Page 42 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I want to argue, to tell her that nothing happened, that we’re just two people trying not to drown in the aftermath of a lost season and a worse winter. But it’s a lie, and she’d see it on my face. Instead, I grab the trash bag, knot it tight, and toss it by the door.
“You want me to leave,” I say, not a question.
She nods, just once, still not looking at me. “I need to get ready for the early crew.”
I watch her a second longer. There’s a tremor in her arms, barely visible, but I see it. I could reach out, could anchor her with my hand on her shoulder, but I don’t. Instead, I gather the leftover tape and put it away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to sort.
She leaves first, footsteps fast and light, the door swinging shut behind her. The silence she leaves is total.
I stand there for a while, just breathing. Then I sweep the floor, wipe down the table, check the supply list. I don’t admit to myself why I do it, or why it matters that everything is in order before I go.
When I finally leave, I flick the lights off and lock the door behind me. The corridor is empty, the street outside still dark, and I walk to the edge of the lot before stopping to watch her silhouette vanish down the block.
She said we can’t do this again, but I know how it is. Some things repeat whether you want them to or not.
I run my thumb along the edge of the gauze, let the sting remind me I’m still here, and head for the conference room. It’s set halfway up the Storm offices, the skyline so close you could spit on the rooftops below. I show up fifteen minutes early, and wait with my back to the windows, arms folded, counting the rings on the fake marble table while the lights above flicker and buzz. The media liaison—her badge saysD. Eastman, but I only know her as the woman who calls at seven a.m. with “quick follow-ups”—arrives exactly on the hour. She slides into the chair opposite and offers a brittle smile. I give her nothing in return.
“Thanks for coming, Grey,” she says, laying out a stack of promotional flyers like tarot cards. “I want to walk you through the interview schedule for next week. There’s a lot of buzz after the OT win, and management wants to keep the momentum.” She pauses, then adds, “This is good for all of us. You included.”
I say nothing, just tap my finger on the table in time with the flicker of the lights. It drives her crazy, so I keep it up.
She shuffles the flyers, pulls out the one with my face on it—bleached and sharpened to make me look like less of a corpse. “We’re doing a package for ESPN, a local sports radio spot, anda sit-down with theStorm Frontcrew. Full access. No off-limits topics, but you can decline anything you want. Just give me a heads-up first.”
I nod, but I can feel the tension in my jaw, the way my molars grind down to the root when she says “full access.” I hate the documentary crew, hate the way they hover with their cameras and pretend to catch you off guard. I know what they want: a viral meltdown, something they can loop on social for a week before tossing me in the dumpster with last year’s hero.
She leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping to what she thinks is a confidential register. “Look, Grey. I know you’re not a fan of the whole…branding initiative. But there’s sponsor pressure. The team wants to soften your image a little. Show the human side.”
I smirk at that. “You mean the part where I’m not an asshole?”
She shrugs, unbothered. “You can be both. Audiences love a redemption arc.”
I glance at the stack of papers, at the wordskey opinion leaderandemotional narrativehighlighted in blue marker. I can almost taste the script they want me to follow. “Let’s get it over with,” I say, voice flat.
She’s pleased, hides it poorly. “Perfect. First up is a community skate at Bryant Park. They’ll want you on the ice with some of the younger players, showing leadership, that sort of thing. After that, in-studio Q&A. Very controlled, very friendly.”
“Then theStorm Frontcrew?” I ask.
She hesitates, which means the next part is bad. “Yes, but—Talia Prescott will be doing the segment herself. They’re hoping the two of you will play nice for the cameras.”
I nearly laugh. “Is this her idea of a peace treaty?”
She doesn’t blink. “She’s good at her job. And she’s rooting for you, in her way.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. The only time Talia’s ever “rooted” for me is when she wants to make herself look better in the process. She’s a predator in a pantsuit, and everyone knows it.
The liaison pivots to the next item. “One more thing. Off the record.”
I raise an eyebrow. She knows I hate surprises, so she’s relishing this.
“There’s been some chatter about the lodge retreat,” she says, voice dropping even lower. “Someone on the docu crew flagged some B-roll. You and Moretti, late-night. Nothing scandalous, just…close. Laughing, talking. But close enough that someone could make it into something.”
I let the silence stretch, just to watch her squirm. “So?”
She shrugs. “So nothing, unless you want it to be. But if you think Prescott isn’t going to notice, you’re wrong. She’s already asked for the raw footage.”
I roll my shoulders. “Let her. There’s nothing there.”
The liaison narrows her eyes, like she doesn’t believe me. Maybe she doesn’t. “Just—heads up. If it gets out, we’ll handle it.”
