Page 36 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
And then Finn strolls in late, as usual, and still expects my pulse to spike just because he glanced in my direction. Spoiler alert: it does.
We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk, period. We’re not supposed to. They’re teammates. I’m team staff. It’s all very professional and ethical and a complete goddamn joke.
At night, I lie in the staff bunkroom with my headphones in, pretending not to hear their laughter echoing from the lounge, pretending I don’t want to sneak down the hall and crawl back into that mess of limbs and breath and want. But I don’t. Because if I go back, I won’t leave again. And I know better than anyone what happens when I let myself be wanted. People always think they want the version of me that’s helpful and easy and good under pressure. But the truth is, the longer they stay, the more they realize how much I need. How much I give. How much I overdo everything until they pull away, exhausted by how fully I love.
I’ve wrecked good things before. With men who said I was too much or not enough or just not right. I’ve poured myself out for people who didn’t know what to do with all the ways I tried to prove I was worth loving. And these three—Finn and Grey and Beau—they’re not built for someone like me. I can already see the cracks forming under the surface. The way the documentary crew’s presence makes everything more dangerous. I can’t be the reason someone loses their contract. I can’t be the thing that fucks up their career just because I wanted to feel whole for one night.
The day we leave is gray and bitterly cold. Snow falls in thick, slow flakes, and the buses are delayed by two hours. When we finally board for the return journey, I take a seat by the window with my thermos and my clipboard, pretending to review ankle stats, but really, I’m just watching the road.
By the time we hit the city limits, the snow is just dirty rain, slushing off street signs and pooling at the curb like the world’s most depressing Slurpee. The charter bus smells like wet polyester, everyone half asleep or fake laughing at TikToks withthe volume on max. I sit up front, headphones in, eyes on the GPS ping as we slink down the BQE, but I haven’t played any music in forty miles. I just want the illusion of noise, something to fill the space between my ears so nothing else leaks in.
Finn is three rows back, slumped against the window with his hood cinched tight, one knee wedged into the seat in front like he’s bracing for impact. Beau stretches across the entire back row, shoes off, baseball cap over his face, a performance of not caring so complete that I almost believe he’s asleep. I know he’s not. He’s too still. Grey sits by the emergency exit, staring out into the sleet, hands folded like he’s about to throw a punch at the horizon.
No one’s talked to me since we boarded, which is both a blessing and a problem. There’s too much time to think. I try to convince myself it was the cold, the storm, the shutdown of the outside world. A perfect cocktail of isolation and biology and bad decisions. But I keep replaying the seconds that led up to it: the look on Finn’s face when I kissed him, the way Beau’s laugh ricocheted off the tile, the dead-serious grip of Grey’s arms around my ribs.
I was in control. Right up until I wasn’t.
The bus hits a pothole, and the entire team lurches in unison. I hold my clipboard in my lap, pretending to review recovery protocols for the week. My phone buzzes on the vinyl seat, and I ignore it. Another buzz, this one more insistent, and I risk a glance.
A group text from Mia, my assistant:Let me know when you’re back. The cryo machine is still glitchy. Also: DO NOT check Twitter. You’re trending in Sports Talk.She adds three siren emojis and a GIF of a dumpster fire, as if that softens the blow.
Stifling a groan, I check the TikTok link. The offending clip is short—sixteen seconds, maybe—and it’s from day two at thelodge. The camera zooms in on me kneeling next to Beau with his shirt off, his laugh echoing across the snow while I wrap his thigh with KT tape and try not to roll my eyes. The caption reads:Okay but why is the team physio lowkey hotter than half the roster???
The comments are worse.
Who is she and where do I sign up for her to ice my groin??
Plot twist: he’s doing her.
Mommy???
She’s railing the whole team.
Tens of thousands of likes. Half a million views. And not one person mentioning the actual assignment. That I kept the entire forward line from blowing their knees out. That I spent eight hours in sub-zero wind chill checking joints and monitoring inflammation while the documentary crew zoomed in on my leggings.
I don’t even get mad at the thirst. I’ve been in a female body long enough to know how the internet works.
But something about the way no one sees the tape in my hand, the treatment chart at my side, the calculations I’m doing while three grown men flirt with me under camera lighting—something about being reduced to nothing but a moment between hot guys and a suggestive angle—makes me want to throw my phone out the emergency exit.
We pull up to the Storm’s training facility. The parking lot is an obstacle course of media vans and frozen slush islands. Dylan, one of the team’s PR guys, waits by the side door, hands in pockets, smile cranked to a setting that would be criminal in six states. “Welcome back, warriors!” he calls, like he’s hosting a reality show reunion. “Locker room debrief in twenty. Sage, you’re wanted in medical first thing.”
I give him a nod and hustle past, ducking into the fluorescent-lit bowels of the building. The heat inside hits melike a wave. I stand in the entryway a full minute, breathing in the hospital-grade air, and finally let myself feel the ache in my quads and the brittle tension at the base of my skull. I’m not tired. I’m frayed, and when work is finally over, I’m glad to get home.
My apartment is the same as I left it. I drop my bag in the foyer, peel off my layers, and stand in the kitchen under the harsh glow of the overhead bulb.
I don’t eat. I don’t shower. I just drift to my bed and collapse, still in half my uniform, socks and all.
The next morning, I wake up horizontal, a fistful of blanket twisted around my wrist and a knot of sheets at my waist. I try to stretch, but my right hip twinges. I stare at the ceiling and let the replay start: Grey’s breath on my neck, Finn’s mouth, the burn of Beau’s hands on my hips. The way the world went quiet right before it broke open, the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the shock of my own voice echoing back at me.
I could say I regret it. But that would be a lie, and I can’t afford any more lies right now.
My phone is wedged under the pillow. I fish it out and scan the notifications.
Finn:You get home safe? If you need to talk, you know where I am.
A half hour later, a second text:Or if you want to ignore this, that’s fine too.
Grey:Can you check my shoulder tomorrow. It feels worse.Then, after a gap:You okay?
