Page 80 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
This time, it’s MBA in the windbreaker. “We’re treating it as a team culture review. On the record, no comment until the league completes their process. Off the record, we’re emphasizing player health and safety, with particular attention to boundary maintenance and staff training.”
“In other words,” the GM says, “we say we’re shocked, and we promise it’ll never happen again. Then we do whatever it takes to keep the playoffs from getting canceled.”
I tap my foot, once, hard enough that it rattles the leg of the chair.
“And Sage?” I say.
The PR lady’s face twitches at the edge, a hairline fracture of real emotion. “We’re putting her on paid leave, pending investigation. We’ll offer her resources, support, whatever she needs. If the media gets to her, it’ll be ugly. We have a team of lawyers ready.”
“She’s probably not coming back, Beau. You know that, right?” the GM says quietly.
I do. I want to break something, or at least slam my fist on the table, but all I do is flex my fingers around the armrest until I’m sure it’s about to snap.
“Anything else?” I say, keeping my voice as empty as possible.
The PR lady nods, shuffling her notes into a neat stack. “Damage control is our priority. We’ll need you for the morning press, and there will be questions about leadership. Stick to the talking points. Remember that this isn’t about you, it’s about the team.”
“We need to lock down the locker room, Beau. No leaks. No rumors. If anyone talks, it’s a problem,” the GM says.
My jaw ticks. “We’re supposed to just sit on our hands while the whole building’s on fire?”
“Yes, if you want to keep your contract,” Purple Shirt adds.
I look around at the four of them, at the tidy piles of paper and the cloud of fear that thickens every time someone says the word “pregnant.” The windows behind the GM’s desk look out over the practice rink, empty now, just the reflection ofthis room and the hollow sound of the air handlers running overtime.
Damage control. Like any of us have ever controlled a goddamn thing in our lives.
The PR lady is already on to the next agenda item, speaking in a clipped, fast-forward monotone about timeline and social media and “precleared responses.” She hands one page across the table, and when it reaches me, I don’t even look at it.
The GM starts again: “Look, I know it’s a mess?—”
That’s it. I stand, the chair legs scraping on the tile, louder than any word spoken in the last hour. They all flinch.
“No offense,” I say, “but if you want a puppet, talk to the mascot.” I walk out, leaving the paper on the table and the door swinging in my wake.
Damage control. I wonder if they even remember what the word “team” means.
The corridor outside the GM’s office is empty. My sneakers slap the concrete, echo down the length of the training facility, bounce off steel doors and echo back, warped. I walk fast, but not fast enough to escape the sound of my own pulse, which is rattling my ribs with every other stride.
There’s no one at the front desk, no one in the medical suite, not even a janitor. I take the stairs two at a time and duck through the fire door at the landing, because the elevator is for people with time to spare.
Grey and Finn are in the equipment room, sitting on opposite sides of a folding table stacked with sticks and foam tape. They look like the aftermath of a bad negotiation: Finn with his head in his hands, elbows digging into the battered wood, Grey with his arms crossed so tight his biceps are probably leaving marks on his rib cage.
Finn’s eyes are bloodshot. “Well?”
I let the door slam behind me. “It’s out,” I say. “They think a player’s involved.”
Grey doesn’t move. He’s staring at the wall where a torn poster of last year’s playoff run is pinned between two racks of shin pads. “Anyone say which one?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, and it’s true. Once the rumor machine starts, names are irrelevant; it’s all about the team and the stain on it.
Finn runs a hand through his hair, which doesn’t move. “How did they even get the medical file?”
I shrug, but the gesture is a lie. “Could be anyone. PR says it’s ‘internal,’ which could mean a dozen people. League’s going to run an investigation, but I’d bet they already have their culprit.”
Grey cracks his knuckles, one finger at a time, each pop a little louder than the last. “They’ll go for the guy with the most to lose,” he says.
I look at Finn, then at Grey, then back at Finn. He’s not even pretending to play dumb.
