Page 22 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
We’re a two-person assembly line, and somehow the silence is less suffocating than the rest of the lodge.
After the third crate, she finally softens. “You ever do this for a living? Hospital work?”
I grunt. “Did a semester as a PT tech before juniors. Got fired for making the interns cry.”
She smiles, the faintest uptick at the corner of her mouth. “What’d you do?”
“I called it ‘tough love.’ The nurses called it ‘unlawful supervision.’” I open the last box—this one’s full of single-use heat pads and bottles of electrolyte concentrate.
She shakes her head, marking something on the clipboard, and chuckles. “You don’t seem that bad.”
I find a free spot on the counter, arrange the heat pads, and shrug. “I like systems. I like when people know what they’re doing.”
She’s closer now, leaning over the table to reach for the bandage she wants.
I catch her scent, some blend of mint and whatever fabric softener she uses.
Our arms brush as we both grab for the same roll.
She gives a fake sigh, lets me take it.
She gestures at the chaos of the room. “Most of the guys pretend to help, but they’re just here for the free tape jobs and an excuse to talk about themselves.”
“I hate small talk,” I say. “So, you dating Kingston, or is that just for the cameras?”
I haven’t seen anything odd, except the way they look at each other sometimes.
She snorts. “I’m not dating, if that’s of interest to you. And why are you lurking?”
I give her a look. “I’m not lurking. I’m observing.”
“Yeah? What have you observed so far?”
I could tell her the truth, about the way she bites her lower lip when she’s trying not to scream, about how she tracks every variable like a chess player in the middle of a crisis.
But that would be too much.
Instead, I go with, “You’re better at this than you let on.”
She lets the compliment pass, but her eyes narrow.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
We fall into another round of sorting, the only sounds are the rip of tape and the shuffle of boxes being broken down.
I feel my back loosen, the tension draining from my left shoulder for the first time in days.
She steps around the table, surveys our work, and leans in, voice low. “You know if you keep doing this, people are going to think you care.”
I pretend to consider it. “Let them.”
The silence holds, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Finally, she sets the clipboard down, pinches the bridge of her nose, and gives in. “Thanks,” she says. This time, it’s real.
I nod once and start stacking the empty boxes by the door.
As I pass her, she puts a hand out, stops me with a touch just above the wrist.
