Page 76 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
SAGE
It’s game night again. That means movement and shouting and cameras and a soundtrack of slapshots and skate blades and someone inevitably forgetting their lucky jockstrap. But for me, this is something else entirely. Time feels sticky, stretched, like the countdown on a microwave when you know itshouldbeep but it just won’t. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to tell them.
My hands shake just enough to be annoying, the kind of tremble that makes the plastic handles on the portable rehab kits rattle against each other like I’ve got nerves I can’t admit to. I stack them on the folding table like it matters, like symmetry can anchor me to the floor when everything else inside me is threatening to lift off. Kinesiology tape, ice packs, massage ball, the overworked Theragun with the loose attachment I still haven’t fixed. I’ve done this routine a hundred times. Muscle memory, spinal reflex. But tonight, it feels like I’m standing outside my own body, watching myself go through the motions while something warmer and meaner brews behind my ribs.
The ache in my lower back pulses in time with the overhead lights. There’s something almost majestic about the way a bodythis tired still performs. I press a hand to the small of my spine, try to stretch discreetly, then curse under my breath when that only makes the cramp worse. The nausea waits its turn like a bouncer at the velvet rope. Not now, I tell it, like I’ve got some kind of authority.
I’m not telling the boys because Ihaveto. Not because the logistics are suddenly impossible to hide. I want them to know. Really know. And I want to see what they do with it. That’s the part that surprises me. It isn’t fear anymore, not the usual bone-deep flinch I’m used to carrying around like an accessory. It’s curiosity. Hope, maybe.God help me.
My reputation’s been tossed like a puck during warmup, clacked around between skates, but they haven’t blinked, not once. They’ve stood beside me like the chaos didn’t matter, like the whispers in the hallway weren’t about us. It feels like they deserve this piece of the story. Not because it’ll make anything easier, but because it’s ours.
I pick up the roll of tape, find the edge, and smooth it out against the side of my thumb. The rhythm helps. Tape, smooth, place. Repeat. My stomach gurgles in a way that makes me question the life choices that led to microwaving leftover soup at midnight, but I breathe through it and keep going. This is what I know. This is mine.
I set up the stretch station near the door: foam rollers, resistance bands of different tensions, mats, ice-cup bags. Beau stopped by a few minutes ago with the full squad trailer whiteboard—the X’s and O’s for tonight’s game flashed under fluorescent light. I ran through it when I got a minute, picking out transitions, checking edgework drills, noting the predicted line combos for the Monarchs tonight: their power play featuring Drake and Richards, Grey guarding the crease.
I blink and the overhead light blurs at the edges. I blink again hard, desperate for clarity. Focus. Keep going. Can’t slow down. Not now.
Outside the trailer, I hear the swell of theStorm Frontcameras—their pregame hustle hype reel they’ll cut later for social media. It sounds like background noise in my head. Someone calls out the Storm’s hot streak, the energy in the bench tonight, the undefeated home streak. Even through my fog, I feel a twitch of pride. You thrive when it counts. Just get through this.
One of the camera crew pokes his lens through the open door. He ducks in and points it at me. “Get that physio hustle,” he quips, voice loud, joking, friendly. I force a smile, nod, tap at my rehab kit.
“Yeah, gotta keep the crew in shape,” I say, voice quivering just enough to betray me if someone listened too closely. I grab a wrapped ice-cup and hold it up. The camera clicks. Be one with the work. Even though it’s killing me.
Beau steps in behind me, tossing a towel over my shoulder. “You good?” he asks, voice low, eyes scanning me like he can see past the sweat. I pat my arm like it helps. “Thanks.”
“Peachy,” I lie. I drag the towel across my face and flick hair out of my eyes. My vision thumps at the edges again. I tighten my grip on the bench as I step forward, grabbing a foam roller to set on the far mat.
My back twinges again—a hot spike of pain just above my sacrum, like someone punching me from inside. My fingers tremble. I ground my feet, shift my weight. Hyperextension stretches, side bends, rotate the torso—building stretches but with caution. I cannot let this lay me down. Clarke, fucking rookie, counts on me to get his knee loosened before warm-ups. Kingston might need his cage strapped tight. Grey? He doesn’t actually need me, but I know he’ll want the carb-gel bags andice bath later, just for the habit of it. Marco, Luc—they’ll take anything I’ve got.
Another camera swivel—this one following Beau as he grabs a clipboard, calls out some tape-on edge drills to one of the trainers prepping on the other side. The lens glances at me again, and I suck in a breath and meet it head-on, pretending I don’t feel the vertigo boiling.
Hands shaking, I assemble the portable T-bar station next to the roller. I connect the tension bands to the hooks on the wall. I load the knee-compression sleeves, heat wraps, gel-pack sockets into the bin. Somewhere in all that I feel Beau’s hand on my shoulder. His voice is real, not just bantering camera fodder.
“You good?” he asks again.
“Totally,” I say. I flex through the pain, trade out a gel pack, and shift kit boxes. Each breath tastes like iron, sweat, desperate willpower. I swallow again, slower, more deliberate. Hold it in. Don’t let it rise.
Beau keeps watching. He edges closer, lets the lens focus on me again. I glance at him, grit my teeth. His eyes don’t judge, but they’re not sure either. I should keep him away from my back pain bullshit. The last thing I need is pity.
But maybe I do. Just a little.
“Watching the line combos?” I ask him, buying time, stalling before I fall apart. My voice cracks.
“Yeah.” He nods, gestures out the door. “They’re running the same setup—Kovacs on breakout, Rossi ferrying biscuit to the point. Grey’s guarding the crease. Might pull Kingston mid-power play if Michaels gets too nasty.”
The words make everything snap back—focus. I edge one of the kits closer to the door, nudge another toward the rolling board.
“Good,” I say. My voice steadies. “Could use two full trays at the bench tonight.”
“Got it,” he says.
The camera lens lingers for a second longer. I drop the towel, wipe my hands on my jeans. I force the same smile, nod again at the crew, “All good here,” and step aside.
My vision yanks sideways again. Everything darkens at the edges. My world narrows to Beau’s face, concerned but quiet. I blink, ground myself again. Re-center.
“Want me to run Clarke’s knee?” I gesture toward the trainer’s area.
“Yeah,” he says, softly. “But give yourself a break first. I’ve got the stretch station. I’ll handle it.”
