I wanted to be independent. Strong. Someone who doesn't need rescuing.
But lying here, hooked up to machines, my babies in danger because my body is failing them—I've never felt less independent in my life.
I put my hand on my belly, feeling the twins move. Strong, healthy movements that make me cry all over again.
"It's going to be okay," I whisper to them. "I'm going to figure this out. We're going to be okay."
But I don't believe it.
Because this—lying alone in a hospital bed, pushing away the person I love because I'm too scared to need him—this doesn't feel like okay.
This feels like I'm dying.
And I have no idea how to stop it.
Outside my door, I hear nurses talking, monitors beeping in other rooms, the sound of life continuing while mine falls apart.
The babies kick. I close my eyes and try to remember who Sloane Campbell is supposed to be.
But all I can think about is Tucker. His smile. His hands on my belly. The way he says my name, cooks me food, and bursts into my room to tell me something he learned.
Then I remember that happy guy? He’s gone more than he’s around, and I cannot let myself rely on his support.
This is what independence looks like, I think. This is what I wanted.
So why does it feel like I'm losing everything that matters?
CHAPTER 32
TUCKER
I'm benched.
Not because I'm injured. Not because Coach is rotating lines. Because I'm playing like shit and everyone knows it.
“T-Stag, you're out," Coach Thompson barks during the second period. "Sit and think about whether you actually want to be here."
I skate to the bench without arguing. What am I supposed to say? I do want to be here, but my brain won't stop replaying Sloane's face the last time I saw her. The way she turned away from me, shut me out, made it clear she doesn't want me around.
The game continues without me. We're losing to Boston 3-1. My fault, mostly. I missed an assignment in the first period that led to a goal. Took a stupid penalty in the second that gave them a power play.
I'm a liability. Coach is right.
Around me, the bench is tense. Mayhem keeps shooting me concerned looks. Alder won't even make eye contact—he's too disappointed.
My phone is in my locker, but I can feel its absence like a phantom limb. Has Sloane texted? Called? Probably not. She's barely responded to anything I've sent in days.
I watch the clock tick down. Each second feels like proof that I'm failing at everything.
The buzzer sounds. End of the second period. We file into thelocker room, and I head straight for my stall, sinking onto the bench.
My phone sits in my bag. I pull it out.
No messages from Sloane.
Three missed calls from a number I don't recognize.
Before I can check voicemail, my phone rings. The same unknown number.
