Page 99 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
“You see that shot?” he shouts over the noise, eyes shining.
I’m pretty sure I was the only person on this side of the glass who didn’t black out. “Saw it. Can’t wait to watch it on replay four hundred times.”
He plants a kiss on the top of my head, then lets the kids hang off his arms while he basks in the insanity.
Beau is next. He’s already shirtless, because of course he is, and his torso is covered in a constellation of fresh bruises and what looks like half a bottle of gold body glitter. He grabs the kids, hoists one onto his shoulders, tucks another under his arm like a football, and jerks his chin for the third to latch onto his leg like a koala. Then he slaps a palm over my ass in full view of every camera within a hundred yards.
“Classy,” I say, grinning.
He winks, leans in, and mutters, “We’re getting you drunk tonight.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
He looks me up and down, weighing the options. “Yes.”
Finn, meanwhile, is already doing a press scrum with the network crew, but he keeps glancing over at us with a look I haven’t seen in a long time—a mix of pride, relief, and something else I can’t quite place. When he finally breaks away, he makes a beeline for the kids, dropping to his knees so fast that all three of them barrel into him like linebackers. He hugs them all at once, eyes scrunched shut, and when he pulls back he’s actually misty.
“Don’t say it,” he warns, but I can’t help myself.
“MVP and softest dad in the league. Your reputation is shot.”
He wipes his face, grins. “Worth it.”
The next hour is a stream of faces: former players, trainers, every cousin I never knew existed, and more than one reporter who would like to know “what this win means for the franchise moving forward.” I play the part, answer the questions, even pose for a family shot with the Cup and the kids and a pile of empty energy bar wrappers.
The kids crash hard,conked out in a pile of blankies and foam fingers in the media lounge. I hoist Kennedy, the oldest, onto my hip and head for the back exit, where it’s quieter. The corridor is cold, still echoing with the ghosts of celebration, and for a second, it’s just me, my baby girl, and the sound of my own heart beating out the overtime winner.
I pause, let the silence soak in.
Three years ago, I thought my life was over. Now it’s the best overtime I’ve ever played.
And the Cup? It’s not a trophy. It’s the three little monsters: Kennedy, Mario, and Sidney. Yes, I let their fathers name them after hockey greats. But right now, this little hockey great is drooling on my shoulder and dreaming of the next thing she’ll conquer.
I make it halfway down the corridor before the ambush. Cassidy is there, backpack slung so low it nearly grazes her calves, disposable coffee in one hand and a look in her eye that says she’s already solved three problems I haven’t realized I have. Her badge—Storm Wellness: Volunteer—dangles from her lanyard, and there’s a streak of blue glitter on her cheekbone,the kind of war paint only a true professional can wear with authority.
She scans for the kids before she even says hello. “They escape already?”
“The other two are under the table,” I say, jostling Kennedy to the other hip.
Cass nods, glances at the debris trail of Goldfish and shredded napkin in our wake, and pivots into full command. She squats, makes eye contact with Mario and Sidney—who are now attempting to unscrew the faceplate of a fire alarm—and, with a single word, corrals them to her side. “Up.” They obey instantly, Mario clambering up her back like a lemur while his sister, Sidney, tucks herself under Cassidy’s elbow.
Cass turns to me, deadpan: “You want to run interference with Security, or should I?”
It’s not a real question. Cass is the only person I trust to singlehandedly shepherd all three of my offspring through a state of maximum entropy. This is not because I am an unfit parent (jury’s still out), but because Cassidy is the only person on earth with enough tactical awareness to both anticipate and disarm any tantrum or obstacle these kids can deploy.
She hoists Sidney, then Mario, rearranges their limbs so I can hand her Kennedy. Once she has all three lined up like baby penguins, she fixes me with a look that’s halfway betweenget going, champanddon’t you dare cry. I don’t cry. I might have three years ago, when all of this felt like an experiment in whether human beings could actually fracture under pressure and then be reassembled with medical tape and caffeine.
Cass sips her coffee, then passes the cup to me. “You got at least twelve minutes before the wheels come off. Go get your moment.”
“Don’t you have a job?”
She shrugs, unfazed. “I swapped the PM shift. Nobody codes on Cup night, anyway.” She reaches out and smooths my hoodie, a reflex from the days when we both wore scrubs. “Beau’s already organizing a champagne riot in the locker room. You want a head start, trust me.”
I do trust her. I have trusted her since undergrad, since that first study group when she brought a thermos of wine and a folder labeledAnatomy: Ultimate Cheat Sheet, since every panicked text about a failing grade or a lost job or a night I thought I couldn’t keep going. Cass has seen me at my worst: drunk, postpartum, panic-attacked out of my mind at three in the morning, nursing two babies and trying to explain to my mother that yes, all three are mine, and yes, I’m dating three men. She’s also seen me at my best, which, ironically, is right now—dressed in athleisure, sleep-deprived, and shoving my kids into the care of another adult so I can go play grown-up for fifteen minutes.
Cass waves two Storm interns over—kids in team polos, sneakers already ruined by confetti—who fall in on either side of the triplet formation, ready to act as wingmen. The trio of chaos is now a procession, marching down the hallway toward the media room where Cassidy will set them up with juice boxes and iPads and the promise of future snacks. She doesn’t look back.
I watch them for a second. It’s a stupid, sappy second, but it hits me in the sternum anyway. My kids are safe. My kids are happy. For the next few minutes, I don’t have to be anyone’s mother, or the face of a nutrition program, or even the ex-medical staff who once got blackballed for making the wrong choices. I can just be myself.
