Page 84 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Finn hesitates at the door, hand flat against the surface. “If you need anything,” he says, “just ask.”
“I won’t,” I say, but I mean thank you.
They leave without slamming, without fanfare, just a soft click, and then the world returns to its original size. I wait until their footsteps fade down the hall, then slide to the floor, back against the futon, legs curled up like a comma.
My hand finds my belly, still flat enough that I could hide it with a sweatshirt, but now it feels like a foreign country, one that could go to war with the rest of me at any second.
The apartment is silent except for the throb of blood in my ears and the faint, neighborly sound of someone else’s TV through the wall.
I stay like that for a long time, counting the beats until I lose track of the number. Only then do the tears come, because I had what most dream of, and I tossed it away like I do everything else in my life.
A phone call later, I pack like a ritual. Like taping an ankle or lacing a skate—there’s only one right sequence, and if you break it, the whole thing collapses. I move room to room, collecting only what I can’t live without: the black duffel from under the bed, a tangle of chargers, three days’ worth of socks and the most forgiving bras I own. I try to keep my breathing even, but it comes in sawtooth bursts.
Every five minutes, my phone goes off. At first it’s work. Then it’s my own assistant, pingingLet me know if you’re okay, her concern so bright I have to put the phone face down.
In the closet, I pull down the maternity clothes I bought three weeks ago. I haven’t worn them yet. The tags are still on, thefabric crisp and unyielding. I fold each one, slower than I need to, smoothing out creases that nobody but me will see. At the bottom of the stack, I find the first Storm tee I was ever issued and pack that too.
The kitchen counter is a crime scene. A mug, two spoons, a single salt packet torn open and abandoned. At the far end, a photo in a cheap black frame. The last team party before everything combusted: Beau and Finn in matching button-downs, Grey with a beer bottle mid-toast, all three of them with arms slung around each other’s necks. I am in the background, out of focus, mouth open in a laugh I don’t remember.
I pick up the frame. My fingers drift across the glass, tracing the three faces, then the blur of my own outline. I want to shatter the frame or take it with me, but instead I set it down and turn it face down on the laminate.
I zip the duffel, check that the charger is inside, and sweep the room with my eyes. At the door, I pause. The apartment is so quiet it feels like the world after an evacuation, each surface humming with the memory of what used to be here. I run my hand over my stomach, then pull on my coat.
The lights are off as I step into the hallway, but I know the way by muscle memory. The door closes behind me, softer than a secret. I get to Cassidy’s apartment late at night and after she hugs me, she lets me sleep it off.
When I wake up, it’s with one thought: Cassidy’s apartment is nothing like mine. The walls are painted the color of cake frosting, sunlight slams through big clean windows, and every horizontal surface is crammed with plants that somehow thrive despite neglect.
Cass works nights at the hospital but always leaves some kind of soup on the stove, covered and labeled with a sticky note that saysnukable. She doesn’t force company, but she always checks in before heading out, her scrubs half buttoned and eyes stillsticky with sleep. Sometimes she finds me at the table, hunched over my laptop with a web of windows open—one for nutrition science, one for prenatal care, one for any job that doesn’t require a physical body or a background check.
On the fourth day, she brings me a mug of chamomile and sits across the table, chin in her hands. The silence stretches, unspooling like thread from a bobbin.
“So,” she says softly. “What’s next?”
I run my thumb over the laptop’s space bar. “I don’t know. I can’t go back to the Storm. Not now, maybe not ever.”
Cass nods, as if she’s already prepared for this. “I saw a job post a couple of days ago. You could do remote work. Consulting. You’re overqualified, and nobody hates dieticians.”
I try to smile, but my mouth won’t find the shape. “Depends on the dietician.”
She shrugs. “You’d be good at it. You’re the only person who ever got me to eat breakfast.”
“Only because you fainted in the stairwell.”
“Still counts,” she says, and sets the mug down so gently I barely hear the ceramic kiss the table.
My phone buzzes on the table, a low drone that vibrates through the wood. The screen is a tombstone of notifications: a dozen unread emails, three missed calls, a string of push alerts from sites I thought I’d unsubscribed from, and one text from my assistant that says,Storm Frontis running a segment tonight. Do you want me to watch it for you?
I ignore her text and swipe through the headlines, each more lurid than the last:
Storm Physio on Indefinite Leave—Sources Say It’s Personal
Baby on Board? Rumors Swirl Around Team’s Sideline Staff
Who’s Responsible? League Probes Storm’s Pregnant Pause
Every article uses my name, every one paired with a blurry photo of me at the rink, one with Finn’s hand on my elbow and my head thrown back in laughter. The caption is a masterpiece of innuendo:Moretti and Sorensen: Storm’s Hottest Power Couple?
I read through the comments on one, because I am a masochist and because my lizard brain thinks I might find something redeemable there. Instead it’s a pile-on: Some people think it’s hilarious, some think I should be fired for lack of professionalism, some are genuinely outraged that I would distract the team during a playoff push. A few defend me, but their words are drowned out by the churn.
