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

GREY

I t’s the day after the big win. The rehab center doesn’t open for another hour, but I let myself in with the backup key and disarm the alarm before it can wake the street.

It’s not habit, not the kind of ritual the team expects of me, just a compulsion.

If I keep moving, keep ahead of the noise, nothing can catch up.

Not the press, not the ghosts in my bed, not even the silence in my own head.

The lights are already on in the east wing, a pale strip leaking from under the therapy suite door.

It takes a full minute for my eyes to adjust, another for my ears to catch the drone coming from the other side: soft, tuneless, almost a child’s lullaby if you didn’t know the voice.

I know the voice. Sage is in early, again, humming to herself as she unpacks tape rolls from a shipping crate.

I linger in the corridor, watching her through the chicken wire mesh of the security glass. She doesn’t see me at first.

She’s wearing the same navy-blue scrubs as always, hair in a rough knot at the back of her skull, the ends poking out in ragged angles like she cut them herself with trauma shears.

Her hands move fast, fingers stripping the plastic from each roll and lining them up by color and width.

There’s no wasted motion, nothing but the rhythm of work and the offhand sound of her voice.

I can’t stop watching the way she moves, beautiful in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

I push the door open, and she startles, dropping the half-opened tape roll into the bin with a thud. For a second, we just stare at each other. She blinks first, then goes back to the crate, humming louder this time as if that will erase the moment.

I move to the far side of the table and start unpacking the next box.

Neither of us speaks. I keep my eyes on the tape, on the labels, on the movement of her hands as they work parallel to mine.

We sort by length, by adhesive, by the weird proprietary numbering system the trainers invented last year.

Her nails are short and painted the same dull gray as always, chipped at the tips from too many rushed mornings and too much hand sanitizer.

She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her in the room the way you feel a shift in air pressure before a storm.

The silence isn’t comfortable, but it’s familiar.

We work like this for maybe fifteen minutes, filling the bins, breaking down cardboard, stacking the tape by the wall.

At some point, our elbows brush, just a glancing contact, but she flinches so hard I half expect her to drop the tape again.

I stop, set my roll down, and wait for her to speak first. She doesn’t.

Finally, I break the silence. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

She keeps her back to me. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re humming.”

“It’s to keep my head clear.” Her voice is flat, no inflection. She starts on a new box, but her hands are shaking.

I reach for the next stack and slice the tape with my thumb. The cut is shallow but stings. I wipe the blood on my sleeve. “You always this jumpy when it’s just us?”

She finally looks up, and the effect is electric. Her eyes are red, but not from crying. She hasn’t slept. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says in an undervoice.

“I go where I’m needed,” I say, but it’s automatic, the kind of line a parent or a drill sergeant would use. She hears it for what it is—an excuse, a wall.

We both start unpacking again, faster this time, the rhythm almost frantic. She finishes her bin, slams the lid a little too hard, and wipes her palms down her thighs. “We can’t do this again,” she says, voice slicing through the room.

I freeze, hands wrapped around a roll of gauze. “What do you think ‘this’ is?”

She doesn’t answer. Just sets the last tape roll in its place, aligns it with obsessive care, and closes the box like she’s locking away a secret. For a second, she stands there, hands flat on the lid, back facing me. The humming starts again, but it’s softer, the notes trailing off into nothing.

When she speaks, it’s almost to herself. “You know exactly what I mean.”

I want to argue, to tell her that nothing happened, that we’re just two people trying not to drown in the aftermath of a lost season and a worse winter. But it’s a lie, and she’d see it on my face. Instead, I grab the trash bag, knot it tight, and toss it by the door.

“You want me to leave,” I say, not a question.

She nods, just once, still not looking at me. “I need to get ready for the early crew.”

I watch her a second longer. There’s a tremor in her arms, barely visible, but I see it. I could reach out, could anchor her with my hand on her shoulder, but I don’t. Instead, I gather the leftover tape and put it away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to sort.

She leaves first, footsteps fast and light, the door swinging shut behind her. The silence she leaves is total.

I stand there for a while, just breathing. Then I sweep the floor, wipe down the table, check the supply list. I don’t admit to myself why I do it, or why it matters that everything is in order before I go.

When I finally leave, I flick the lights off and lock the door behind me. The corridor is empty, the street outside still dark, and I walk to the edge of the lot before stopping to watch her silhouette vanish down the block.

She said we can’t do this again, but I know how it is. Some things repeat whether you want them to or not.

I run my thumb along the edge of the gauze, let the sting remind me I’m still here, and head for the conference room.

It’s set halfway up the Storm offices, the skyline so close you could spit on the rooftops below.

I show up fifteen minutes early, and wait with my back to the windows, arms folded, counting the rings on the fake marble table while the lights above flicker and buzz.

The media liaison—her badge says D. Eastman , but I only know her as the woman who calls at seven a.m. with “quick follow-ups”—arrives exactly on the hour.

She slides into the chair opposite and offers a brittle smile. I give her nothing in return.

“Thanks for coming, Grey,” she says, laying out a stack of promotional flyers like tarot cards.

“I want to walk you through the interview schedule for next week. There’s a lot of buzz after the OT win, and management wants to keep the momentum.

” She pauses, then adds, “This is good for all of us. You included.”

I say nothing, just tap my finger on the table in time with the flicker of the lights. It drives her crazy, so I keep it up.

She shuffles the flyers, pulls out the one with my face on it—bleached and sharpened to make me look like less of a corpse.

“We’re doing a package for ESPN, a local sports radio spot, and a sit-down with the Storm Front crew.

Full access. No off-limits topics, but you can decline anything you want. Just give me a heads-up first.”

I nod, but I can feel the tension in my jaw, the way my molars grind down to the root when she says “full access.” I hate the documentary crew, hate the way they hover with their cameras and pretend to catch you off guard.

I know what they want: a viral meltdown, something they can loop on social for a week before tossing me in the dumpster with last year’s hero.

She leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping to what she thinks is a confidential register. “Look, Grey. I know you’re not a fan of the whole…branding initiative. But there’s sponsor pressure. The team wants to soften your image a little. Show the human side.”

I smirk at that. “You mean the part where I’m not an asshole?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “You can be both. Audiences love a redemption arc.”

I glance at the stack of papers, at the words key opinion leader and emotional narrative highlighted in blue marker. I can almost taste the script they want me to follow. “Let’s get it over with,” I say, voice flat.

She’s pleased, hides it poorly. “Perfect. First up is a community skate at Bryant Park. They’ll want you on the ice with some of the younger players, showing leadership, that sort of thing. After that, in-studio Q&A. Very controlled, very friendly.”

“Then the Storm Front crew?” I ask.

She hesitates, which means the next part is bad. “Yes, but—Talia Prescott will be doing the segment herself. They’re hoping the two of you will play nice for the cameras.”

I nearly laugh. “Is this her idea of a peace treaty?”

She doesn’t blink. “She’s good at her job. And she’s rooting for you, in her way.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. The only time Talia’s ever “rooted” for me is when she wants to make herself look better in the process. She’s a predator in a pantsuit, and everyone knows it.

The liaison pivots to the next item. “One more thing. Off the record.”

I raise an eyebrow. She knows I hate surprises, so she’s relishing this.

“There’s been some chatter about the lodge retreat,” she says, voice dropping even lower. “Someone on the docu crew flagged some B-roll. You and Moretti, late-night. Nothing scandalous, just…close. Laughing, talking. But close enough that someone could make it into something.”

I let the silence stretch, just to watch her squirm. “So?”

She shrugs. “So nothing, unless you want it to be. But if you think Prescott isn’t going to notice, you’re wrong. She’s already asked for the raw footage.”

I roll my shoulders. “Let her. There’s nothing there.”

The liaison narrows her eyes, like she doesn’t believe me. Maybe she doesn’t. “Just—heads up. If it gets out, we’ll handle it.”

I stand, ignoring the rest of her notes. “I’ll play along, but I’m not doing a sob story. No tears. No fake apologies.”

She nods, gathering her papers. “That’s fine. They’ll edit in what they need anyway.”

I head for the door, but she stops me with a last, soft warning. “Grey. If they do ask about Moretti, stick to the script. ‘We’re just colleagues. I respect her work.’ Don’t improvise.”

There’s enough room to read between the lines. She doesn’t want me giving ammunition to Talia, who will be on the look for cracks.

I don’t answer, just let the door swing shut behind me. The corridor outside is empty and too bright, and I walk it with my eyes half closed, counting the steps to the elevator, refusing to let any of the nerves reach my face.

In the glass of the elevator, I watch my reflection for a full floor’s descent. There’s nothing to see—no regret, no fear, just the same set jaw and cold eyes as always. But I can’t stop thinking about the way Sage’s hands shook this morning, the way she said we can’t do this again.

I wonder if Talia Prescott is the kind of person who enjoys breaking things just to see how they fall apart.