Page 25 of Triplet Babies for Pucking Christmas

As he heads toward the door, I decide to ask the question I’ve been wondering about since I got here. “So, what do you do? Millie mentioned something about hockey.”

He pauses, turning back to me with a smirk. “I play professional hockey. Chicago Icebreakers. Jamie and I are both on the team.”

I freeze, my stomach doing a flip.Hockey. Of course. Just the mention of it brings back memories of my dad: the constant games, the pressure, his obsession with winning. I feel sick just thinking about it.

“You okay?” Troy asks, raising an eyebrow.

I force a smile, shaking my head. “Yeah, I just…I don’t really do sports.”

He chuckles, nodding. “Fair enough. We’ll talk more tonight. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in his massive, minimalist penthouse. I stand there for a moment, staring at the door, trying to process everything.

Troy’s a professional athlete. Jamie too. Great. The one thing I’ve been trying to avoid my whole life, and now I’m smack in the middle of it.

I take a deep breath, walking over to the windows that overlook the Chicago skyline. The view is incredible—endless buildings stretching out as far as I can see, with the lake in the distance. It’s beautiful, and it reminds me how lucky I am to even be here. Millie really came through for me.

But…fuck. Troy is so hot. Broad-shouldered and muscular, with messy dark brown hair and piercing green eyes. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s around, especially when he’s offering me three thousand a week to stay in his gorgeous penthouse and cook for him.

And then there’s Jamie—lean and athletic, with those tattoos down his arms and that cocky grin plastered on his face. How the hell did I end up here?

I laugh to myself, shaking my head. Jared’s cock must’ve messed with my head because there’s no other explanation for why two insanely hot guys are turning me into a complete puddle.

I glance around the penthouse again. It’s sparsely decorated, almost too neat. The furniture is modern, all clean lines and neutral colors. No clutter, no personal touches. It’s like a model home, not a place where someone actually lives.

The kitchen, where I’ll be spending most of my time, is spotless, with every appliance gleaming like it’s barely been used. Troy definitely wasn’t lying about not cooking.

I hope he likes me enough to want me to stay longer than a week. This place is incredible, and I wouldn’t mind having a stable situation for once. Millie was so nice to set this up, and I can’t help but feel like I owe her big time.

With nothing else to do, I head to the guest room to unpack.

The first time I walked in here, I thought he had messed up. It’s huge.

The room is just as neat as the rest of the penthouse—simple, with a big bed, a nightstand, and a sleek dresser. The bedding is crisp and white, and there’s a window that looks out over the city.

It’s not exactly cozy, but it’s perfect for a temporary stay. The closet is huge, bigger than anything I’ve ever had in New York, and as I start to unpack my clothes, I can’t help but feel a little relieved. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Once my clothes are put away, I sit on the edge of the bed, glancing around. It’s strange being here, in this new life, with everything I own crammed into a few suitcases. A week ago, Iwas a mess, my career ruined, my life in shambles. Now, I’m standing in this luxury penthouse, about to start over.

I just hope it works out.

I head downstairs, scrolling through my phone as I go. A bunch of texts from Layla pop up, but I ignore them for now. I love her, but she’s probably just hounding me about my disastrous life again, and I’m not in the mood.

Instead, I Google, “Troy Chicago Icebreakers”, curious to know more about the man who just dropped three grand on me for cooking.

The first thing that pops up is his player profile:Troy Adams. Right Wing for Chicago Icebreakers.There are all these articles about how private he is. He has all these endorsement deals that have added to his billionaire status. And he is only thirty-one years old.

Billionaire?Well, that explains the penthouse. I scroll through the rest of the search results, tapping on a few articles and highlight reels.

I don’t know much about hockey—scratch that, I knownothingabout hockey—but I’m intrigued by the way he moves on the ice. Fast, precise, and completely in control as his purple number 9 jersey flies in the wind.

I click on a highlight video and watch him glide across the rink, slamming into opponents, scoring goal after goal. Even though I have no idea what’s happening, it’s…captivating. My eyes stay glued to the screen, and before I know it, two hours have passed.

Shit.I quickly close the app, shaking my head. Focus, Savannah. I need to come up with a plan for the week. Something simple, healthy, and easy to prep.

I grab a notepad from the kitchen drawer and start scribbling down ideas: salads, grilled chicken, maybe some quinoa…

But then I hear something. A noise. What is that?

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