Page 68 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
He forces a cough. “From the storage room. Last Thursday. You and, uh, Grey.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. I picture every possible version of myself on that camera: laughing at a bad joke, passing a protein bar hand to hand, maybe standing a little too close, or—shit—was there a hug? I can’t remember. Suddenly my head is full of images, not even memories, just flashes of surveillance from every building I’ve ever worked in. How you think you’re invisible until someone pulls the tape.
“What did she say?” My voice doesn’t shake, but my fingers do. Dylan glances back at the open hallway. “She flagged it for review. HR is in the loop. She said it’s not a ‘disciplinary’ thing, more like optics, but…” He lets the sentence drift, unfinished.
He’s not meeting my eyes, and that’s what gets me. “You didn’t see it yourself?” I say, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice. “You’re just…passing the warning down the chain?”
He bristles a little, but not in a way that makes me hate him. “I’m telling you because you should know before it comes from someone higher up. Talia’s on a warpath. She doesn’t want ‘distractions’ before the playoffs.” He does air quotes, then lets his hands flop to his sides. “Just—be careful, okay?”
“Do you know what was actually on it?” I ask. “I mean, what did she say, specifically?”
He hesitates, takes a sip of coffee, then stares at the floor. “Not much. Just that there was a lot of time unaccounted for. That it looked…personal.” He glances at me, quick, then away. “She’s gonna want to talk to you. Alone.”
A pair of players walks by in the hallway, laughing too loud, the sound reverberating through the metal shelving. One of them glances in, makes eye contact, and then keeps walking. I have no idea if they’re laughing at me, or just at the idiocy of themorning, but the effect is the same: I feel raw, exposed, every inch of me stretched to the breaking point.
Dylan checks his phone, then looks at me with something almost like pity. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I close the supply cabinet, hands clenching the handles tight enough to leave a crescent imprint on my palms. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
He stands there a second longer, like he’s waiting for permission to leave. When I don’t say anything else, he nods once and slips out, not looking back.
The supply closet is silent again, but it’s a different silence: charged, radioactive, ready to detonate. I count to ten, then to twenty, then to thirty, breathing slow and even until the urge to scream passes.
I open the logbook to today’s date and write,Dylan: warning re: footagein the margin, and then I underline it twice.
Outside, the hallway is filling up.
I roll my shoulders, plaster on my best game face, walk out into the corridor, and busy myself with setting up the game-day recovery station in the east hallway because it’s the farthest point from Talia’s office and the only place the new ring lights don’t cast a shadow that makes everyone look like they’ve got a double chin and a criminal record.
The folding table is hospital-white, smooth as a coroner’s slab, and every inch of it is mine—at least for the ninety minutes before puck drop.
I start with the tape: three rows of KT tape, color-coded by function. Blue for shoulders, black for knees, neon green for the rookies who refuse to admit they’re already falling apart. Each roll is sliced into precut strips, ends rounded with surgical scissors, the stacks arranged like dominoes waiting for a tiny, intentional collapse. Next come the gel packs—cryo and heat both, wrapped in microfiber towels I laundered myself at thismorning. I fan them out along the near edge, alternating hot and cold, so nobody has to search for what they need.
While I work, I pop two electrolyte tablets in a liter of water and chug half before I even notice the taste. The powder doesn’t mix right, so every gulp is a shock of salt and fake citrus that leaves a residue on my teeth. I log the flavor profile in the back of my mind:Too acidic, tweak for next batch.It’s the kind of note that will make exactly zero difference in the grand scheme, but it feels important to pretend there’s still a version of the world where small fixes matter.
The players trickle in, first in ones and twos, then all at once as the bus drops the rest from the morning skate. The room is full of noise and sweat and the chemical tang of whatever air freshener Facilities thought would be an upgrade. I don’t know most of the new faces by name yet, but I know their injury logs: left quad, right wrist, chronic hip impingement. I can tell who’s limping before they reach the table, and I’ve already lined up the treatments in the order they’ll ask for them.
Beau is the first to show, hair still wet from the shower, stubble gone but for a fresh cut at his chin. He leans on the table like it’s a bar and grins. “What’s the flavor today, Coach?” He means the tape, but it sounds like he’s asking about my mood.
I hold up a roll of the black tape. “Limited edition. Just for guys who whine.”
He laughs, then flexes his knee and points. “Got anything for this?”
I already know which pattern he’ll want. I peel off three strips, overlap them in a Y, and anchor the base just below his patella. The tension is perfect, the tape smoothing flush against his skin with no bubbles or creases. I finish the job in twelve seconds, a new personal record. He tests the flex, nods approval, then grabs a cold pack for his thigh and a protein bar from the display I set up on the corner.
“Tell the trainer he’s got competition,” he says, and I almost let myself smile.
As the room fills, the station turns into a triage line. Shoulders, ankles, calves. One by one, the guys cycle through, some chatty, some dead silent, but every one of them leaves better than they arrived. I demo the new hamstring stretch for a cluster of defensemen, then show the goalie how to use a resistance band to keep his hips from locking up in the second period. Each time I see a wince transform into a look of genuine relief, the pressure in my chest lets up by a degree.
Even the coaching staff gets in on it. The assistant head coach, whose right arm has been in a soft brace since October, sidles over and asks if I’ve got any of the “magic powder” left over. I mix up a batch of my personal blend—extra sodium, half the sugar, a secret dash of ginger—and hand it off with a knowing look.
“You’re saving us a fortune in cortisone,” he says.
“Just trying to keep you vertical,” I reply, and he shakes his head, a real smile ghosting across his face as he heads back to the whiteboard.
At one point, Grey walks by on his way to the media lounge. He doesn’t stop, but he catches my eye and nods. I nod back, careful not to let anything else show. Whatever was on that tape, whatever Talia is plotting, it hasn’t blown up in my face yet. I’m still here, still doing my job better than anyone else in the building.
For a while, the fear recedes. The noise in my head is drowned out by the clatter of sticks and the shouts of the trainers, the easy banter of men who don’t have to live in the margins of the roster. I watch a rookie tape his own wrist, badly, then sneak over and fix it for him when he’s not looking. He doesn’t say thank you, but the next time he passes, he leaves apack of gum on the corner of the table. It’s a dumb gesture, but I pocket it anyway.
