Page 5 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Grey McTavish, the Storm’s resident brick wall, stands shirtless by the window.
He’s got a cupping set in one hand and a bottle of isopropyl in the other.
His back is a roadmap of faded bruises and fresh, angry marks.
There’s a beauty to the way he lines up the cups, but he’s struggling with the one spot between his shoulder blades, a reach even yoga instructors would curse.
I hover a second, watching his reflection in the glass.
His dark hair falls forward, shadowing his eyes.
Everything about him is squared off and severe: the jaw, the shoulders, the way he holds still as a statue when he finally gets a cup to stick.
He catches me in the reflection. “You want something?” His voice is lower than I expect, hoarse, scratchy, but calm.
I lean against the door frame. “You’re supposed to have a partner for cupping, you know. For safety.”
He glances at the red-ringed skin along his spine. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d try something new.”
His accent is slight, more Canadian than anything, but there’s a clipped, economical quality to his words.
He says nothing else, just waits for me to make the next move.
I step in, keeping my hands visible. “Let me help. You’ll never get the angle right on your own.”
He turns, eyes narrowing just a touch.
His gaze drifts from my face to my name badge, then back, like he’s cataloging data points for some internal report. “Okay,” he says, and hands me the set.
I snap on gloves and examine the cups, noting the ones already used. “Why not ask the athletic trainer to stay late?”
He shrugs. “He talks too much.”
Fair enough.
I motion for him to sit on the padded bench.
He does, resting his arms on his knees.
The muscle definition is almost anatomical-model perfect, if anatomy models also had scars and puck-shaped dents along the rib line.
I clean the spot, position the next cup, and flick the release.
The skin blooms up inside, purple and furious, but he doesn’t flinch. “You ever do this before?” I ask.
He nods, eyes fixed on the wall ahead. “Had it done to me. Never tried solo.”
“High pain tolerance, or just like showing off?”
He thinks it over. “Job requirement.”
I switch to a smaller cup, working along the edge of the scapula.
The silence gets heavy, so I fill it with science. “Cupping increases blood flow to the area,” I say. “Good for muscle repair, if you don’t overdo it.”
He grunts, and I can’t tell if he’s impressed or bored.
I keep working, moving methodically down the line.
