At some point, I drift off in his arms, more comfortable than I should be after fucking my ex-husband’s co-worker.
I wake to the sound of his even breathing, the room now completely dark except for the faint moonlight filtering through a small window. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM.Carefully, I extricate myself from his embrace, gathering my discarded bikini pieces.
He stirs slightly, mumbling something in his sleep before settling again. I watch him for a moment, memorizing the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the tousled blond hair. This beautiful stranger, who, for a few hours, made me forget everything else. I probably shouldn’t have sought this out with this specific man, who knows my ex. But boy, did Tucker Stag deliver what I was looking for.
I dress silently, resisting the urge to leave a note or wake him for a proper goodbye. Better this way—clean, simple. A perfect memory unmarred by reality.
At the door, I pause for one last look. "Thank you," I whisper, though I know he can't hear me.
Then I slip out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind me.
As I tiptoe up the stairs, I can't help comparing tonight to what sex had been like with Josh. My ex-husband approached sex like everything else in his life—with discipline and restraint. It was satisfying in a basic way, but never passionate, never spontaneous.
Never like tonight.
Tucker had been attentive, playful, intensely focused on my pleasure. He'd asked what I wanted and then delivered with enthusiasm. The freedom to express my desires, to be as loud or quiet as I wanted, to change positions on a whim—it was intoxicating.
I creep back into the room I'm sharing with Mel and quickly shower before sliding beneath the covers of the giant bed. My body aches pleasantly, bearing the memory of Tucker's touch. Tomorrow, I'll return to Pittsburgh, to my uncertain future, to the process of rebuilding. But tonight, for a few precious hours, I'd been just Sloane—desired, fulfilled, and completely free.
As sleep reclaims me, I wonder briefly what might have happened if we'd met at a different time, in different circumstances. Then I push the thought away.
CHAPTER 4
TUCKER
I waketo sunlight streaming through the small basement window, my arm stretched across empty sheets. For a moment, I'm disoriented—where the hell am I? Then it all rushes back: the law school party, the pool, and Sloane.
Grentley’s ex.
I bolt upright, scanning the bunk room. Her bikini isn't on the floor where I'd tossed it last night. The space beside me is cool to the touch. She's been gone for a while.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, checking for any messages or missed calls. Nothing but social media notifications—mostly my teammates, Howie, Spinner, and Mayhem, posting stories from Monaco. Pristine turquoise water, women in tiny bikinis, bottles of champagne. I should be there with them instead of waking up alone in my cousin's basement.
But then I wouldn't have met Sloane.
Or boned my goalie’s ex-wife. Am I that much of a fuckup?
Something catches my eye as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. A glint of gold between the wooden bunk frame and the mattress. I reach down and fish out a delicate gold necklace with a small sun pendant—the one Sloane was wearing last night. Myfingers close around it, the metal still warm somehow, like it holds her essence.
For a brief instant, I’m elated that I’ll get to see her again to return it. Then I realize that I will have to see my teammate’s ex-wife again, knowing what she looks like with me splattered all over her skin, and somehow act professional. Im-fucking-possible. The Fury defense is already held together with non-stick athletic tape. I can’t imagine how the team would react if they knew I was intentionally acting on these caveman urges.
I shower quickly and head upstairs, hoping against reason that she might still be around. The kitchen is alive with activity, law students in various stages of breakfast preparation. They all look annoyingly alert and put-together, having apparently spent the evening studying for the bar exam rather than partying.
Stellan stands at the stove, expertly flipping pancakes in our massive cast-iron skillet. He raises an eyebrow when he spots me.
"The dead do rise,” he says, sliding a hot pancake onto a plate. “There’s still coffee.”
I grunt in response, making a beeline for the pot. As I pour, I survey the room, looking for honey-colored curls and green eyes. Nothing.
"Looking for someone?" Stellan asks, too perceptive for his own good.
I shrug, aiming for casual disinterest. "Just seeing who's around."
"Uh-huh." He turns back to his pancakes. “Most people headed back to the city already.”
I take my coffee to the counter, adding enough sugar to make my dentist weep. But I don’t want to think about my teeth right now. "So, who was that woman? The one with the curly hair? In the pool?"
