Page 1 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
1
SAGE
The fingerprint scanner chirps like a nervous sparrow as the heavy door to the New York Storm’s training facility slides open, spitting me into a vortex of industrial-strength air-conditioning and raw, post-scrimmage testosterone.
The flooring is so pristine and waxed I hesitate, wondering if there’s an unspoken rule against scuffing it with my battered Nikes.
My first day, and I’ve already overthought the literal first step, I think to myself with a dry chuckle.
Clipboard in my left hand, two fully stocked kinesiology kits in my right, I march into the facility like I’m storming Omaha Beach.
I have a talent for projecting bulletproof confidence on exactly zero sleep, though the mesh topknot bulging under my ball cap is a minor tell.
The glass corridor curves into the lobby, where a bronze statue of a mid-slapshot winger glares at me like he already knows I’m here to make enemies.
Coach Ryland’s office is supposed to be just past the weight room, but the map in my onboarding packet is outdated, so I detour into a jungle of hydromassage pods, Hypervolt guns, and a squat rack that looks like it could bench-press the entire Brooklyn Bridge.
In the next room, a fresh wave of sweat and Dri-FIT assaults me; three players are arguing over fantasy league stats as they juggle kettlebells.
All of them glance up.
Only one of them whistles.
I duck into the treatment suite, wedge my clipboard under my arm, and clock the environment: white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, ten beds neatly made with Storm logo sheets, and a squat mini-fridge that’s strictly for ice packs, not snacks.
There’s a faint, surgical tang from the new disinfectant protocol.
It hits me that, until last month, the Storm’s last physiotherapy team had been two dudes who spent more time on TikTok than taping ankles.
The scandal was so messy, someone should have squeegeed it off the local news.
Now I’m the “new direction.”
My first patient is exactly on time.
Captain Beau Kingston glides in with the casual authority of a man who could murder a slapshot from his knees and still make it look like poetry.
He’s already in full compression gear, the Storm’s blue and black splayed in a topographical map over muscle and old bruises.
He sees me, and for a half second, something uncertain flashes across his face before he covers it with a cocky grin. “Doc Moretti, right?” he says. “Is it doctor, or do I gotta call you Sage?”
He parks himself on the nearest table, not bothering to wait for a cue.
His hair is still wet, and the smell of eucalyptus shampoo wafts off him.
The effect is disarmingly fresh for a guy who just skated a three-hour practice.
“You can call me Sage,” I say. “Only my mother uses my last name, and only when she’s listing my failures.”
He laughs, but he’s already rolling his left thigh, scanning for sore spots.
He knows the drill. He just doesn’t care about the rituals.
“You want a rundown?” he asks, flexing his hamstring so the line of it pops against his skin. “Or you already have a psych profile on all of us?”
I perch on the rolling stool, click the pen, and pretend I’m not sizing up the best view of his injury site. “Give me the rundown, and I’ll fact-check it against your psych profile.”
He grins again, and I don’t miss how perfect his teeth are. “Strained it in December, flared up again last week. Nothing catastrophic, but the old guy—Coach—wants it cleared by Monday.”
