Pittsburgh wins 4-2. Tucker’s aggression was a big part of that victory. The announcers call him "a force out there tonight" and "exactly what this team needs."
I turn off the TV and sit in the quiet apartment, processing.
Tucker protects people. That's his role. And it's violent and dangerous and I watched him get punched in the face on national television.
But he was also protecting Alder. Making sure his teammate could play without fear.
It's complicated. He's complicated.
I try to go about my bedtime routine, rubbing lotion into my skin, trying not to remember what it felt like when Tucker’s hands slid along my legs in much the same way.
I'm still thinking about it when I hear the elevator at almost midnight. I'm in the bathroom, wrapping my hair for bed—the silk scarf carefully positioned to protect my curls overnight.
I freeze. Tucker hasn't seen me like this yet. Other white guys I've dated haven't understood the ritual, the care required, and I brace myself to explain.
But I hear Tucker moving around the kitchen and I need to see if he's okay after that fight.
I step out of the bathroom, scarf tied securely, wearing one of his old t-shirts left behind in the dresser in what’s now my bedroom.
Tucker's at the sink, drinking water straight from the tap. He's still in his suit from the flight—tie loosened, jacket discarded somewhere. When he straightens and turns, I see the bruise on his face.
His beautiful face now blooms purple, blue eye swollen.
"Tucker—"
"Hey." His voice is rough, tired. His eyes track from my head wrap to my shirt, and something in his expression softens. "I wake you?"
"No. I was up." I move closer, instinct overriding self-consciousness. "Your face."
"It's fine. Just a bruise." He sets down the glass. "Fighting is part of the job."
I reach up without thinking, my fingers hovering near the bruise but not quite touching. "Does it hurt?"
"Not really. I've had worse." He's studying my face like he's looking for something. "You okay? You look upset.”
"I am worried. I watched you get punched."
"It's part of the job."
"I know. But—" I drop my hand. "It's different seeing it. Understanding what you do out there."
Tucker's quiet for a moment. Then: "You want me to stop? Fighting?"
"I don't know." It's the honest answer. "I don't know what I want."
We stand there in the dim kitchen, both of us showing parts of ourselves we usually keep hidden.
"Your hair…" Tucker says quietly. "I was reading about bonnets and silk pillowcases."
"Yeah.” I smile. “I saw you were doing some studying.”
“Purple is a good color on you." His voice is firm. “I want you to feel comfortable here.”
Something in my chest loosens. "I am. Comfortable, I mean."
"Good." He adjusts his stance, and we're suddenly very close. Close enough that I can smell him—ointment and soap and something underneath that's just Tucker.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine drops to his split lip.
