"Not a request." Coach's tone leaves no room for argument. "Management wants to see progress on team cohesion. You two sitting together for three hours is a good start."
"This is bullshit," Grentley mutters, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Watch it, Grentley." Coach doesn't even look up from his tablet. "Stag, you have a problem with this?"
I think about Sloane back at the apartment, probably curled up on the couch with her statistics textbook. About the babies growing inside her. About not making this situation worse than it already is. They are what matters. The rest of this is nothing.
"No problem, Coach."
"Good. Spruce up, gentlemen. Straight ties and zippered flies.”
He walks out, leaving me and Grentley staring at each other across the locker room. The silence is oppressive until Mayhem breaks it with a low whistle.
"Damn, T-Stag. Three hours next to your baby mama's ex? That's cold."
"Shut up, Mayhem," Alder says from beside me.
"I'm just saying." Mayhem grins. "Better you than me, man. I'd rather sit next to Spinner's smelly feet."
"My feet don't smell," Spinner protests.
"They absolutely do," several guys chorus.
The tension breaks slightly as everyone returns to packing their gear and checking out their suits. But I can feel Grentley's eyes on me, and when I glance his way, his expression is pure hostility.
This is going to be a long flight.
The bus ride to the airport is mercifully short. I sit with Alder, both of us quiet. My twin knows me well enough not to push conversation when I'm in my head.
But as we board the plane, there's no avoiding it. Grentley is already in our assigned row—window side—arms crossed, jaw tight.
I stow my bag in the overhead compartment and slide into the aisle seat. The armrest between us might as well be the Fort Pitt Bridge.
For the first twenty minutes, neither of us speaks. I pull out my phone and check messages. Nothing from Sloane yet, but it's still early.
"So," Grentley says finally, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "How's domestic life treating you?"
I don't take the bait. "Fine."
"Must be nice. Playing house with my wife."
"She's not your wife anymore." I keep my voice even. "And we're not playing anything."
"Right. You just knocked her up and moved her into your place. That's totally different."
"It is different." I turn to look at him. "Because I'm not lying to her. I'm not making decisions for her. And I'm sure as hell not going to?—"
"What? Say it." His eyes flash. "You're not going to what? Fuck up like I did?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He turns back to the window. "Everyone thinks it. Poor Sloane, married to that mopey asshole. Thank God Tucker Stag swooped in to save her."
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it?" He looks at me again. "You saw an opportunity and you took it. Got her drunk at a party, got her pregnant, now you're the hero."
"She wasn't drunk." My hands clench into fists. "And I didn't plan any of this."
