Page 11 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
But tomorrow’s another day, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that rules were made to be tested.
I run a finger along the edge of the glass, feeling the cold bite, and wonder if Sage Moretti would let me show her how fast ice really melts under pressure.
Night at the arena is when the place feels honest.
The halls lose the scent of audience adrenaline, janitorial bleach rides in on every draft, and the only noise is the dull hum of compressors fighting the ancient wiring for a few more degrees of chill.
I run sprints on the main ice after hours, sometimes just to remind myself I’m still faster than time, but tonight I find myself drifting toward the recovery suite with zero intention and a bag of smuggled peanut butter cups.
The light’s on, but the windows are fogged, like the room itself is exhaling.
Through the glass, Sage sits hunched on a treatment table, ankle elevated, towel-wrapped ice pack balanced with precision.
She’s in Storm warm-ups, hair leaking from her ponytail like she lost a war with a static balloon.
Her eyes are locked on her phone, thumb working a text thread with the kind of focused energy I usually save for breakaways.
I pause outside, watching her jaw clench as she shifts the ice.
It’s not the ankle; it’s how she won’t acknowledge the pain even to herself.
There’s pride there, the kind that can outstubborn a brick wall.
I tap the glass, holding up the roll of kinesiology tape like a bad infomercial host.
She blinks, startled, then waves me in with the universalget lost or make yourself usefulflick.
I step inside, exaggerating my limp. “Heard the rumor you were running low.”
She peels the towel back, exposing a bloom of red skin above her sock. “What, you deliver now? Should I tip?”
“I accept cash, cards, or words of affirmation,” I say, dropping the tape on the tray. “But you get a discount if you actually let someone help you.”
She eyes the tape like it’s a contract written in invisible ink. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you’re icing alone at midnight instead of telling Ryland you rolled it.”
“I didn’t roll it,” she says, voice tight. “Just overdid the band work. I’m not on the IR, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
I hop onto the next treatment table, facing her. “If you go down, the whole team’s gonna start falling apart.
We need you at 90 percent, minimum.”
She huffs a laugh. “Like the rest of you operate above fifty.”
“Sixty on game nights,” I deadpan. “But only if they spike the Gatorade.”
She cracks, just a little, and the smile is worth the wait.
I gesture at the bandaged ankle. “You want me to tape it? I’m told my hands are ‘innovative.’”
She shakes her head, but the set of her jaw softens. “I’ll live. But thanks.”
I pretend to study her form, all long lines and hidden muscle, the way her fingers grip the edge of the bench.
“You doing your own rehab program now?”
She shrugs, making it look practiced.
