Page 73 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Finn groans. “Those things are war crimes. We should make a documentary just on the taste.”
“We’d have to get clearance,” says Grey. “But I know a guy.”
We laugh, and for a minute, it almost feels normal. The food arrives, the wine (and mocktails) keep flowing, and every time I look at Sage, she seems a little less brittle, a little more like herself.
Halfway through the meal, Finn leans in and lowers his voice, like he’s telling a secret. “You know, in Sweden, there’s a word for this. Not the food, not even the drinking. Just…this.” He gestures at the four of us, at the table, at the way the booth curves around like a fortress. “It’s calledgemenskap. It meansyou belong, but more. You are not alone. Even if you fuck up, or you lose, or somebody wants to ruin your life, you still have this. You still have us.”
The table goes quiet. Sage looks down at her plate, and for a moment, I think she might cry. But then she wipes her mouth, sets down her fork, and says, “Is there a word for ‘I might get fired and take all my friends with me’?”
Grey chuckles. “Not in Swedish,” he says, “but I think that’s called being a legend.”
We toast again, this time with more laughter and less fear. When the dessert menu comes, we order tiramisu for the table. I watch Sage eat, small precise bites, and think about everything she’s done for us—the treatments, the late-night rehabs, the times she’s taped our ankles or stitched up a gash without so much as a wince. I think about how the world only ever sees the results, not the effort. How easy it is for someone like Talia to erase a person just by writing enough emails.
I think about Finn, who’s been playing on a shredded rotator cuff for two months and hasn’t told anyone except Sage. I think about Grey, who’s never once missed a practice but has a stack of unopened medical bills in his locker, and how Sage floats them past Ryland’s desk every week to keep them from going to collections. I think about myself, and the way I can barely string together two decent shifts without her there to reset my head.
I think about how maybe, in another world, the four of us could have had this without the threat of disaster hanging overhead. Maybe it would have just been dinner, and nobody would be counting the hours until they had to go back to war.
The check comes, and Grey grabs it before anyone else can. “Team unity,” he says, not quite smiling.
As we get up to leave, I sense the crack in the armor, the reminder that outside Marcello’s, the world is still waiting. The others file out ahead, but I lag behind, clearing the last of theespresso from the cup with my finger, stalling for a few extra seconds in the glow of the table.
That’s when I notice the movement at the far end of the restaurant. Talia, in a dark suit, seated at a table with two men I recognize from the board meetings. She’s not eating, not even pretending. She’s just watching, eyes fixed on our group, a faint curl of satisfaction at the edge of her mouth. The moment our eyes meet, she lifts her glass in a slow, mocking toast, then turns her attention back to her companions.
The air in my lungs goes cold. I shove my hands into my pockets, clench until the pain grounds me, and follow the others out into the night. Grey is standing by the curb, arms crossed, scanning the street for threats. Finn is texting someone. Sage is standing a little apart, eyes on the sidewalk.
I walk over, bump her shoulder with mine. “You okay?” I say, and this time I mean it in a way that goes beyond the question.
She nods. “Yeah,” she says. “For now.”
I want to tell her about Talia. I want to tell her that we’re being hunted, that it’s already started, but I know she already knows. So I just stand there, next to her, and wait for the others to fall in line.
When we walk back to our cars, we go together. Four across, shoulders touching, eyes forward, daring anyone to try and take us apart.
27
FINN
The next day, a knot of bodies forms around the corkboard of the Storm’s locker room, all staring like there’s something obscene posted. Maybe there is. Every team has a hierarchy: first liners in the center, rookies at the edge, everyone else jockeying for a sightline. I watch as Beau cocks his head, frowns, then looks over the top of the announcement at Grey, who grunts, unimpressed. A ripple of silence as the rest crowd in.
The paper is clean, its edges unfrayed by the usual parade of hands. The header is in red, which is either a threat or a joke depending on who wrote it. In this building, it’s both.
Nonessential Staff Boundaries, it says, the font size calculated to reach the back of the room. Underneath, a set of bullet points in legal black:
- Effective immediately, player contact with non-essential personnel is limited to scheduled sessions only.
- All off-hours interactions must be logged with Team Admin.
- Failure to observe professional distance may result in disciplinary review.
- See HR for clarification.
There’s a subtext in the phrasing—each period a nail, each noun a knife. The author doesn’t sign it, but the parenthetical at the end (Questions? Ask Talia!) is a dead giveaway. I almost laugh. There’s not a single player in this room who would ask Talia a question unless the alternative involved surgery without anesthesia.
A sense of confusion and impending doom prevails. Somebody says, “Shit,” wry and resigned.
A different voice, higher, “Does this mean no more ice baths?”
Someone else snorts, “Only if you want to get written up.” Grey reads the whole memo, then tears it off with a single smooth rip. He folds it in half, then in half again, then passes it to Beau, who gives it a ceremonial flick into the trash.
