect my teammate.
But I'm watching my family in the stands. Watching my dad jump to his feet, watching my mom cover her mouth. And I'm thinking about Sloane at home, alone, pulling further away from me every day.
I'm too slow.
By the time I react, Morrison has already gotten in two more hits. By the time I reach them, the damage is done.
The refs blow the whistle. Grentley is on the ice, holding his shoulder. The trainer is rushing out.
And Coach Thompson is screaming at me from the bench.
"STAG! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"
I help Grentley up. He's favoring his left side, face twisted in pain.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Peachy." He skates off toward the bench, and I follow.
Coach is waiting. "My office. After the game."
The rest of the period is a blur. Grentley is meaner than usual. We lose 3-1. And I know I'm fucked.
Coach's office is small and cold. He sits behind his desk, arms crossed, looking at me like I farted on his pillow.
"You want to tell me what happened out there?"
"I was slow to react."
"Slow?" His voice rises. "You were asleep! Morrison went after Grentley, and you just stood there!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't cut it, T-Stag. Your job is to protect your teammates. That's the whole reason you're on this team." He leans forward. "So either you start doing your job, or we find someone who will."
"It won't happen again."
"It better not. Because I'm this close—" He holds up two fingers an inch apart. "—to benching you permanently."
I swallow my pride, my excuses, and nod at Coach, who waves me out of his office.
He's right. I am somewhere else entirely. I'm with Sloane, who won't let me in. I'm in that empty seat in the stands. I'm lost in all the ways I'm failing—at hockey, at being there for her, at everything.
And tomorrow I leave for a six-day road trip—the longest of the season. Columbus, Detroit, Boston, New York. Six days away from Sloane when she’s pregnant with fucking Stag babies and trying to go to school full-time.
Six days when everything could fall apart.
I want to go to her now. Want to drive home and demand she talk to me, tell me what's wrong, let me help. But she’s pregnant, and fragile, and stressed about school. I need to handle this shit and go to her with a solution once I find it. That’s my only route to protecting my family right now.
Back in the locker room, I peel off my gear slowly, every movement feeling heavy. Around me, the room is quiet. Most guys have already left. It's just me and the equipment manager, and the sound of my own breathing.