"He started—" Grentley begins.
"I don't care who started it." Coach's voice is deadly calm now. "Get out of my building. Both of you. Go home. Come backwhen you're ready to act like professionals instead of fucking children."
"Coach—" I start.
"Out. Now." He points toward the door. "Before I suspend you both."
Grentley shoves past me, shoulder-checking me hard as he goes. Every instinct screams to retaliate, but I force myself to stay still.
Coach watches him leave, then turns to me. "I expected better from you, T-Stag."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix this. Your family name means something in this organization. Live up to it." He shakes his head.
I grab my jacket and leave, Odin following me into the hallway.
"That was bad," he says quietly once we're out of earshot.
“You think?” I flick my brother in the nipple, and he smacks my shoulder.
"Tuck, you can't let him bait you like that. He's looking for a reason to make you the villain."
"I'm aware." I run a hand through my hair. "I just—fuck. He makes it so easy."
"I know. But you're better than that." Odin squeezes my shoulder. "Go home. See Sloane. Remember what you're fighting for."
Home. Except Sloane specifically asked me not to be there while she was moving in. Said she needed to set up her space on her own, establish her territory before I was around.
So instead, I find myself driving to BabyLand—where apparently, I can get everything from cribs to car seats to snot suckers.
The automatic doors whoosh open, and I'm immediately overwhelmed. Rows and rows of tiny clothes, furniture, gear. A woman pushing a stroller passes by, twins asleep inside, and something in my chest clenches.
That's going to be me. In a few months, that's going to be my life.
"Can I help you find something?" A cheerful employee appears at my elbow, name tag reading "Sandra." She’s a petitewhite woman who looks like she could be everybody’s grandma.
"I need—" I look around. "Everything. I'm having twins."
Sandra's face lights up. "Congratulations! First time, Dad?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, let's start with the basics." She grabs a cart, not seeming to recognize me, which is a small mercy I will gladly accept right now. "Cribs, stroller, car seats, changing table..."
For the next hour, Sandra guides me through the store while I say yes to almost everything. Bamboo crib sheets because they're supposed to be hypoallergenic. An obscenely expensive European double stroller because it has the highest safety ratings. Uncle Tim will be so proud.
"You're going to want multiple changing pads," Sandra says, loading another item into the growing pile. "Trust me, with twins, you'll be grateful for backups."
"Add it."
By the time I'm done, my cart looks like I'm preparing for the apocalypse.
"Your partner is lucky," Sandra says as she processes the payment. "Not every dad gets this involved before the babies arrive."
"I'm trying," I say.
"That's all anyone can do."
