Page 70 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
You have been identified as a relevant party…
Your cooperation is required…
There’s a date for a mandatory meeting. There’s a warning about confidentiality. There’s a link to a Google Form for preliminary comments. The sender is just a general HR email address, no human attached.
For a long time, I don’t move. The blue light from the screen washes the rest of the room in a kind of artificial dawn, bleaching the shadows until my hands look pale and not quite real. I glance at the water glass, at the legal pad where I’ve written nothing for three days, at the clock on the microwave.
My hand is steady when I click the link. The form is blank, a white void with five text fields and a promise at the top thatyour input will be taken into consideration. I hover the cursor over the first box, then close the laptop without typing a word.
In the dark, my eyes won’t adjust. The glow is burned in, and every time I blink, I see the subject line, in all caps, waiting for a response.
PENDING HR REVIEW – PERSONAL CONDUCT CONCERNS
I stand, stretch my arms over my head, and feel the pop of cartilage in my shoulder. I think about all the ways this could end—suspension, reassignment, the slow fade-out of a career I never really planned to have. I think about the babies, the notebook, the way Grey looked at me in the hallway as if he knew the exact second my world would come apart.
26
BEAU
On the fourth drill rotation, I shank the shot so wide it doesn’t even hit the glass, just flies into the dead air above the boards and plummets to the ice like it’s lost the will to participate. I catch Finn’s eye in the reflection off the penalty box glass and see him wince, just a little, the same microexpression he gets when a greenhorn blows a one-timer in the first round of preseason. I want to murder the puck, but instead I follow it to the wall, collect, and skate back into the neutral zone, jaw clenched so tight my teeth buzz.
Coach is already blowing his whistle, the sound splitting the air into strobing chunks. “Again!” he yells, then fixes me with a look so flat it could be used to level drywall. “Let’s see it, Kingston.” He’s running short on patience, and I can feel the team clocking every second of my performance.
I square up, take the drop, and bury the next puck in the bottom right corner like I’m extracting an apology from the net. The velocity is enough to rattle the water bottle off its perch. It spins, lands with a splat, and the rookie goalie just freezes, arms spread, as if the force of the shot has temporarily reprogrammed him.
Finn is the first to laugh, sharp and mean in that way only he can get away with, but there’s an edge to it—like he knows the margin for error is razor thin, and today I’m skating on the wrong side of it. The other guys join in, and for a second, the world returns to its regular orbit: the collective exhale after a near miss, the low-grade sadism that keeps us from going soft.
But the energy is off, and everyone feels it. The drills cycle through, but every pass, every shot, every pivot is just a little out of sync. Nobody says it, but the reason has a name, and it’s floating around the rink like an open wound: Sage. Or, more specifically, whatever the hell is going on with Sage, and with me, and with the sudden uptick in team surveillance that’s made even the locker room feel like a confession booth.
The whispers started two days ago. At first, it was just the junior guys trading rumors—something about Sage getting “special treatment,” something about the docu crew editing footage to show her “in compromising situations.” By last night, it had metastasized: someone claimed to have seen her in Coach’s office after hours, another said she was being “looked at” by HR, a third swore she was on the verge of getting benched from the treatment suite for “boundary violations.”
None of it made sense, but the volume of the gossip was enough to make it real. I could see it in the way the guys looked at her, or didn’t, during taping and rehab. I could feel it in the way Sage had started moving around the facility—eyes down, shoulders up, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles even when the rooms were boiling with human heat.
We finish practice with a three-on-three drill that turns into a minor bloodbath. At one point, Grey hip-checks me so hard I see static. I retaliate with a stick hook that would be a five-minute penalty in any other league, but here it’s just another day at the office. We collide, tangle, and end up in a pile behind the net. For a second, neither of us moves. I see the pulse inGrey’s throat, the way his jaw sets, and I know he’s holding back something more dangerous than a punch.
He’s the one who finally rolls off, then hauls me up by the elbow. “You’re skating angry,” he mutters, not even pretending to hide it.
“Maybe I’m just trying to keep up,” I shoot back, but my heart isn’t in it. Grey holds my gaze for a fraction longer than normal, then skates off, leaving a vapor trail of unasked questions.
After the last whistle, I coast to the bench, tug my helmet off, and pour a cup of Gatorade over my head. The cold helps, but only a little. The locker room is a pressure cooker. Guys stripping pads, slamming sticks, slumping into their stalls with the defeated posture of soldiers after a losing skirmish. The soundtrack is the hiss of tape, the clatter of plastic, and the low, persistent hum of rumor.
I park myself in the corner and start unlacing my skates, pretending to focus on the knot but actually listening to the room.
“Did you see her after practice?”
“No, but I heard she was with Ryland and the board.”
“She’s in deep, man. That’s why she’s ghosting everyone.”
“Bet you five she doesn’t last the month.”
“What did she even do?”
“Doesn’t matter. Coach wants her gone.”
None of it makes sense, and all of it makes sense. It’s how this world works: you win, you’re a God; you slip, you’re chum. I don’t say a word, just finish with the laces and start stripping off my pads with surgical precision.
As I peel the last layer, I catch a sliver of movement at the edge of my vision. Sage, passing by the open door, clipboard tucked tight to her ribs, hair in a messy bun. She doesn’t look in, doesn’t acknowledge the room, just walks fast, eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.
