Page 16 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

SAGE

B y Tuesday, the only thing holding me together is my color-coded folder system and a dozen yards of self-adhesive tape.

I skip breakfast, reroute around the main concourse, and time my walk to the locker room for when the rink camera feeds show the team still on the ice.

I carry the stack of updated physio plans like a shield, edges squared and folders fanned for rapid deployment. My plan is simple: drop, run, survive.

I meet with Jodie from production, earbuds dangling, clipboard in hand, walking like she’s already thirty minutes behind on a call that hasn’t even started.

“Oh, Sage,” she says, almost crashing into me, “they told me to tell you—we had an ingest error with the lodge kitchen cams. Whole batch of footage corrupted. Something about snow affecting the external drives, I don’t know.

Point is, they lost everything from those nights. ”

“Everything?” I frown at her.

She nods, already halfway into her next sentence.

“The stuff from the lodge lounge and the deck is fine, so there’s still plenty of content.

Just nothing inside the kitchen or the hallways after ten.

The director’s pissed. Apparently, some exec really wanted a slo-mo clip of you flipping Beau off during pancake day. ”

Relief hits me like a delayed tranquilizer dart.

“Oh. Damn,” I say, trying to look appropriately disappointed.

Jodie waves her hand. “Don’t sweat it. You still made the focus reels. Someone made a fancam of you taping Kingston’s quad with ‘Work Bitch’ playing in the background.”

I nod, trying not to collapse against the lockers with joy. “Great. Love that journey for me.”

She vanishes around the corner with a distracted “Ciao,” and I sag into the nearest bench, folders still clutched like armor. The disaster I’ve been bracing for just…evaporated.

A tingly warmth climbs up my limbs, but quickly subsides moments later when Beau appears and crouches next to me. “I know you hate talking, but you can’t avoid me forever.”

I scowl at him. “I’m not avoiding. I’m working.”

He leans in. “You’re a terrible liar, Moretti.”

My pulse beats in my fingertips, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or something more dangerous. He shifts so he’s blocking my exit, one arm braced against the bench.

“Pretending,” he says, “is a lot harder than just admitting the truth.”

I straighten and assume an expression of what I hope is righteous indignation. “What truth, Kingston?”

He cocks his head, stripped of sarcasm. “That you want this. Us. Or maybe just something real for a change.”

I roll my eyes, but my breath is shallow, every inhale a warning. “You’re full of shit.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m not the one running from it.”

His thumb grazes my wrist and I jerk my hand back, stand, and begin walking like my life depends on it. Before I can clear the threshold, a woman steps in front of me. She wears a dark suit, hair in a razor-straight bob, heels that click like a metronome.

She holds out a hand, nails lacquered to a high shine. “Talia Prescott,” she says, her voice warm but edged. “PR director, you might have seen my name on some of the internal memos.”

I shake her hand, skin cool and dry. “Sage Moretti.”

Her smile is all teeth, but her eyes don’t leave my face. “I’ve been watching your work, Sage. Very impressive. Not many people can keep a team like this in line.”

I shrug, trying to minimize the moment. “They mostly tape themselves, honestly. I just make sure nothing falls off.”

She laughs, and there’s nothing real in it. “Well, you’re about to have a bigger audience. The documentary team is doing a special feature on you. Full access.”

I freeze. “I didn’t agree to that.”

Her eyes flick up and down, measuring. “You signed a waiver. It’s standard, but we can’t have you sabotaging your own story. The producers want more of your ‘unique approach.’ You know—how you manage the personalities. The hands-on stuff.”

I swallow, throat dry. “Is this about the lodge footage?”

Talia’s smile sharpens. “It’s about all of it. Fans are obsessed with you. So is management. It’s a win-win, unless you screw it up.”

Behind me, Beau is suddenly very interested in his phone, but I know he’s listening. Talia leans in, voice dropping to a confidential register.

“They’ll ask you questions. Some of them might be personal. Don’t answer anything you don’t want on air, but remember: this is your shot. Don’t waste it.”

She straightens, brushes imaginary lint from her lapel. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

I nod, because it’s all I can do. She leaves, heels echoing down the hall. I stand there, files clutched tight, hands shaking.

Beau comes up behind me, careful not to touch. “You okay?”

I don’t answer. I just walk to the supply room, close the door, and slide to the floor, back pressed to the metal shelving. I can’t hide. Not from them. Not from myself. The season just got a lot more interesting.