Page 10 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
He stops the tape every six seconds to underline the ways we nearly fumbled the last period, and if the volume on his pointer clicks any louder, my eardrums are going to retire early.
I zone out, letting my mind drift to tomorrow’s practice, the cold snap of the air in the arena, and the exact way Sage’s eyes flash when she’s about to roast me.
Then Talia appears, sliding into the seat beside me with a legal pad and a look that could freeze-dry a Siberian husky.
She waits for Ryland to hit pause, then leans in, whispering out of the side of her mouth. “You know the athletic commission reads your quotes, right?”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint them,” I whisper back. “Besides, ‘innovative hands’ was a compliment.”
Her lips twitch. “Just be careful. This city eats drama for breakfast.”
“I’m not the one they need to worry about,” I say. “Besides, I’m practically married to this team.”
“Don’t make me tell your actual exes,” she says, flicking her eyes to the screen.
But the banter is a shield.
Underneath, I can feel her watching me, cataloguing every microexpression for the next press disaster.
When the film session ends, Ryland dismisses us with the usual “Bring more grit tomorrow.” I’m halfway out the door when Talia snags my wrist, just for a second.
“Seriously, Beau,” she says, low and urgent. “Don’t be stupid enough to get involved with her.”
She doesn’t say who, but she doesn’t have to.
That’s the thing about people who know your secrets: they can gut you with mere words.
The first time I hooked up with Talia was after a preseason win in Philly.
She had me pinned against the glass wall of her hotel suite, arms over my head, and when she whispered, “Don’t you dare fall for me,”
I swore I wouldn’t.
Two months later, she was moving her stuff into my closet and double-booking my dentist appointments.
Three months after that, I found out I wasn’t the only guy getting postgame highlights in her DMs.
She said it “wasn’t serious”—just a backup plan in case I got boring.
That should’ve cured me of bad ideas.
But there’s a part of me that can’t resist testing the strength of a system by pushing it to the edge.
I need a minute to clear my head.
Most of the team cleared out fast; bus to a sponsor event, drinks after, whatever gets them into their regular Friday-night rituals.
I lace up, slip past security, and take the long way around to do a post-practice routine with a slow lap around the upper concourse, watching the cleaning crew swab the seats for tomorrow’s home game.
The lights are low, the empty rows echoing with nothing but the hush of brooms and the occasional beep of a floor scrubber.
I pause at the glass overlooking the main ice, watching the surface heal itself under the Zamboni.
For a second, the world is calm; no cameras, no trainers, just me and the sound of water freezing in real time.
For the hundredth time, I tell myself that I won’t do anything stupid.
I’ll keep things professional, play the golden boy, and never, ever risk the team for a crush that probably isn’t even mutual.
