My heart pounds as I do the math again. The party hookup was mid-June. It's now mid-July.
You're being paranoid, I tell myself.Stress can delay periods. You've barely been eating. You're sleeping terribly. Of course your body is off.
But the nausea. The sensitivity to smells. The exhaustion that won't quit, no matter how much I sleep…
I should take a test. Just to rule it out. Just to stop this spiraling panic.
But if I take a test and it's positive...
I can't think about that. Can't let myself go there.
Instead, I close my textbook and my laptop, admitting defeat for the night. I'll go to office hours on Friday. I'll ace the exam on Monday. I'll figure out the apartment situation when Mel moves out.
And I'll take a pregnancy test tomorrow, just to confirm that stress is stress and nothing more.
Because the alternative—being pregnant with Tucker Stag's baby after telling him to leave me alone, after blocking his number, after making it abundantly clear that I want nothing to do with him or his hockey world—is too complicated to even contemplate.
I curl up on my bed, my grandmother's necklace warm against my throat, and try not to think about Tucker's hands fastening the clasp, his voice telling me how beautiful I am.
I close my eyes and try to manifest sleep…maybe until after the exam on Monday…maybe until I figure out what to do next. Above all, I pray I have food poisoning instead of a very serious complication involving Tucker Stag.
CHAPTER 13
TUCKER
The puck hitsthe boards with a crack that echoes through the empty Fury facility. I chase it down, my legs burning, lungs screaming for air. I've been skating for two hours straight—sprints, drills, shooting practice—anything to burn off the self-loathing that's been eating me alive since yesterday.
I wind up for another slap shot, channeling every ounce of frustration into the movement. The puck sails wide, missing the net entirely, and clanging off the glass.
"Fuck!" I slam my stick against the ice.
"Easy there, Stag." Mayhem's voice carries across the rink. "That's your third stick this week."
I turn to find him leaning against the boards with Howie and Spinner, all three in workout gear. They must have come in for an optional session.
"What are you guys doing here?" I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation.
"Could ask you the same thing," Howie says, skating onto the ice. "It's July. Training camp doesn't start for another month."
"Just getting some work in."
"Looks more like you're punishing yourself," Spinner observes, gliding past me to retrieve the puck I missed. "What's got you so twisted up?"
I don't answer, lining up another shot. This one finds the net, but there's no satisfaction in it.
“Speaking of twisted up.” Mayhem pulls out his phone. “You guys see what resurfaced on Insta?”
Howie and Spinner crowd around him, and I watch their expressions shift from curious to amused to outright gleeful.
"No way," Spinner cackles. "Is that from the Monaco trip?"
"Nah, man, this is older. Look at Tuck's hair—that's at least two years ago."
My stomach drops. "What are you talking about?"
Mayhem skates over, holding out his phone. "Someone dug up your greatest hits, bro. It's making the rounds on socials.”
I take the phone, and my own face stares back at me from the screen. It's a carousel of photos—me at various clubs and parties over the past few years. In one, I'm surrounded by women in barely-there dresses, a bottle of champagne in my hand, and a cocky grin on my face. In another, I'm doing shots off someone's stomach. A third shows me stumbling out of a bar with a different woman under each arm.
