Page 2 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
“Any bruising?” I ask, already running gloved fingers along the muscle.
“Only my ego,” he says. “Last game didn’t exactly boost the team’s self-esteem.”
I find the knot near his insertion point and dig in, watching him not wince. “I can go harder if you’re trying to impress me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he deadpans, but now his eyes are on me, two sharp blue searchlights. “You look younger in person.”
“Photoshop works wonders,” I say, taping off the edge of the tape. “This’ll be a little cold.”
He shivers, but doesn’t break eye contact, even as the chilled tape zips over his skin.
He holds eye contact until the exact moment it would be inappropriate, then lets go.
“Seen anyone else today?” he asks.
I reach for the next strip of tape. “You’re my first.”
He arches a brow. “Guess that makes you lucky.”
“You have a weird definition of luck,” I say, but it’s a careful retort; I want to keep this at the level of sharp, professional banter.
Every alarm bell in my head knows the type; charismatic, boundary obliterating, a human PR crisis just waiting for a weak spot.
“Let me know if this is too tight,” I say, tensioning the tape just a little more than necessary.
“Not my first rodeo,” he says. “You can put your whole back into it, Sage.”
I finish the wrap, secure it, and stand back. He hops off the table, tests a lunge, and only then does he let a flicker of pain through.
“You have another client now?” he asks, glancing at my clipboard. He doesn’t want to leave.
“Finn Sorensen in fifteen,” I say. “But if you want to make my day more interesting, I have time for the calf release you skipped.”
He considers it, then shakes his head, grinning as if we’ve just shared a secret.
“Maybe next time,” he says, and winks as he saunters off.
The moment the door closes, I let the smile fade, exhale, and make notes on his chart.
Charming, competent, insufferable.
I can’t decide if the real hazard in this job is muscle strain or exposure to Beau Kingston’s full-court press.
I check the next appointment on the schedule, line up the kinesiology tape, and glance at the window.
Outside, the world is buried in January slush, all the colors bled out by the overcast sky and the salt trucks.
Inside, the lights hum with the steadiness of machines that never sleep, and I prep the table for the next test of my resolve.
Finn Sorensen is exactly on time.
He’s tall, not the cartoonish NFL kind but with a swimmer’s symmetry, his head bowed so the first thing I see is the white-blond hair he never seems to comb.
He doesn’t knock, just pushes through with an air ofthis is my hour, so let’s make it brief.
“Finn,” I say, warm as a towel fresh from the dryer. “Shoulder?”
He shrugs, which is a weird flex for someone with a rotator issue. “Is what they say.”
