Page 21 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
That’s when I hear Sage’s voice, stretched thin, all the way down the hall, ricocheting off cinderblock and raw wood like a girl who grew up fighting in stairwells.
She’s not yelling.
She never yells.
But the edge is there: “No, I needed the dry ice kit fortoday, not tomorrow. If you can’t find the right address, call my cell. Yes, that’s my cell.”
I slow-walk, quietly, to the door markedAthletic Recovery—Portable.
Someone, probably Sage herself, added “portable” in Sharpie under the stenciled letters.
The room is barely bigger than my old college dorm, but she’s filled it with enough gear to stock a triage tent in the middle of a playoff brawl.
Every flat surface is buried under tape rolls, foam rollers, those weird massage hammers the size of handguns, and at least two unopened crates that have, in all caps,URGENT—DO NOT DELAYstamped on them.
Sage is propped on one hip against the counter, head bent, eyes closed like she’s bracing for a body check.
She doesn’t notice me.
That half-undone braid, the soft curve of her neck, the way her shirt clings to her ribs like it’s barely holding on.
Even tired and pissed and probably ready to throw something at the next guy who breathes wrong, she’s stupid pretty.
Pretty in the way that makes guys lose their common sense.
She opens her eyes, sees me, but doesn’t drop the clipboard.
“I’m going to pretend I look decent,” she says, no inflection.
I let my shadow fill the doorway for a second, then step inside.
After surveying the room and sizing up the problem, I go straight for the crates.
They’re heavier than they look, filled with God knows what—probably three years of athletic tape and enough Icy Hot to embalm a mastodon.
I set them on the table next to her, no drama, then start tearing the packing tape with my fingernails.
She watches, arms still crossed. “You’re not on the volunteer list, McTavish.”
“Neither are half the guys out there, but that never stops them,” I say, and start unpacking.
She comes off the counter, rolls her neck like she’s about to spar. “If you mess up the inventory, I’m blaming it on you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I set out the contents—stack of towels, bags of instant cold packs, sterile wraps—and slide the box down the table.
I move to the next crate.
The rhythm of it, the repetition, is exactly what I need.
My brain stops spiraling the second my hands are busy.
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks.
She sets about making a neat line of the tape rolls, then color-codes the ace bandages, then sharpens a pencil and starts scribbling in a battered notebook.
The room’s less of a mess with every box I flatten and every row of gauze she aligns.
