Page 4 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I do a quick, silent inventory—hair still up, shirt tucked, zero visible tape residue on my hands. Ready as I’ll ever be.
He leads the way into the corridor outside the treatment suite, shoes squeaking on polished floor.
The hallway is half lit, nothing but the distant echo of a treadmill and the click of skates on tile.
Ryland stops in a patch of winter sunlight bleeding in from the parking lot.
He never breaks stance, arms folded tight, brow set like it was chiseled in the offseason.
“I won’t take much of your time,” he says. “Just need to go over a couple things. Team policy.”
I nod, keeping my gaze level. Ryland points at the badge clipped to my lanyard. “You know why we brought you on, right?”
“Clean up the mess,” I say, matching his volume. “Set a standard. Make the brand proud.”
He half smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to keep these guys healthy. On the ice, not on Instagram.”
I hear the dig, and I’m not sure if it’s about my predecessors or me. “Understood.”
He steps a fraction closer, voice dropping. “I’ll be blunt, Sage. The last team lost their objectivity. You know what that means?”
I do. “They let it get personal.”
He nods. “Lot of young talent here. They get attached. They get reckless. One slipup, and it’s front page.”
Another staffer—a woman with a clipboard, probably nutrition—breezes past, eyes flicking from Ryland to me, then away again. Ryland’s jaw flexes. “We can’t afford another tabloid story. You keep it professional, you stay. You don’t, and it’s over. Simple.”
I meet his gaze, posture straightening by instinct. “I got it. I’m not here to make headlines.”
He grunts, almost satisfied. “Good. Then let’s get to work.”
He peels off toward the gym, but the pressure lingers like a bruise.
I stand there a few seconds longer, letting the throb fade.
I catch my own reflection in the glass: unflinching, if a little pale around the jawline.
The next appointment is five minutes away, so I get to work, and one by one, the hours pass until it starts to feel almost normal.
By 10:30 p.m., the building is a mausoleum.
The night janitor runs the floor polisher through the halls, and I sit in the empty treatment suite, drowning in paperwork, the only light a cold rectangle from the fluorescent bulb above.
My laptop battery chimes its swan song.
It’d be wise to go home.
Instead, I scan the digital schedule one more time, prepping notes for tomorrow.
Old habits—work late, think too much, double-check everything so you’re never the weak link.
A metallic clatter rattles down the hallway.
At first, I ignore it, but then comes the faint, unmistakable sound of a glass cup popping off skin.
I creep down the corridor, following the sound.
The recovery suite is lit only by a single lamp, its yellow glow barely enough to see by. The room smells like liniment and something metallic, maybe blood. I peek inside.
