Page 93 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Cass’s apartment is narrow and white walled, everything engineered for light. A jungle of potted basil and cilantro crowds the windowsill above the sink, sweating beads of condensation onto the glass. Half-unpacked boxes crowd the entryway, each labeled in a handwriting that is not my own:Books, Kitchen, Office, Old Gear. The only decorations are two mismatched prints from a D-list Scandinavian artist and a photograph of Cass and her dog, taped to the fridge at an angle. The futon is the color of wet cement and just as forgiving.
I roll onto my back, knees splayed wide to make space for the topography of my stomach. It’s a new hill, grown so fast the skin is glossy and strange in the morning light. I run a palm over it, the curve hard and hot to the touch, and think aboutthe biomechanics of growth. Exponential expansion. If I had a scale, I’d be logging it every morning, plotting the trajectory like a playoff series: day by day, inch by inch, until the end point is either disaster or a winning streak.
There’s a tinny chime from my phone. Outlook reminds me that today isExit Interview with Team Counsel / 10:00 AM. I swipe it away, then check for new emails, even though I know there won’t be any. The Storm’s address went dead two days ago, replaced by a perfunctory auto-reply and the slow deletion of every calendar event. I left a Google Alert running on my own name just to prove to myself that I still exist somewhere. The last result is a six-sentence blurb in a regional sports blog, pasted with a picture from the first charity event—me, holding a green-iced donut, chin tilted up like I’m about to make a toast.
I pad into the kitchen, shoving aside a box labeledCass—Medicalto get to the kettle. The mugs are all hospital issue, stolen over years of night shifts: New York Presbyterian, Montefiore, the one with the orange stripe that only ever tastes like burnt plastic. I pour two fingers of decaf instant coffee into the bottom, watch it dissolve in a spiral, then lean on the counter and drink it with my eyes closed.
In theory, I am rebuilding. I spent last night redlining a freelance contract for a wellness consulting startup, a company run by three ex-athletes and funded by the sort of investors who think protein powder is a viable retirement plan. It isn’t, but I don’t say so in the Zoom. I tell them about metabolics, about performance adaptation in the post-athlete population, about sustainable routines. I use every word I learned in the Storm’s HR training. They eat it up. They want a case study, a short write-up for their site, something relatable but not too real. I say I’ll send a draft by Friday, then close the laptop and stare at my hands until the room goes blue with dusk.
The first time I tried to write the bio, I got as far asI am a former…then blanked. Former what? Not athlete. Not coach. Not anything that scans for the normal people, the ones who don’t measure their lives by injury time-outs and locker room politics. I ended up writingI am Sage Moretti, a wellness professional living in Brooklyn, and then deleting the whole line, because who gives a shit.
By the time the coffee is gone, my inbox dings with a message from the Storm’s general counsel. The subject isSeverance Confirmation and Next Steps. The text is dry, full of the kind of language designed to keep lawyers employed. I skim it, skip the legalese, and sign where it saysDigital Signature. My index finger hovers over the trackpad for a long time before I click. There’s a formality to it, a finality, like slamming the lid on a coffin.
I text Cass:Signed it. I am now officially a statistic.She replies with a stream of party emojis and a bitmoji of herself popping out of a cake, which is about as much ceremony as I want.
I spend the next hour on the couch, surrounded by open cartons and medical textbooks. I try to lose myself in an article about postpartum stress but end up scrolling job listings for per diem nutritionists instead. The urge to check the team’s practice schedule is automatic, like a phantom limb. At 9:18, my hand goes to the backpack in the hall, searching for the roll of kinesiology tape I left behind in the clinic. The next moment, I realize I’m never going to need it again.
Sometimes, when it is quiet enough, I hear the echoes of the old routine. The shuffle of skates on tile, the thump of a medicine ball against the wall, the faintly metallic laugh of Finn down the corridor. I hear Beau yelling“Last call for ice, Sage!”even though he never actually said it, not once in the two years I worked there. I miss the smell of disinfectant and sweat, the waythe locker room always felt like a greenhouse at dawn, hot and damp and full of rot and hope.
The screen blinks with a new message: a calendar invitation for a Zoom at noon. The wellness startup wants to touch base. I RSVP yes, then shut the laptop and fold my hands over the arch of my stomach. The motion is unconscious now, a self-soothing mechanism from some earlier version of me. The skin is so tight it looks like it might split with a hard enough laugh. I wonder if the three of them are packed like sardines in there, fighting for elbow room and oxygen. I wonder if they’ll come out as a team, or if they’ll turn on each other the moment they see the world.
A tap at the door.
My brain skips, tries to source the sound. It’s too early for Cass, and the only person who has the code is the super, who never leaves the basement except to complain about noise. I slide off the couch, heart lurching in the same way it used to just before overtime, and tiptoe to the door, toes catching on the edges of the unpacked boxes.
I check the peephole, but there’s a distortion—too many faces pressed together, like a rugby scrum in miniature. I open the door just wide enough to see, and they almost tumble in on top of each other: Beau, Finn, and Grey, standing in a row that blocks out the whole hallway.
They look like hell. Beau’s hair is flattened by a hood, eyes ringed in gray like he’s been up all night. Finn is wearing a windbreaker that doesn’t belong to him and is wringing his hands together, knuckles bone-white. Grey is dressed like he always is, but the set of his jaw is tight enough to snap steel.
None of them speaks. There’s a long pause where we just stare at each other, everyone waiting for the other to blink first.
Beau is the first to break. “We found your best friend from your socials. Got in touch with her and learned you’ve beenholed up here. We didn’t know if you’d answer,” he says, voice hoarse, as if he’s already given up on the idea of being heard.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I fold them across my chest, then unfold them, then finally just rest them on my stomach, as if that’s the only anchor I have left. “What are you doing here?” I say, and it comes out meaner than I mean it.
Finn shifts his weight, looks at the floor. Grey hangs back, arms crossed, as if he’s there as moral support for the other two.
Beau tries again. “We needed to see you,” he says. “All of us.”
The hallway smells like steam and wet concrete. Someone down the hall is cooking onions, and the scent mingles with the wool and old sweat of their coats. I stand there for a long time, unsure if I should let them in or just close the door and let the floor swallow me whole.
Eventually, Finn looks up and meets my eyes, the old sparkle replaced by something raw and unsure. “Please,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
Something in my chest cracks, and I step back, holding the door open. “Come in,” I say, and the words taste like surrender.
They file in, single file, all trying not to bump into the boxes or each other. For a second, I think I might cry, but the feeling passes before it has a chance to settle in.
The door closes, and the city noise is replaced by the heavy, awkward quiet of three men standing in the ruins of what used to be a life.
Nobody sits. We stand there, the four of us, in the kind of face-off you only get when there’s no more ice to fight on.
Beau is the first to cave. He runs a hand through his hair, presses the back of his palm to his jaw, and says, “We should’ve come sooner. We wanted to, but we figured you needed space. Or…maybe that you’d call, if you wanted us.”
The words are a rough draft, every syllable ground out like it hurts. I open my mouth, but nothing comes, so I just lean backagainst the arm of the futon and cross my arms, as if posture alone could keep me from unspooling.
Grey, always the enforcer, comes in next. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want,” he says. “But we need you to know what happened. All of it.”
Finn’s voice is a surprise: “It wasn’t you, Sage. It was never you.”
