Page 15 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

The next morning, I wake up horizontal, a fistful of blanket twisted around my wrist and a knot of sheets at my waist. I try to stretch, but my right hip twinges.

I stare at the ceiling and let the replay start: Grey’s breath on my neck, Finn’s mouth, the burn of Beau’s hands on my hips.

The way the world went quiet right before it broke open, the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the shock of my own voice echoing back at me.

I could say I regret it. But that would be a lie, and I can’t afford any more lies right now.

My phone is wedged under the pillow. I fish it out and scan the notifications.

Finn: You get home safe? If you need to talk, you know where I am.

A half hour later, a second text: Or if you want to ignore this, that’s fine too.

Grey: Can you check my shoulder tomorrow. It feels worse. Then, after a gap: You okay?

Beau: U up? A minute later: I lied, I don’t care about the PT tape, I just want to know if you’re as freaked out as I am. Pls respond so I don’t die of shame.

I set the phone on my chest and stare at the cracked plaster overhead. In another universe, this is where I spiral. In this one, I compartmentalize.

Forcing myself out of bed, I brush my teeth with military efficiency, floss until my gums bleed, then line up all my vitamins on the counter and dry swallow them, one by one.

I power through a five-minute core circuit, pushing until my abs seize and the burn crowds out the memory of any other touch.

I shower, soap and rinse and scrub until my skin glows pink, then step out and pull my hair into a taut, perfect bun. I choose the least revealing outfit I own—a boxy sweatshirt and old black jeans. I look like someone on her way to a court date.

In the mirror, my eyes are flat, a little red. I shake out my hands, stretch the tension from my neck, and tell myself: You’re fine. It’s over. No one needs to know.

I check my phone again.

Mia: Dylan says interview crew will be filming all week, don’t get caught picking your nose.

I power the phone down and head out the door before I can start second-guessing. The elevator stutters twice before settling at the ground floor. I walk three blocks in the cold, let the wind slap me awake.

By the time I hit the facility, my face is numb, and my head is clear enough to fake it.

Beau is already in the gym, running a suicide drill like it’s a dare.

Finn nods at me from the erg machine, not smiling, but not looking away either.

Grey stands at the far end, rolling out his hamstring, eyes locked on the floor.

I set up in the treatment room, arrange the tape rolls and sterile wipes, and click my pen with a force that cracks the plastic casing.

I last ten minutes before the first patient walks in, a rookie winger with a groin pull—nothing dramatic, just a persistent whine he’s convinced will cost him his roster spot.

He slides onto the treatment table, stares at the ceiling, and waits for me to say something.

I don’t. I snap on gloves, measure the abduction angle, and dictate numbers to my tablet.

He tries to make conversation. “You watch the big game last night?”

“Negative,” I say, stripping a length of tape with a precision cut. “Lift your leg. Point toes north.”

He blinks. “You’re not a sports fan?”

I look him in the eye, then look back at the tablet. “It’s my job to keep you on the ice, not join the fan club.”

He shuts up after that, which is perfect.

The door buzzes with the next appointment. I click the privacy lock behind him, ready the next set of gloves, and exhale. I could do this all day.

I do.

Between patients, I sanitize the tables, check the inventory again, log every detail with time stamps and initials. The rhythm is addictive, almost soothing. Mia knocks at the door, bringing the next file and a coffee that’s already gone lukewarm. She gives me a once-over, eyebrows raised.

“You always this…” she makes a slicing motion, “intense after a trip?”

“Just catching up,” I say, eyes down. “I’d like to not see the season die in my office.”

She leans in, voice softer. “Are you okay?”

I snap a glove on, a little too loud. “Fine. Why?”

Mia shrugs. “You just seem more…on edge than usual. If you want to talk?—”

I don’t let her finish. “Thanks, but I’m good. Really.”

She gives me the coffee, lingers another second, then leaves. I stand there, staring at the cup, and let my breathing slow.

When I’m done, I head to the gym. Out of habit, I scan the line of ellipticals, count off the team.

Finn’s there, rowing. Beau’s on the leg press, making obscene eye contact with every mirror.

Grey is at the far squat rack, hands chalked, arms roped with tension.

I check a player’s shoulder stability, enter notes, move on.

No one tries for small talk. They’ve all gotten the memo.

Only, it hurts in all the wrong places, until I need to go anywhere except where I am right now, so that’s what I do.

I’m counting to sixty in the supply closet when the door yanks open and nearly clocks me with a mop handle.

Dylan stands there, gawking at me. “Whoa, sorry!” He peers into the closet.

“Didn’t realize you were on a silent retreat, Sage. Very ‘method’ of you.”

I sidestep him, pushing past into the hallway. “What do you need, Dylan?”

He matches my pace, adjusting his lanyard so the VIP badge swings front and center. “Big news,” he says. “You’re about to be famous. Or, you know, more famous. They just finished the first round of docuseries cuts, and guess who’s a breakout favorite?”

I groan. “Please tell me it’s not Kingston.”

He holds up his phone, thumb poised. “No, no. He’s a trainwreck, as expected. But you—Sage Moretti, PT to the stars—are killing in the focus groups.”

He scrolls, then waves a photo at me, a freeze-frame of me mid-instruction, correcting Finn’s posture with a single, pointed finger.

In the background, Beau is making a face like a meme template.

“They’re calling you ‘The Enforcer of Wellness,’?” Dylan says brightly, nearly vibrating.

“You’re like Gordon Ramsay, but for glutes and hamstrings. ”

So it’s not all bad. That’s good, but I don’t want to take it further than it needs to go. “I’m not interested in being a brand,” I retort, reaching for the doorknob.

He tuts. “Doesn’t matter. You signed the release. All bets are off.”

I pause, heartbeat flickering. “Wait. They’re using the lodge footage?”

He grins wider. “Every second. Some of the off-hours stuff is gold. The execs are obsessed. They want a Moretti cam for season two.”

I force a laugh, brittle as old plastic. “I was off the clock.”

He shrugs, sympathy just short of sincere. “Cameras don’t clock out, Sage.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “When do these go live?”

“Next Tuesday. But they’ll be sending preview links to all staff by the weekend. I can get you an advance if you want to, you know, brace for impact.”

I shake my head. “I’d rather not.”

He gives me a double thumbs-up, as if this is all excellent news. “Okay, but let me know if you change your mind. You’re a star. Own it.”

He winks, then struts away, already on to the next PR disaster. The clock on the wall ticks. Next Tuesday is five days away. I run through the schedules, the camera angles, the number of times I let myself drop the mask. I can’t remember what I said. I can’t remember what I did.