Page 39 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I straighten and assume an expression of what I hope is righteous indignation. “What truth, Kingston?”
He cocks his head, stripped of sarcasm. “That you want this. Us. Or maybe just something real for a change.”
I roll my eyes, but my breath is shallow, every inhale a warning. “You’re full of shit.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m not the one running from it.”
His thumb grazes my wrist and I jerk my hand back, stand, and begin walking like my life depends on it. Before I can clear the threshold, a woman steps in front of me. She wears a dark suit, hair in a razor-straight bob, heels that click like a metronome.
She holds out a hand, nails lacquered to a high shine. “Talia Prescott,” she says, her voice warm but edged. “PR director, you might have seen my name on some of the internal memos.”
I shake her hand, skin cool and dry. “Sage Moretti.”
Her smile is all teeth, but her eyes don’t leave my face. “I’ve been watching your work, Sage. Very impressive. Not many people can keep a team like this in line.”
I shrug, trying to minimize the moment. “They mostly tape themselves, honestly. I just make sure nothing falls off.”
She laughs, and there’s nothing real in it. “Well, you’re about to have a bigger audience. The documentary team is doing a special feature on you. Full access.”
I freeze. “I didn’t agree to that.”
Her eyes flick up and down, measuring. “You signed a waiver. It’s standard, but we can’t have you sabotaging your own story. The producers want more of your ‘unique approach.’ You know—how you manage the personalities. The hands-on stuff.”
I swallow, throat dry. “Is this about the lodge footage?”
Talia’s smile sharpens. “It’s about all of it. Fans are obsessed with you. So is management. It’s a win-win, unless you screw it up.”
Behind me, Beau is suddenly very interested in his phone, but I know he’s listening. Talia leans in, voice dropping to a confidential register.
“They’ll ask you questions. Some of them might be personal. Don’t answer anything you don’t want on air, but remember: this is your shot. Don’t waste it.”
She straightens, brushes imaginary lint from her lapel. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
I nod, because it’s all I can do. She leaves, heels echoing down the hall. I stand there, files clutched tight, hands shaking.
Beau comes up behind me, careful not to touch. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I just walk to the supply room, close the door, and slide to the floor, back pressed to the metal shelving. I can’t hide. Not from them. Not from myself. The season just got a lot more interesting.
12
FINN
Amonth later, game night
There’s no time left on the clock, just a series of thirty-second eternities, the clang of the puck against glass, the ache in my thighs, and the way every breath burns like I’m sucking air through a mouthguard lined with broken glass. This is what it feels like when you can’t tell if you’re winning or dying. Our own barn, sold out to the rafters, every inch of concrete and plastic vibrating under the feet of sixteen thousand souls who want blood, want glory, want another two points in the goddamn standings.
The ice is more scar than surface by now—ruts, gouges, that slow-death sand that steals your glide and gives nothing back. They call it home-ice advantage, but really, it just means I know every rut and crater out here. I know which grooves will kill your glide, which cracks will take a clean pass and chew it into garbage. I’m running on fumes and whatever bitter chemical magic they injected into my quad at intermission.
The last two minutes always hurt the most. Every inch of ice in my lungs, legs on fire, head full of that banshee noise the barn makes when the score is tied and every single body inthe building is desperate for us to kill or be killed. My shift is supposed to be thirty seconds, but we’re gassed, and Ryland’s riding the top D pair because he thinks if he puts us on the bench, we’ll never get back off. So I take the draw with Beau on my right and Grey on my left, the world narrowing to the bright blue of the home line and the hungry blur of the opposing forwards already licking their chops for a breakaway.
There’s a rhythm to it, an ugly heartbeat. First, the ref with the puck drop, then the scramble of sticks, then that split-second silence before everything detonates. Tonight, the other team’s captain wins the draw clean, backward to his D, but Beau is on the forecheck before the puck’s even settled. I track the flow, falling back toward the dots, eyes on the enemy winger. I’ve played him a hundred times, seen the patterns in the way he cocks his blade, the way he shifts his weight when he’s thinking of cutting inside. When his center flips a weak saucer across the blue line, I know before he does that he’s going to overskate it. I pinch hard, stick out, pop the puck free, and there’s nothing but empty sheet in front of me.
My lungs are a hornet’s nest. I go full tilt, the ice under my feet like glass, every stride a question of whether my quads will snap or hold. I hear the crowd surge, a wall of primal sound that makes my heart stutter. I don’t dare look up at the scoreboard, don’t need to—the entire planet knows what’s on the line. We’ve blown three leads this period, and every shift has been a dogfight. I angle for the corner, hear Grey barreling down the weak side, and know my only job is to get the puck deep and keep it out of our zone for the clock to bleed.
But then Beau is there, calling for it, his voice a lightning crack through the noise. He’s behind the net, drawing two defenders, so I bank the puck hard off the endboards, letting it ricochet into the dead spot where only he knows to be. He catches it, whips a no-look pass straight back to the slot, and I’malready there, body squared, stick cocked. Their goalie shifts left, tracks the pass, and leaves the top right corner screaming for mercy.
I shoot.
