Page 69 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
When the last round of players leaves for warm-ups, I lean on the edge of the table and take inventory. Every surface is chaos, wrappers and cut tape and beads of water from the gel packs pooling at the edges. But there’s an order to it that nobody but me would see: the blues are almost out, the black is half gone, the towels are already wet enough for postgame use. The evidence of work well-done.
For a minute, I allow myself to feel proud. Then the fear creeps back in, slow as a leak. I think of the footage, of Talia, of the email that is probably already drafted and waiting in my inbox. I think of the babies, of the future I’m dragging into a world that can’t stop watching and judging and waiting for me to fuck up.
I close my eyes and count to four. Unfortunately, I open them to Talia.
She’s in heels today, navy pencil skirt, blazer with the Storm logo embossed in silver at the pocket. Her hair is pulled back tight enough to peel the skin from her scalp, and her smile has the tensile strength of fishing wire. She’s talking to someone behind her—probably a sideline producer—but the second she spots me, she pivots, lets the conversation die mid-sentence, and closes the distance with the slow, hungry glide of a shark.
“Sage,” she says, and it’s the kind of greeting that dares you to act like you have somewhere else to be. “You got a second?”
I try for a neutral smile. “Always.”
She steps in, half a meter closer than social convention requires, and drops her voice to a private frequency. “Loved the setup in the east hallway today. The crew got some great footage of you in action. Very, um”—she pauses, hunting for a word that won’t sound like a bullet—“dynamic.”
I let my eyes drift to her left eyebrow, so I don’t have to make eye contact. “Glad it’s working for the cameras.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, even though there’s nothing out of place. “You know, there’s a push to showcase more of the human side of support staff. Fans love an underdog story. We’re thinking of doing a featurette: ‘Women Who Power the Storm,’ that kind of thing.”
Her tone is syrupy, but the warning is pure acid. She wants to know what I’m hiding, how I plan to spin it when the spotlight lands on me. For a second, I consider the version of myself that would smile back, say yes, lean into the brand. But that’s not me, and it never will be.
“I don’t really do interviews,” I say, then add, “I’m better behind the scenes.”
She tilts her head, all concern. “But you’re such a natural in front of the camera. They caught some really interesting moments on the security feeds last week. You and Grey, after hours? It’s honestly very authentic.”
My stomach ices over. I feel my hand move toward my abdomen before I can stop it, a subconscious shield, but I catch myself and jam it into the pocket of my sweats. Too late: her eyes flick down, scan my torso, then flick back up. Her gaze lingers on my face, the width of my jaw, the slight puff at the edge of my cheeks I’ve been pretending isn’t there. The math is already happening behind her eyes.
She leans in, whispers, “There’s talk of bringing in fresh blood for the offseason. PR wants someone with ‘growth potential.’ Just a heads-up.”
I force a smile. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
She holds the pose for a second too long, then straightens and smooths her skirt. “You’re a valuable asset, Sage. Don’t forget it.”
She’s gone before I can reply, heels tapping away down the corridor. I stay rooted to the spot, the heat from her words burning my skin. I take three slow breaths, then a fourth, counting in time with the echo of her footsteps. My heart is hammering, not from fear, but from the sick, electric clarity that comes from being hunted.
A junior trainer rounds the corner, phone in hand, and pauses when he sees me. He offers a smile, soft and apologetic, and I realize I’ve been standing there with my arms crossed, jaw clenched hard enough to crack a tooth.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just—thinking through a new protocol.”
He nods, doesn’t push, and ducks into the skate sharpener room. I flex my fingers, shake out the tension, and walk away, counting my steps to make sure I’m still moving.
I make it as far as the stairwell before the adrenaline hits full force. I lean against the cinderblock wall, breathing in shallow bursts, and replay the conversation in my head, trying to map out every layer of threat and subtext. Talia knows. Or suspects. Or maybe she’s just good at guessing which animals are ready to be picked off the back of the herd.
It doesn’t matter. I’ve been underestimated before. I know how to hide in plain sight.
I straighten, tuck the loose hair behind my own ear, and head upstairs to the trainers’ lounge. There’s still work to do, and if Talia wants a show, I’ll give her the best damn performance she’s ever seen.
The city is back to dark by the time I get home, a cold flicker in the windows across the courtyard and the old man who chain-smokes on the stoop already counting down to midnight. I don’t bother turning on the overheads. I slip off my shoes, pad barefoot to the kitchenette, and eat a handful of trail mix straight from the bag, barely tasting the shards of almond and chocolate.The day is still alive in my skin, every muscle twitching with the memory of work, of Talia’s smile, of the echo in the corridor when the crowd peeled away and left me alone.
I sit at the kitchen table, open the laptop, and scroll through the treatment plans I typed up after the last injury report. I fix a typo, then two, then delete a paragraph and rewrite it from scratch. It’s the only way I know how to slow my heart down—fix something, improve it, make it ready for the next disaster.
At 10:14, there is a new email, flagged urgent. I close the treatment doc and stare at the subject line for a full thirty seconds before I open it.
PENDING HR REVIEW – PERSONAL CONDUCT CONCERNS
I read it once, then again, then a third time, the words crawling across the screen like ants. The body of the email is all boilerplate:
We are conducting a routine review of employee interactions…
