Page 94 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
There’s a charge underneath, a voltage that makes my nerves itch.
Beau glances at the others, and when nobody else steps up, he does. “We found out about Talia,” he says, each word slow, deliberate. “She was running a surveillance thing on you. Not just the usual HR stuff—she had theFrontcrew combing every bit of footage, tracking you even when you were off the clock. Grey got wind of it from a guy on the ops team, and then Finn managed to sweet-talk the media intern into showing us the raw files.”
I want to laugh, but the urge is buried beneath a layer of dread. “So I was a case study,” I say, and the bitterness is a surprise even to me.
Finn shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. “Not a study. More like a scapegoat. Talia was trying to make it look like you’d violated every possible protocol, even before the pregnancy. Every missed hour, every time you skipped a meeting to handle a real emergency, it was in the file.”
Grey’s jaw flexes, visible even from across the room. “She got your med records, Sage. Without your sign-off.”
The world narrows, sound draining away except for the words echoing in my head. My hand slides to my stomach, as if to shield it from the violation.
“She what?” I say, but the question is rhetorical; I know, in the marrow, exactly what she did.
Beau paces, circling the coffee table, not meeting my eye. “It gets worse. Talia edited theFrontfootage to make it look like you were high, or out of it, or ignoring the team. There’s a three-minute cut of the trailer collapse, and it’s missing the part where you told Finn to call the medic. It’s just you, out cold, and the narrative that you were strung out or unfit.”
I sit. The futon is as hard as it looks, but it holds me. My legs tingle, then go numb. “So you’re telling me,” I say, voice paper-thin, “that every part of my life for the last few months is on a hard drive somewhere, labeled exhibit A?”
Finn nods. “That’s the part we can prove.”
Nobody speaks for a second. The only sound is the click of the baseboard heater, the intermittent wail of a siren from four stories below.
Grey’s voice is level, but the words are loaded. “We took it to the GM, legal, and HR. They all seemed relieved to have a reason to get rid of her.”
I laugh, this time for real. “You mutinied.”
He shrugs. “Somebody had to.”
Finn turns from the window, bracing both hands on the frame. “We got her to admit it. On record. She said you were a liability, that she flagged you for ‘the good of the team.’ Then she threatened us, said we’d lose our contracts if we made it public.”
I stare at the wall, at the Scandinavian print, the only thing in the room that isn’t a memory or a threat. “And?”
Beau spreads his hands, palms up. “And now she’s on leave. Indefinite, with pay, but off the team. The league’s doing an investigation, but everyone who mattered already knows what went down.”
My chest hurts in a way I wasn’t expecting. There’s no relief, just a hollow where the anger used to be.
Finn tries to smile, but it comes out crooked. “You could come back,” he says. “If you want.”
I look at my belly, at the impossible roundness of it, and shake my head. “You know I can’t.”
Grey is ready for this. “We thought you’d say that. Which is why”—he glances at Beau, who nods—“we set up a backup. One of the sponsors is starting a wellness thing for players and ex-players. It’s all online, remote, but they want you to run it. Your name, your protocols, your rules.”
Finn grins, the old reckless light flickering in his eyes. “I’ll be your first client,” he says. “I already quit drinking.”
Beau, still crouched, takes my hand and squeezes it. “We want you, Sage,” he says. “Not just the team. Not just for tape and protein bars and ‘good job’ emails. We want you in our lives.”
The words crack something open. For months, I’ve run every scenario: humiliation, expulsion, shame. I never once imagined anyone would fight for me.
I cover my face with my hands, and for a second, the whole room is nothing but sound: my own ragged breathing, the shudder of a subway underfoot, the faint, hopeful laughter from the street below.
When I look up, the three of them are still there. Waiting.
I clear my throat, try to find a joke, but all that comes out is, “I’m not sure I even know how to do anything but this.”
Finn shrugs. “We’ll teach you.”
Beau says, “We’ll figure it out together.”
Grey, the last to speak, gives a slow, deliberate nod. “You’re not alone, Sage. Not anymore.”
