I help Grentley up. He's favoring his left side, face twisted in pain.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Peachy." He skates off toward the bench, and I follow.
Coach is waiting. "My office. After the game."
The rest of the period is a blur. Grentley is meaner than usual. We lose 3-1. And I know I'm fucked.
Coach's office is small and cold. He sits behind his desk, arms crossed, looking at me like I farted on his pillow.
"You want to tell me what happened out there?"
"I was slow to react."
"Slow?" His voice rises. "You were asleep! Morrison went after Grentley, and you just stood there!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't cut it, T-Stag. Your job is to protect your teammates. That's the whole reason you're on this team." He leans forward. "So either you start doing your job, or we find someone who will."
"It won't happen again."
"It better not. Because I'm this close—" He holds up two fingers an inch apart. "—to benching you permanently."
I swallow my pride, my excuses, and nod at Coach, who waves me out of his office.
He's right. I am somewhere else entirely. I'm with Sloane, who won't let me in. I'm in that empty seat in the stands. I'm lost in all the ways I'm failing—at hockey, at being there for her, at everything.
And tomorrow I leave for a six-day road trip—the longest of the season. Columbus, Detroit, Boston, New York. Six days away from Sloane when she’s pregnant with fucking Stag babies and trying to go to school full-time.
Six days when everything could fall apart.
I want to go to her now. Want to drive home and demand she talk to me, tell me what's wrong, let me help. But she’s pregnant, and fragile, and stressed about school. I need to handle this shit and go to her with a solution once I find it. That’s my only route to protecting my family right now.
Back in the locker room, I peel off my gear slowly, every movement feeling heavy. Around me, the room is quiet. Most guys have already left. It's just me and the equipment manager, and the sound of my own breathing.
CHAPTER 31
SLOANE
Tucker leftfor the road trip this morning.
Six days. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Columbus. Six days of games and hotels and team dinners while I'm here, alone in his apartment, trying to pretend everything is fine.
It's not fine.
I've been having back pain since yesterday. Not contractions—I know what those are supposed to feel like from all the books Tucker keeps leaving around the apartment. Just pressure. Tightness. A low ache in my spine that won't go away.
It's probably nothing. Braxton Hicks, maybe. Or just my body adjusting to carrying two babies who seem determined to take up every available inch of space.
I tell myself this as I sit at the kitchen table, laptop open, trying to focus on my epidemiology reading. Professor Newman wants a draft of my project proposal by next week, and I haven't written a single word.
The cramping gets worse. I shift in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position.
There isn't one.
My phone buzzes. I know without looking that it’s a message from Tucker.
