Page 74 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
For half a second, I think that’s the end, but a tension lingers, like nobody’s sure if the memo is the threat or just the warning. Nobody moves toward the showers, nobody resumes the usual pre-practice shit talk. Instead, every eye in the room migrates, magnetized, to me.
I don’t make them wait. I cross to the board, scan the wall for any follow-up postings, find none, and then turn to face the team. “It’s nothing,” I say, which is my native tongue—downplay, ignore, move forward.
Finn, you idiot. Even your inner monologue calls you out.
My jaw tightens before I can help it. The blood in my ears picks up tempo. I know what this is about, and so does every asshole in the room, but nobody will say her name. Not in public. Not where it could get back to her, or to me, or to Coach.
The red ink is still visible in the wastebasket, curling like a tongue. I want to kick it, but I settle for clenching my fists until the knuckles bleach white.
Some of the guys drift away, peeling off toward their lockers, but Beau hangs back. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but says, “You think they’ll actually enforce it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, voice steady, but my head is already racing through the permutations: If they’re putting it on paper, it means they want us scared. Means they want her scared. Means someone’s keeping count.
A rookie—Leif, I think, the one with the messy hair and the Swedish vowels—asks, “What if it’s, like, an accident? If you run into them at the store?”
Grey answers for me: “Then you better fucking log it.” The joke lands, but just barely.
I shoulder past, toss my bag onto the bench, and start the slow ritual of taping my wrists, layer by layer. Each loop is a shield, a mask, a reminder of what my hands are for. My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it.
A minute passes. Two. When I finally check, there’s a notification from an address I don’t recognize. The subject line:Who’s the Mystery Woman Behind the Storm’s Stars?It’s a link to the local sports blog—one I’ve read enough times to know it by the color of its banner. The lead image is a photo from the charity skate, Sage and Beau in the center of the frame, both mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, heads tilted together as if the whole world is just a rumor that hasn’t reached them yet.
The caption is worse than the headline:Storm’s beloved star center Beau Kingston shares a laugh with the team’s enigmatic new sports therapist at a recent charity event.
My stomach drops, an elevator in freefall. There’s nothing technically wrong with the photo, but in light of the memo, it’s a loaded gun.
I look up, expecting the room to have shifted, but nobody’s looking at me now. The new silence is a gift, or maybe a setup.Above the weight rack, there’s a plaque with the old team motto, painted in cursive so elaborate it looks like a dare:All In.
I bite down on the words, taste the metal, and remind myself what that means.
Practice starts in six minutes, and I’m already behind, so even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I get down to it.
The hallway to the practice rink is lined with banners from past seasons, every year a silent accusation:Champions 2018,Division Finalists 2020, and then just a blank for last year. I walk it every day, sometimes twice, and usually the muscle memory takes over—shoulder the duffel, cut through the side door, keep my head down and my mouth shut. Today, the soles of my shoes feel too loud, echoing off the tile like I’m announcing an invasion.
The photo is still on my phone, the blue light of it burning a stripe into my thigh through my pocket. I want to delete it, but I can’t. I want to throw the phone against the wall and grind it under my heel, but I need it for the group chat, for the next angry text from Coach, for the only link I have to Sage now that the rules have been posted like commandments.
I round the corner near the media lounge and there she is, just as I knew she would be: Talia, leaning against the frame like she owns the air in this part of the building. When she sees me, she straightens, takes one smooth step into my path, and blocks the entire fucking hallway with a smile so perfect it could be on a recruitment brochure.
“Finn,” she says, voice syrupy, “could we have a quick word?”
I want to say no, but my feet have already stopped. I can feel the energy in my fists, every tendon in my forearms itching.
She glances down at the clipboard, pretends to read something, then looks back up. “You’re a team leader,” she says, as if this is news to me. “Which means optics are especially important right now.”
I don’t answer. She doesn’t care.
“I saw the blog post,” she says, head tilting, lips pursed in mock sympathy. “Cute picture. But not the smartest move, making it personal. Especially with everything going on.”
Her eyes flick to my pocket, then back to my face. I realize my jaw is clamped so tight my molars ache.
“Team rules are clear,” she says, and now the sweetness is gone, replaced by the corporate edge that’s her real voice. “We need everyone to model compliance, or we’ll have to escalate.”
I take a breath, slow. I feel the words building in my throat—something in Swedish, probably not printable—but I force them down. There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t be used as evidence. Instead, I look her dead in the eyes and let the silence do the work. Her smile stays frozen, but there’s a flicker, a microsecond of doubt.
“Is that all?” I say, voice low, careful.
She hesitates. “For now,” she says. “But let’s keep things…professional. For everyone’s sake.”
I nod, one sharp dip of the chin, then walk past her, shouldering just close enough that she has to sidestep or get clipped. She chooses to move. I keep going, pace steady, even as my insides snap and writhe. The second I’m out of her sightline, I let the curses come—quiet, in the language I reserve for home and for war.
