Page 44 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I check my phone, pretend I have somewhere else to be, then slip into the restroom to regroup. The hallway is empty, echoing with the distant clatter of forks and champagne stems. Inside, the mirrors are spotless, the lighting more forgiving than the main hall. I splash water on my wrists, breathe through my nose, try to remember how to slow my pulse. The makeup is still in place, the hair still tight, but my eyes look like someone else’s—a stranger who wandered in off the street and decided to stay just long enough to ruin the party.
When I exit, the room is even more crowded, bodies pressing together in clusters of forced laughter and clinking glasses. The event staff start circulating with trays of canapés, and someone I vaguely recognize from the PR team hands me a tiny plate with a cube of smoked fish and a blob of something green. I stare at it, realize I haven’t eaten since morning, and force it down, the salt and fat coating my tongue like a dare.
Talia is nowhere in sight, but her presence is a fog that trails after me, sticky and sweet and hard to shake. I drift toward the windows, the city spread out below in a wash of blue and orange. The lights blur together, turn to streaks against the glass, and for a moment, it’s almost beautiful. I let my head fall back, close my eyes, and imagine the world on mute; every voice, every look, every question just evaporating into nothing.
But the world doesn’t stop. The press of bodies closes in, and soon I’m back in the current, swept along toward the dinner seating. Beau and Finn have already claimed a table, and Grey is a silent anchor at the far end, arms folded, eyes scanning the exits. I take the chair nearest the wall, as far from the head table as I can manage, and try to make myself small.
Someone pours wine. Someone else gives a toast, and the crowd erupts in polite applause. I pretend to listen, but every cell in my body is buzzing, every nerve ending raw. The food arrives in a sequence of miniature courses, each more elaborate than the last, but all I taste is the acid in my throat and the rising certainty that I will never feel at home in rooms like this, no matter how many times I walk through the door.
Talia passes behind me once, maybe twice, always just at the edge of my vision. I don’t turn. I just focus on the plate, the glass, the pulse in my own wrist.
When the desserts come, I push mine aside and excuse myself, this time not even pretending to need the restroom. I find the exit at the end of the corridor, step into the cold night air, and let the chill bite into my bare arms.
For a few seconds, I stand there in the alley behind the museum, shivering, hands wrapped tight around my own ribs. I count backward from one hundred, a trick I learned from Sage Moretti, age seven, when the world was always too big and too loud and the only way to survive was to make it smaller, piece by piece.
When I go back inside, the event is still in full swing, but I’ve learned how to slip through the crowd without being noticed. I find my seat, finish my wine, and keep my eyes on the table until the speeches are over.
Someone from the catering team hands me another glass of wine and points me back toward the main hall. I see Talia hovering by the donor wall, now deep in conversation with an old man who keeps touching her wrist. I breathe easy, thinking I’ve dodged the next round, but as soon as I pass the buffet, Beau slides up beside me, his jacket open, tie gone, hair falling into his eyes in carefully staged disarray. “You look like you just saw the ghost of Christmas future,” he says, voice low enough to make ita private joke. He’s not looking at me; he’s loading a plate with three types of cheese and a stack of figs.
“I think she’s trying to kill me with kindness,” I say, aiming my glare at the back of Talia’s head. “Or maybe just by suffocation.”
He snorts, stacks an extra cracker, and scans the room with the lazy confidence of someone who’s never been forced to hustle. “I caught some of that. If it helps, she’s been running the same play on everyone. You just got the VIP package.”
I force a smile. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
He shrugs, then does a quick double take at my plate, or more accurately, the lack of one. “Haven’t eaten yet? Rookie move.”
“Not hungry.”
“Always hungry,” he corrects, and pushes a cracker into my palm. It’s an order, not a suggestion. I take a bite. It tastes like cardboard.
We hover at the edge of the crowd, not talking, just scanning the event for threats or exits. After a few minutes, Talia finishes her round and heads straight for us, her heels sharp enough to mark the marble. I brace for impact, but before she can get a word out, Beau turns to her and beams. “Prescott! Tell me something—do you think the canapés are better this year, or is that just my imagination?”
She gives him a look, a subtle tilt of the head that says she’s not fooled, but plays along. “Definitely better. Maybe they finally realized you can’t build a franchise on kale alone.”
He laughs, and in the space of that laugh, he pulls me a half step closer, arm pressing against mine, a shield against the next volley.
Talia’s eyes flick between us, quick as a camera shutter. “I’m just glad to see everyone getting along,” she says. “Teamwork off the ice is just as important, right Sage?”
She says it with the kind of syrupy emphasis that makes my skin crawl. “Right,” I say, and Beau jumps in before I can get steamrolled.
“Actually, I was hoping to steal Moretti for a second. I need her professional opinion on the, uh, nutrition display. One of the donors is asking about our off-season plan, and my knowledge tops out at ‘protein good, vodka bad.’”
Talia lifts a brow, but doesn’t challenge him. “By all means. We wouldn’t want to deprive anyone of the full Storm experience.” She lets us go with a faint, loaded smile, then pivots away, already lining up her next target.
Beau doesn’t let go. He guides me through the crowd, hand hovering at my back, until we’re out of the blast radius. When we reach the foot of the grand staircase, he lets his hand fall, but the phantom pressure remains. We stand there for a moment, side by side, both pretending to admire the architecture. Neither of us says anything.
Eventually, he breaks the silence. “You owe me,” he says, eyes on the banister, not on me.
“I know,” I say, and I do.
He glances at me, mouth twitching. “What do you think she wanted? The parting shot, I mean.”
“She wants to see if I’ll flinch.” I pick at a thread on my sleeve, realizing too late that it’s part of the lining. “I probably already did.”
He leans against the marble, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way that’s impossible for anyone who’s not an elite athlete or a sociopath. “Nobody cares about her, you know. They’re just here for the booze and the stories. You could burn down the building and they’d still offer you a contract extension.”
I look at him, try to find the part of that sentence that isn’t a lie. “You really believe that?”
