Page 9 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I give them my usual: big shrugs, bigger smiles, all the right lines about “team chemistry” and “staying hungry.”
Then comes the curveball.
A rookie journalist, probably just graduated from a YouTube channel, lobs: “Hey Beau, any thoughts on the new physical therapist? She’s gone viral for her injury prevention routines. You a believer in the Moretti Method?”
A dozen heads pivot.
The whole room is suddenly more awake.
I know better than to answer honestly.
But honesty never made headlines.
“She’s got innovative hands,” I say, keeping my face straight while trying very hard not to choke on the world’s worst-timed laugh. “I think I speak for the whole team when I say we’re in excellent care. Plus, her tape jobs are almost as good as my grandma’s pasta.”
The room cracks up.
The PR director, lurking in the back, does not.
I clock the look and immediately regret nothing. After the cameras pack up, I duck into the player’s lounge to kill time before film.
Someone left the morning’s New York Times open on the table; my face beams out from the back page, next to an opinion piece about athletes and accountability.
The photo editor picked my best side, I’ll give them that.
I pour a black coffee and scroll my notifications.
The Moretti quote is already blowing up—fans, teammates, a group chat full of blue-check ex-players.
Grey McTavish, in classic fashion, weighs in first: “Innovative hands? That’s what she said, bud.”
I send back a GIF of Michael Scott.
The real action is in the DMs, where Talia’s name is waiting, unread.
PR director, ex-girlfriend, co-architect of my image rehab after last year’s tabloid disaster.
Her texts are always exactly four lines, never more, never less.
Talia:Next time you comment on staff, remember we have HR training Monday.
Talia:Or I’ll add another hour to your community outreach.
Talia:No one wants that, least of all the children.
Talia:See you at postgame.
I smile in spite of myself. She’s always been a better adversary than ally, which is probably why we lasted six months and then didn’t speak for another twelve.
Our breakup was less a split than a mutually assured detonation: her career, my reputation, a very expensive sushi dinner reduced to one hissing argument over who got to keep the apartment’s wine fridge.
I’m not stupid enough to believe Sage would ever tangle herself with a player, not after the public crash-and-burn of her predecessor.
But the idea of it—the possibility—fizzes under my skin like a dropped Alka-Seltzer.
I chug the coffee, check my reflection in the microwave (perfect), and head to film, which is basically a team meeting where we rewatch footage from the last game so the coaches can break down everything we did wrong in slow, painful detail.
Ryland runs the session like he’s teaching a master class in boredom.
