Page 90 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
“She wants to bury Sage,” Beau says. “And if she gets her way, she’ll bury all of us in the fallout.”
“We don’t let her,” Grey says, quiet but firm. “We don’t make it about retaliation. We make it about proof.”
Beau exhales, a long, steady breath that fogs the air in front of him. “You need her to admit it?”
Grey nods. “We need her to say it out loud.”
Beau’s eyes roam toward the building, toward the glass-walled office above the rink where Talia’s probably still seated, smug behind her desk like she’s the one who built this team.
“She does that,” he says slowly, “you better have a net ready to catch the whole damn building.”
I don’t hesitate. “We will.”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. Just pulls his sleeves down and sets his jaw.
“You think she’ll fall for it?” he asks.
Grey’s answer is calm and razor-sharp.
“She’s already halfway there,” he says. “She just needs to believe she’s the smartest one in the room.”
Beau gives a single nod, the kind you only make when you’re past the point of doubt, past fear, past wondering what this might cost. “We get her to say it herself,” he says. “Then it’s not just suspicion. It’s career ending.”
32
GOAL
BEAU
If there is a hell for hockey, it is this: waiting for the enemy’s guard to drop, with a team’s worth of secrets itching underneath your skin. I try to keep my breathing steady, but the muscles in my jaw have been locked all morning, and my teeth are starting to tingle from the pressure. Every step down the corridor is a countdown to impact. My feet are too loud on the tile, the walls too thin, and every framed photo of the Storm’s core values glares down at me with the hypocrisy of a condemned man’s last meal.
Outside Talia’s office, I count to five. Then I count again, just to see if it feels different the second time. It doesn’t. She’s expecting me—her assistant made that clear in the email, with the time and location underlined twice—and I know better than to give her the satisfaction of seeing me sweat. I flex my hands, roll my shoulders, and knock.
The door swings open before the sound has time to fade. Talia is already behind her desk, perched on the edge of the seat like she’s rehearsing for a campaign ad. She has two monitors up, both tuned to the same highlight reel from last night’sStorm Frontsegment. Her eyes are glued to the video, but the rest ofher is all performance: crisp blazer, silk blouse, hair in a ponytail so severe it looks like a threat. The smell of her perfume—a hospital-clean thing with a chemical afterburn—hangs just long enough to make me regret every time I told myself she was “just doing her job.”
“Beau,” she says, not looking up from her notes. “Right on time. I like that.”
“Some of us still believe in clocks,” I say, keeping my voice at the same neutral chill as hers. “You wanted to see me?”
She gestures at the guest chair, the one angled so the afternoon sun catches you right in the retinas. I sit, planting my elbows on my knees and locking my hands together, the way I always do when I need to look like I give a shit.
Talia glances over the rim of her glasses. “You look tense,” she says, feigning concern so poorly it almost circles back to honesty.
I shrug. “Rough morning. I assume this is about Sage?”
“Isn’t everything these days?” She tilts her head, lets the silence balloon between us, then turns the monitor so I can see the freeze-frame: Sage on the stretcher, Finn at her side, the caption reading,Storm’s Own Family Drama. The glee in Talia’s voice is so well concealed it’s practically a flavor. “I wanted to see how you were holding up.”
I give her the courtesy of a smile, though it feels like breaking my own jaw. “You mean, how the team is holding up under constant investigation, or how I personally am coping with being a professional liability?”
She folds her hands. “You’re not a liability, Beau. You’re a leader. Which is why I’m coming to you first.” She lowers her voice, just enough to sound like she’s letting me in on the big secret. “I think we both know Sage has been…compromised, for a while. This isn’t just about the team anymore.”
“Right,” I say. “You mean the pregnancy.”
Her pupils flare, just a tick. “Among other things.”
The pressure in my head starts to mount, but I let her talk.
Talia leans back, crossing her legs, the hem of her skirt slicing a perfect angle. “I know you and Sage had a history. I’m not here to judge. But when a member of our medical staff puts three lives at risk, as well as her own, it’s not just a personal problem. It’s a team issue. It’s my job to protect the franchise, even when it’s messy.” She taps a pen against the legal pad on her desk, the rhythm steady and unhurried.
