Page 6 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
His breathing is slow and deliberate, each inhale deeper than the last. After the fifth cup, he finally speaks. “You’re new.”
“Is it that obvious?”
He glances over his shoulder, the barest smirk. “No one else would bother after hours.”
There’s nothing I have by way of a response, so I finish the last cup, set the timer, and step back. “Ten minutes. You want water?”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
I watch the timer tick down, hands idle for the first time all day. He doesn’t check his phone or make small talk, just stares out the window at the sodium-lit snow. “Why can’t you sleep?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. I think maybe he won’t, but then he says, “Too much noise. Even when it’s quiet.”
I get it. “You ever try meditation?”
He almost laughs. “Doesn’t work.”
I tilt my head, mock serious. “You know what else increases blood flow to the brain?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Deep, controlled breathing,” I say, “and not being a pain in the ass for your medical staff.”
He holds my gaze, and for a split second, I think he might smile for real.
But he just nods, as if I’ve passed some kind of test. The timer beeps.
I remove the cups, pressing gauze to each angry welt. His skin is hot under the alcohol swab, but he never even blinks. “All done,” I say.
He stands, rolling his shoulders. “Thanks.”
As I clean up, glancing his way as he pulls his shirt back on.
There’s a look in his eyes which he doesn’t put into words before leaving.
I stay in the suite, listening to the echo of his footsteps fade down the empty hall.
I replay the moment, searching for signs I missed or lines I almost crossed.
The rules here are tight, the boundaries stricter than steel.
But some nights, it feels like you can’t help but bump against the walls, just to see if they’ll hold.
Maybe it is time to head home.
With a little sigh, I gather my bearings, shut off the lamp, and head for the locker room.
It’s a time capsule of rubberized blue tile, showers that still run hot past midnight, and a row of lockers with faded Dymo labels from trainers long since vanished.
I have the place to myself, which means the only company is the hum of the fluorescent tubes and the relentless rehashing of my own spectacular first day.
I kick off my sneakers, toss my gym bag onto the bench, and crank open locker seventeen.
The metal groans, a fitting soundtrack for the mental play-by-play already underway.
Scene one: the Beau Kingston flirt-and-flex.
Scene two: Finn Sorensen, still allergic to authority.
