Page 1 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

SAGE

T he fingerprint scanner chirps like a nervous sparrow as the heavy door to the New York Storm’s training facility slides open, spitting me into a vortex of industrial-strength air-conditioning and raw, post-scrimmage testosterone.

The flooring is so pristine and waxed I hesitate, wondering if there’s an unspoken rule against scuffing it with my battered Nikes.

My first day, and I’ve already overthought the literal first step , I think to myself with a dry chuckle.

Clipboard in my left hand, two fully stocked kinesiology kits in my right, I march into the facility like I’m storming Omaha Beach.

I have a talent for projecting bulletproof confidence on exactly zero sleep, though the mesh topknot bulging under my ball cap is a minor tell.

The glass corridor curves into the lobby, where a bronze statue of a mid-slapshot winger glares at me like he already knows I’m here to make enemies.

Coach Ryland’s office is supposed to be just past the weight room, but the map in my onboarding packet is outdated, so I detour into a jungle of hydromassage pods, Hypervolt guns, and a squat rack that looks like it could bench-press the entire Brooklyn Bridge.

In the next room, a fresh wave of sweat and Dri-FIT assaults me; three players are arguing over fantasy league stats as they juggle kettlebells.

All of them glance up.

Only one of them whistles.

I duck into the treatment suite, wedge my clipboard under my arm, and clock the environment: white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, ten beds neatly made with Storm logo sheets, and a squat mini-fridge that’s strictly for ice packs, not snacks.

There’s a faint, surgical tang from the new disinfectant protocol.

It hits me that, until last month, the Storm’s last physiotherapy team had been two dudes who spent more time on TikTok than taping ankles.

The scandal was so messy, someone should have squeegeed it off the local news.

Now I’m the “new direction.”

My first patient is exactly on time.

Captain Beau Kingston glides in with the casual authority of a man who could murder a slapshot from his knees and still make it look like poetry.

He’s already in full compression gear, the Storm’s blue and black splayed in a topographical map over muscle and old bruises.

He sees me, and for a half second, something uncertain flashes across his face before he covers it with a cocky grin. “Doc Moretti, right?” he says. “Is it doctor, or do I gotta call you Sage?”

He parks himself on the nearest table, not bothering to wait for a cue.

His hair is still wet, and the smell of eucalyptus shampoo wafts off him.

The effect is disarmingly fresh for a guy who just skated a three-hour practice.

“You can call me Sage,” I say. “Only my mother uses my last name, and only when she’s listing my failures.”

He laughs, but he’s already rolling his left thigh, scanning for sore spots.

He knows the drill. He just doesn’t care about the rituals.

“You want a rundown?” he asks, flexing his hamstring so the line of it pops against his skin. “Or you already have a psych profile on all of us?”

I perch on the rolling stool, click the pen, and pretend I’m not sizing up the best view of his injury site. “Give me the rundown, and I’ll fact-check it against your psych profile.”

He grins again, and I don’t miss how perfect his teeth are. “Strained it in December, flared up again last week. Nothing catastrophic, but the old guy—Coach—wants it cleared by Monday.”

“Any bruising?” I ask, already running gloved fingers along the muscle.

“Only my ego,” he says. “Last game didn’t exactly boost the team’s self-esteem.”

I find the knot near his insertion point and dig in, watching him not wince. “I can go harder if you’re trying to impress me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he deadpans, but now his eyes are on me, two sharp blue searchlights. “You look younger in person.”

“Photoshop works wonders,” I say, taping off the edge of the tape. “This’ll be a little cold.”

He shivers, but doesn’t break eye contact, even as the chilled tape zips over his skin.

He holds eye contact until the exact moment it would be inappropriate, then lets go.

“Seen anyone else today?” he asks.

I reach for the next strip of tape. “You’re my first.”

He arches a brow. “Guess that makes you lucky.”

“You have a weird definition of luck,” I say, but it’s a careful retort; I want to keep this at the level of sharp, professional banter.

Every alarm bell in my head knows the type; charismatic, boundary obliterating, a human PR crisis just waiting for a weak spot.

“Let me know if this is too tight,” I say, tensioning the tape just a little more than necessary.

“Not my first rodeo,” he says. “You can put your whole back into it, Sage.”

I finish the wrap, secure it, and stand back. He hops off the table, tests a lunge, and only then does he let a flicker of pain through.

“You have another client now?” he asks, glancing at my clipboard. He doesn’t want to leave.

“Finn Sorensen in fifteen,” I say. “But if you want to make my day more interesting, I have time for the calf release you skipped.”

He considers it, then shakes his head, grinning as if we’ve just shared a secret.

“Maybe next time,” he says, and winks as he saunters off.

The moment the door closes, I let the smile fade, exhale, and make notes on his chart.

Charming, competent, insufferable.

I can’t decide if the real hazard in this job is muscle strain or exposure to Beau Kingston’s full-court press.

I check the next appointment on the schedule, line up the kinesiology tape, and glance at the window.

Outside, the world is buried in January slush, all the colors bled out by the overcast sky and the salt trucks.

Inside, the lights hum with the steadiness of machines that never sleep, and I prep the table for the next test of my resolve.

Finn Sorensen is exactly on time.

He’s tall, not the cartoonish NFL kind but with a swimmer’s symmetry, his head bowed so the first thing I see is the white-blond hair he never seems to comb.

He doesn’t knock, just pushes through with an air of this is my hour, so let’s make it brief .

“Finn,” I say, warm as a towel fresh from the dryer. “Shoulder?”

He shrugs, which is a weird flex for someone with a rotator issue. “Is what they say.”

His English is perfect, but he uses as few words as possible. It might be a Swedish thing, but I have doubts.

I point to the sanitized vinyl table as he takes off his warm-up jacket with the resignation of a man undressing for a TSA pat down.

The Storm’s logo ripples over his chest, the new uniform tighter than last year’s.

I get gloves on, open a packet of myofascial tape, and gesture for him to lie on his stomach. “This will take less than ten minutes if you don’t fight me.”

He grunts, then turns to squint at the clock. “I fight only if you make it weird.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m immune to Scandinavian weirdness.” I peel back the tape, measuring his scapulae with the careful, clinical touch drilled into me from four years with the Olympic team. “You ever use tape before?”

He snorts. “In Sweden, yes. Here, you do things…how you say, for Instagram?”

I resist the urge to remind him of the Olympic medal count for his homeland versus mine. “You’ll be back on the ice sooner if you actually follow protocol.”

His only reply is a low, “Mmm,” somewhere between a cow’s complaint and a reluctant agreement.

I find the trigger point, brace my thumb, and Finn sucks in a sharp breath, then stares at me with new suspicion.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, but the muscles around his mouth are fighting a smirk. “Is just—American girls, they are not usually so strong.”

“Try Italian American girls from Staten Island,” I say, giving the muscle a controlled squeeze. “We break legs for fun.”

He huffs, and it might almost be a laugh, but then his face blanks again.

I get the tape aligned, the dark blue pattern like a racing stripe over his pale skin.

As I smooth it into place, Finn mutters something in Swedish—three rapid-fire syllables that sound like a roast and a curse all in one.

I ignore it, but I log the tone in my mental dictionary.

Athletes always think you don’t understand the language. It’s one of my party tricks: getting more fluent in Finnish, Czech, and Russian the more I work with surly players.

When I move to secure the shoulder wrap, Finn pushes up onto his elbows, disrupting the precise tension I’ve just measured.

He sits up, slow, looming over me. For a heartbeat, it’s almost intimidating, but his eyes are more tired than angry.

“You done?” he says.

“Not yet. If you’d stay still, I’d?—”

He reaches for the tape, peels it off in one motion, and tosses it onto the tray. Then he stands, zips his jacket, and leaves without another word.

The door swings shut, then slams so hard the handle rattles.

I exhale through clenched teeth.

On the wall, my reflection in the glass cabinets stares back, red-cheeked in outrage.

I strip the used tape from the tray, bag the gloves, and make a note: Athlete noncompliant. See file for details.

I line up the new tape, relabel the roll, and square my shoulders. The next slot on my schedule blinks: “Ryland, Coach, consult only.”

He gives me two minutes before making an appearance, and when he does, it’s clear that he doesn’t believe in knock-knock jokes.

He appears at the threshold like a glacier with a face, arms folded, head angled just enough to suggest he could end your career with a single, well-placed word. “Morning,” he says, voice gravelly. “You got a minute?”

I do a quick, silent inventory—hair still up, shirt tucked, zero visible tape residue on my hands. Ready as I’ll ever be.

He leads the way into the corridor outside the treatment suite, shoes squeaking on polished floor.

The hallway is half lit, nothing but the distant echo of a treadmill and the click of skates on tile.

Ryland stops in a patch of winter sunlight bleeding in from the parking lot.