“Do not contact me again." I'm crying now, hot, angry tears streaming down my face. "Don't call me. Don't text me. Whatever you need to work out with Tucker, work it out with him. But leave me out of it."
"Wait—"
I hang up, hands shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone. Around me, the university continues its late afternoon bustle—students heading to dinner, professors locking up offices. Everyday life, carrying on while mine implodes.
Part of me—the part that spent five years trying to make Josh happy—wants to apologize for hanging up. To smooth things over, to make it easier for him.
But the rest of me, the part that's carrying two babies and fighting for her future, knows better.
I block his number and shove my phone in my pocket.
Then I pull it back out and open my Uber app. I need to see Tucker. Need to know what happened, what Josh meant about the locker room. Need to see if we're about to face an even bigger disaster than I thought.
I might not want a relationship with Tucker Stag. I no longer get to have casual flings post-divorce. But I’m tied to him, and I want our children to see parents who talk to each other like adults.
The ride to Tucker's building takes 20 minutes through rush-hour traffic. Twenty minutes of my mind spiraling through worst-case scenarios that continue as the doorman waves me into the lobby. What if the team kicks Tucker out? What if this ruins his career? What if Josh makes good on his threat to make everything impossible?
What if I've ruined Tucker's life with my uber-fertile womb?
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I ride the elevator to Tucker's penthouse. The doors open directly into his apartment, and I step out, calling his name.
"Tucker?"
“Huh?” His voice comes out rough and tired.
I follow the sound to find him in the living room, and my heart clenches at the sight. He's sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt, hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes are red-rimmed, face pale. I see bruises on his cheek, and his knuckles look raw.
He looks destroyed.
Another man is gathering papers from the coffee table—tall, sharply dressed in a suit, looking distinctly unimpressed.
"Oh." I stop in the doorway. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you had company."
"Just leaving." The man straightens, giving Tucker a pointed look. "Brian Klein, Tucker’s agent. You must be Sloane."
"Yes. Hi."
Brian shakes my hand, his grip professional but his expression skeptical. "Well, T-Stag, looks like you've got your hands full. Remember what we discussed—shape up, lean into this family man thing. It's your only play right now."
"I know," Tucker says quietly.
"Do you?" Brian's tone sharpens. "Because you just torched avery lucrative endorsement deal and picked a fight with one of your teammates. The family angle is the only thing that might salvage your reputation."
"It's not an angle," Tucker says, his jaw tight.
"Then start acting like it." Brian nods to me. "Nice meeting you, Sloane. Do not go easy on him. He needs all the help he can get right now."
The older man leaves, the elevator doors closing behind him with a soft chime. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with everything we need to say and don't know how to start.
CHAPTER 21
SLOANE
"Josh called me,"I say finally, looking around this apartment that will become an important part of my life, no matter what I think of its occupant.
Tucker's swollen eyes drift closed. "What did he have to say?"
"A lot of things. Most of them angry." I move closer, sinking into the chair across from him. "He said you have the same decorator and that you were crying in the shower."
