The irony isn't lost on me. "Two nights ago, actually."
"Wait." Rookie's eyes widen. "Is that her? The one who just curved you?"
I take a long swallow of beer instead of answering, which is answer enough.
"Oh man," Howie cackles. "This is too good. The enforcer lost his rizz.”
"She didn'tcurveme," I insist, worrying this is low behavior, even for me. "She probably just didn't recognize me from that distance."
"Sure, buddy." Rookie pats my shoulder condescendingly. "That's definitely it."
"You know what you need to do," Spinner says, already mixing another round of drinks at the boat's small bar. "Next time, you need to really make an impression. Show up at her place with a boombox over your head. Women love that John Cusack shit."
"Yeah, because stalking is super attractive," Mayhem interjects, giving me a look that says he sees more than I'm letting on. "Maybe just let it go, man."
"Agreed," Howie adds, "you move on. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?"
I force a laugh and accept the drink Spinner hands me. "You guys are reading way too much into this. It was just a hookup."
But as the afternoon wears on and the drinks keep flowing, I find myself checking the riverside trail every time we pass it, hoping for another glimpse of her. By the time we dock at sunset, I'm significantly more drunk than I'd intended to be and no closer to forgetting Sloane.
Back at my apartment, I pull out my phone and navigate to my texts with Stellan before I can overthink it. I drop the damn thing a few times but eventually manage to tell Stelly what I need.
Needfavor. Your frind Mel. The one in the wheelchair. You sed you’d get roommate’s info.
The response comes nearly an hour later, by which time I'm sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, Sloane's necklace dangling from my fingers.
Stellan
Why? You planning to stalk her?
I scowl at the phone.
No. She lft something at the house. Trying to rtrn it.
Stellan
You're drunk. Go to sleep, Tucker.
I toss the phone aside, frustrated. The room spins slightly as I close my eyes, the necklace still clutched in my hand. The last thought I have before passing out is of Sloane, running away from me, always just out of reach.
The Fury team conference room is way too bright, loud, and definitely way too early the next morning. I slouch in my chair at the back, slurping my second coffee and wearing sunglasses indoors like the cliché I am. Coach Thompson stands at the front, going through his pre-season expectations with all the enthusiasm of a drill sergeant.
"Conditioning begins sooner than you think, gentlemen. I expect everyone to be at fighting weight by then." He glares around the room, his gaze lingering on me. "Some of you have further to go than others."
A few chuckles ripple through the room. I resist the urge to flip everyone off.
"This season is crucial," Thompson continues. "After last year's playoff disappointment, management expects results. We've made minimal roster changes, which means each of you needs to step up."
I tune out as he drones on about systems and strategy. My attention drifts to the other side of the room, where Josh Grentleysits alone, with a full empty chair on each side of him. He’s always been a loner, but there's something different about him now— a hardness to his features, a deliberate distance from everyone else. And I doubt it’s still lingering frustration over sharing a starting rotation with my brother, Gunnar.
"And T-Stag," Coach's voice snaps my attention back. "We're going to need your particular skills more than ever this season. The Eastern Division's getting nastier. Lot of teams targeting our skill players."
I straighten slightly, recognizing my cue. As the team's enforcer, my job is as much about deterrence as it is about actual fighting. Most games, my presence alone keeps opponents from taking liberties with our stars. When that fails, I make examples of people.
"I want you setting the tone early," Thompson continues. "Let them know there's a price to pay for touching our guys. But—" he raises a finger, "—I need you smart about it. No stupid penalties when we're up by one in the third. No getting ejected in the first period of playoff games. Controlled aggression. You understand?"
I nod, resisting the urge to remind him that I've been doing this job since I was fourteen. "Yes, Coach."
