Page 62 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
“What was the bet?”
“Shaved head for a week, and I had a TV interview scheduled. If you google me and ‘skinhead,’ you’ll see why our PR director had a meltdown.”
She laughs, loud enough that it echoes off the shelves. I let the sound hang, basking in the rarity of seeing her actually amused. It’s contagious; I find myself smiling, which is not in my brand, but fuck it.
After a while, she looks down at her hands, rubs her arms. The storage room is cold, and she’s only in a thin Storm hoodie.
Without overthinking it, I strip off my warm-up jacket and toss it to her. She catches it, eyes wide, then shrugs into it. The sleeves swallow her arms, the hem nearly to her knees, but she pulls it close anyway.
“Didn’t peg you as the chivalrous type,” she says.
“It’s not chivalry. I’m just sick of seeing people freeze to death around here. The maintenance guy went hypothermic last month.”
“Liar,” she says, but softer, a note of gratitude underneath.
We sit in companionable silence, the smell of synthetic fabric and old Gatorade powder filling the air. Eventually, she closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall, letting herself rest for the first time since she walked in. Her breathing slows, and I wonder if she might actually drift off. I almost want her to.
When the digital clock on her phone pings noon, she stands, slower than before. The movement is careful, almost measured, as if every joint has a warning label attached. As she bends to pick up her bag, I catch her wince, one hand pressed briefly to her ribs before she straightens.
“You okay?” I ask.
She clears her throat. “Fine. Bruised them two days ago wrestling with the hydro cart. The damn thing weighs as much as Beau after lunch.”
I make a mental note, then let it go. No point in pressing. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nobody likes a spotlight on their pain.
She hands me back the jacket, but I shake my head. “Keep it. If you don’t, Ryland will think I lost it gambling and make me wear a blazer for the rest of the season.”
She holds my gaze for a second, searching for the joke, then pulls the jacket tighter. “Thanks, Grey.”
Her voice is edged with something I can’t identify. Maybe respect, maybe exhaustion, maybe just the universal relief of not being alone for a minute.
As we leave the storage room, I catch her shadow in the reflection of the glass. She’s wearing the jacket like armor, chin lifted, shoulders squared, moving through the hallway like she’s ready to take on the next idiot who needs her help.
I follow, a half step behind, wondering if maybe that’s enough.
We hit the main corridor at the same time as the overhead fluorescents go on the fritz, plunging the hallway into a strobe-lit horror show. I brace for the soundtrack of a disaster movie, but instead it’s just the distant whirr of the vending machine eating someone’s last dollar. Sage walks with her chin up, jaw set, still wearing my jacket, and for the first time in a while, I can’t read her.
The peace lasts exactly twenty feet. We turn the corner and there he is: one of theStorm Frontfilm guys, home early from his smoke break and already powering up the rig. The camera is pointed directly at us, the little red dot on like a sniper’s laser.
Sage freezes, mid-stride. Her shoulders tense, the jacket bunching up around her neck.
I go full protective dad mode, stepping between her and the lens. I plant myself, hand out, palm facing the camera with all the subtlety of a Do Not Disturb sign.
“Not now,” I say, and if my voice is rough, it’s because I want it to be.
The cameraman stops, blinking like a deer in LED headlights. For a moment, I think he’ll push it, but then he just shrugs and drops the rig to his chest, backing off with the slow retreat of a man who knows he just lost the tip-off.
I stay planted until he’s gone, down the hallway and around the next bend. Only then do I relax, rolling my neck and shaking the adrenaline out of my hands.
Sage says nothing, but when I look over, her fingers are white-knuckled on the cuffs of my jacket. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes glossy, but not from tears. More like she’s taking inventory, cataloguing every possible exit in case the world tries to ambush her again.
I want to say something, maybe a joke about how her new look is the hottest trend in disaster fashion, but it doesn’t seem right.
Instead, I just nod at her, a silentHey, I’ve got your back, and start walking toward the ice. She follows, half a step behind, matching my pace with an exactness that would make any coach proud.
We hit the end of the corridor and the rink opens up before us, the cold air rushing in, sharp and clean. For a second, the whole world is just blue lines, white ice, and the faint echo of our footsteps. Nobody is watching. Nobody is waiting for us to fail.
We stand at the edge of the rink, side by side, the sound of the world outside dying away behind the heavy doors. For once, it’s quiet.
