CHAPTER 19
TUCKER
Hockey is brutal today.
I almost wish I were fighting instead. Give me a huge, angry guy from Montreal with his fist in my teeth instead of this feeling of dragging my legs through sand.
Coach has us running defensive scenarios—breakouts, gap control, transition defense—and I'm going through the motions like a robot.
“T-Stag! What the hell was that?" Coach Thompson's voice booms across the ice. "You're supposed to be closing the gap, not giving them a highway to the net!"
I skate back to position, jaw clenched. Beside me, Alder shoots me a concerned look but doesn't say anything. He's been shooting me those looks all week.
It’s been a week since Sloane ran out of my apartment, and I’ve been staring at my phone like an idiot ever since. And it’s affecting my work.
"Again!" Coach blows his whistle. "And T-Stag, I need you present. Not whatever the hell that was."
We run the drill again. And again. And again. Mayhem glowers at me while Howie pukes in a trash can. By the time Coach finally blows the whistle for the end of practice, my legs are screaming and my lungs are burning, but my mind won't shut off.
The locker room is loud with the usual post-practice banter.Guys peeling off gear, talking about plans for the evening, the normalcy of it all feels alien.
"You coming to Howie's tonight?" Spinner asks, tossing his gloves into his bag. "He's got that new grill he won't shut up about."
"Pass," I mutter, unlacing my skates.
"Come on, man. You've been weird."
"I'm fine. Just exhausted.”
Across the room, Alder is packing up his gear, moving with deliberate slowness. Watching me. Always watching me. Gunnar is nearby, whispering on his phone—probably to his wife.
"I'm heading out," Gunnar says, pocketing his phone. "Em made dinner."
"Of course she did," Alder teases. “That’s what they’re calling it these days?”
"Don't be jealous." Gunnar grins. "You'll get there eventually."
Alder's ears redden slightly, and I know he's thinking about Lena. My twin and the team dentist finally came out as a couple during a huge press conference. I was too mired in my own shit to be there for him.
"Yeah, yeah." Alder shoulders his bag. "I'm heading to the dental office to help Lena with some paperwork."
"Paperwork. Right." Gunnar winks. "See you guys tomorrow."
I fiddle with my skate laces and shoulder pads while they file out with the rest of the team, until suddenly I'm alone in the locker room. The silence is deafening after all the noise, both inside and outside my head.
I should leave. Should go home. Should do literally anything productive.
Instead, I just sit there on the bench, staring at my phone. At the last message I sent Sloane three days ago—ignored.
"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room. Panic builds in my chest. I feel like I’m about to explode. I sense something in my bones howling.
I think about calling my dad for advice, but for some reason, I head for the showers, still in my base layers. The water is scalding, but I don't adjust it. I just stand there, letting it poundagainst my shoulders, my back, soaking through the fabric, clinging to my skin.
I press my forehead against the tile wall, water streaming down my face, and finally let go. The tears come hot and fast, mixing with the shower spray. My shoulders shake with the effort of staying quiet, but it's useless. A sob escapes, then another.
I'm losing her. I'm losing them. And I don't know how to fix it.
"I'm so fucked," I choke out. "I fucked everything up."
