Page 75 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Helvete. Djävla helvete.
The tunnel to the ice is colder than usual, the kind of cold that leeches the feeling out of your hands. I go through the ritual: left skate, right skate, pads, helmet, gloves, tape. My hands shake for a second, then calm as I lace up, the mechanical repetition working like a sedative. I check my phone one last time before stowing it. The photo is still there, still perfect. I tuck it away and take the first step onto the ice.
Warm-ups are supposed to be autopilot. This morning, I can’t get the throttle right. Every pass I make is a little too hard, every shot off the stick a little wild. Grey chirps me, “You got somewhere to be?” and I want to flip him the bird but settle for slapping the next puck so hard it bounces off the glass and nearly concusses the backup goalie. The guys laugh, but the sound is tight, nervous, like they’re all waiting for something to explode.
Coach blows the whistle, once, twice, and the whole team lines up for drills. I take my spot on the left, eyes on the blue line, and try to banish the image of Sage’s face from my mind. It doesn’t work. I see her everywhere—in the flick of a towel, in the color of the Gatorade bottles, in the way the trainers hustle along the bench, pretending not to notice the memo taped up at every entrance.
First drill is a breakout. I fuck up the first pass, send it three feet ahead of the center, who dives but misses. Coach doesn’t yell, not yet, just makes a note on his clipboard. The silence is worse than any scream. I grit my teeth, take the next puck, and overcorrect, sending it straight into Grey’s skates.
After the third screwup, Coach stops the drill. The entire team stands still, breath frosting the air. He walks onto the ice and stands directly in front of me. “Is there a problem?” he says, not loud, but with a gravity that makes the rink shrink to the size of a phone booth.
“No, Coach,” I say. I don’t look away.
He holds the stare for a beat, then two. “Good. Because we don’t have room for problems right now. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He walks away, blows the whistle, and the drill restarts. I play harder, sharper, but it’s not the same. My hands remember what to do, but my brain is elsewhere—tracking the movements of every camera in the arena, every shadow in the stands, every possible angle where Sage could be caught by the wrong lens.
At the end of the session, I skate a few extra laps, burning off the rage until my legs tremble. I pull off my helmet, run my hands through my hair, and try to remember the last time I was this afraid of something I couldn’t punch.
The answer, of course, is never.
Practice runs late, and by the time I limp out of the locker room, the arena has shifted from day to night mode. The lights in the main bowl are down to half, and outside the big glass doors, the catering trailer glows like a spaceship set down on a planet of salted asphalt.
I cross the lot, steam from the showers still clinging to my skin, mixing with the cold air in a way that feels like punishment and reward all at once. The trailer is a repurposed lunch truck, white paint flaking, the Storm logo stenciled on the side but weathered to the point you have to squint to see it. The door is propped with a broken broom handle, and I duck inside, blinking against the brightness.
Sage is at her post, behind a battered Formica counter, the surface scattered with protein powders, pill bottles, and an industrial blender that sounds like a jet turbine. I watch from the doorway, caught between wanting to help and not wanting to be another witness to her exhaustion. I watch until she notices me, which takes longer than it should. When she finally looks up, the smile she manages is so small it’s almost negative.
“Hey,” she says, then waves me off before I can answer. “I know. I look like hell.”
She doesn’t, but I don’t say it. Instead, I nod toward the plates. “They got you doing catering now too?”
She shrugs, a one-shoulder move that leaves her lopsided. “Nutrition lead called in sick. I’m the next warm body on the list.” She sets the last bottle in place, then leans both hands on the counter and closes her eyes for a count of three. “You want something, or you just here to critique my presentation?”
I step closer, but not too close. “Just checking in,” I say.
Some of the sadness in her eyes dies down. “Thanks for that.”
I want to ask about the memo, about the blog post, about the way her name is now code forproblem. Instead, I point at the crate of bottled water behind the counter, where it’s perched at a bad angle, threatening to topple. “That’s not OSHA approved,” I say, trying to make her laugh.
She almost does, but then the crate shifts, and she moves fast, catching it with both hands. Her arms shake with the effort, and I see her wince—tiny, but real. I move to help, but she stops me with a glare so cold it might freeze the water inside the bottles.
“I’ve got it,” she says, through clenched teeth.
The crate slams down. One bottle falls, rolls across the floor, and bumps into my shoe. I pick it up, turn it over in my hands. “Let me help, Sage.”
She’s still bracing the crate, shoulders up, jaw set. “I said, I’ve got it.” The words echo in the trailer, louder than anything the blender could do.
I get why she’s being paranoid. Any wrong angle that captures us looking like more than two professionals speaking with each other, and she loses her job while I get into deep shit.
She’s protecting me.
I set the bottle on the counter, hands raised. “Okay,” I say, soft. “Okay.”
She releases the crate, then straightens, rubbing her palms together. There’s a red mark on her wrist, and I want to ask if she’s okay, really okay, but I know the answer.
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