I hit send on each message, watching them deliver into the void.
"Talking to yourself?" Howie appears at my elbow, drink in hand. "That's a bad sign, man."
"Just checking scores," I lie, pocketing my phone.
"In the summer? What scores?"
"Baseball," I recall that Sloane’s grandma liked the Detroit Tigers.
He squints at me suspiciously. "Since when do you care about baseball?"
"Since now. Leave me alone."
Howie laughs and wanders off to harass Spinner, and I stay back, trying to focus on being present for Gunnar's big day.
Two weeks crawl by like I’m moving through mud. I start going to the Fury facility daily, using the gym, skating on my own, anything to burn off the restless energy that's been eating me alive since Gunnar's wedding.
I've sent Sloane countless text messages. Drafted a thousand more.
I considered showing up at the café where I'd seen her, but that felt too much like stalking.
Why can’t I stop obsessing over a woman I cannot pursue?
Since when do I fucking pursue a woman at all?
I'm in the middle of a punishing workout—my fifth this week, and it's only Wednesday—when my phone buzzes with a text from my uncle Tim.
Need you to stop by the office this afternoon. Contract stuff.
I grin despite my mood. Uncle Tim has been handling legal negotiations for various Stag family members since before I was born. He's brilliant, rigid, and one of my favorite people.
And this will definitely be something to do that takes my mind off the woman who might drive me to destroy my own career.
CHAPTER 11
TUCKER
Stag Law occupiesthe top three floors of a gleaming building in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s got kick-ass views of Point State Park and, in the winter, the ice rink and giant tree. We have spent a lot of time here as a family over the years.
Parking sucks in the garage, so I pull up near the elevator and leave the blinkers on. I’ll just be in there a few minutes, and Uncle Tim gets pissy if I’m late.
I take the elevator to the twenty-third floor, where Uncle Tim's assistant, Donna, has reigned for longer than I’ve been alive. She still treats all of us nephews like we’re still toddlers in diapers.
"Tucker Stag," she says, looking me over with approval. "You seem to have documents with you. I'm impressed."
"Don't get used to it." I wave a folder around. “I’ll probably forget this here when I leave.”
She smiles and nods toward Tim’s office. “He's expecting you. Go on in."
Uncle Tim's office is a strange blend of sterile minimalism and family photos. He's on the phone when I enter, but he waves me toward a chair.
"No, that's not acceptable," he's saying into his headset, typing rapidly on his computer. "My client isn't interested in incentive-based compensation at those rates. We need guarantees." A pause. "Then we'll take our business elsewhere. Get backto me with a real offer." He ends the call and focuses on me. "Tucker. Thanks for coming in."
"What's this about? The endorsement deals? Because if Thin Ice wants me to do another photoshoot, I'm going to need hazard pay?—"
"Not the condoms." He slides a folder across his desk. "Your contract extension. The Fury's ready to talk terms for next season, and I want to make sure we're on the same page before negotiations start. Brian has already seen these.”
I nod, figuring my agent and my uncle probably spent hours together hashing out details. I flip open the folder, scanning the preliminary numbers. They're offering a two-year extension with a modest raise—not star money, but solid enforcer rates.
