Page 2 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
He never breaks stance, arms folded tight, brow set like it was chiseled in the offseason.
“I won’t take much of your time,” he says. “Just need to go over a couple things. Team policy.”
I nod, keeping my gaze level. Ryland points at the badge clipped to my lanyard. “You know why we brought you on, right?”
“Clean up the mess,” I say, matching his volume. “Set a standard. Make the brand proud.”
He half smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to keep these guys healthy. On the ice, not on Instagram.”
I hear the dig, and I’m not sure if it’s about my predecessors or me. “Understood.”
He steps a fraction closer, voice dropping. “I’ll be blunt, Sage. The last team lost their objectivity. You know what that means?”
I do. “They let it get personal.”
He nods. “Lot of young talent here. They get attached. They get reckless. One slipup, and it’s front page.”
Another staffer—a woman with a clipboard, probably nutrition—breezes past, eyes flicking from Ryland to me, then away again. Ryland’s jaw flexes. “We can’t afford another tabloid story. You keep it professional, you stay. You don’t, and it’s over. Simple.”
I meet his gaze, posture straightening by instinct. “I got it. I’m not here to make headlines.”
He grunts, almost satisfied. “Good. Then let’s get to work.”
He peels off toward the gym, but the pressure lingers like a bruise.
I stand there a few seconds longer, letting the throb fade.
I catch my own reflection in the glass: unflinching, if a little pale around the jawline.
The next appointment is five minutes away, so I get to work, and one by one, the hours pass until it starts to feel almost normal.
By 10:30 p.m., the building is a mausoleum.
The night janitor runs the floor polisher through the halls, and I sit in the empty treatment suite, drowning in paperwork, the only light a cold rectangle from the fluorescent bulb above.
My laptop battery chimes its swan song.
It’d be wise to go home.
Instead, I scan the digital schedule one more time, prepping notes for tomorrow.
Old habits—work late, think too much, double-check everything so you’re never the weak link.
A metallic clatter rattles down the hallway.
At first, I ignore it, but then comes the faint, unmistakable sound of a glass cup popping off skin.
I creep down the corridor, following the sound.
The recovery suite is lit only by a single lamp, its yellow glow barely enough to see by. The room smells like liniment and something metallic, maybe blood. I peek inside.
Grey McTavish, the Storm’s resident brick wall, stands shirtless by the window.
He’s got a cupping set in one hand and a bottle of isopropyl in the other.
His back is a roadmap of faded bruises and fresh, angry marks.
There’s a beauty to the way he lines up the cups, but he’s struggling with the one spot between his shoulder blades, a reach even yoga instructors would curse.
I hover a second, watching his reflection in the glass.
His dark hair falls forward, shadowing his eyes.
Everything about him is squared off and severe: the jaw, the shoulders, the way he holds still as a statue when he finally gets a cup to stick.
He catches me in the reflection. “You want something?” His voice is lower than I expect, hoarse, scratchy, but calm.
I lean against the door frame. “You’re supposed to have a partner for cupping, you know. For safety.”
He glances at the red-ringed skin along his spine. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d try something new.”
His accent is slight, more Canadian than anything, but there’s a clipped, economical quality to his words.
He says nothing else, just waits for me to make the next move.
I step in, keeping my hands visible. “Let me help. You’ll never get the angle right on your own.”
He turns, eyes narrowing just a touch.
His gaze drifts from my face to my name badge, then back, like he’s cataloging data points for some internal report. “Okay,” he says, and hands me the set.
I snap on gloves and examine the cups, noting the ones already used. “Why not ask the athletic trainer to stay late?”
He shrugs. “He talks too much.”
Fair enough.
I motion for him to sit on the padded bench.
He does, resting his arms on his knees.
The muscle definition is almost anatomical-model perfect, if anatomy models also had scars and puck-shaped dents along the rib line.
I clean the spot, position the next cup, and flick the release.
The skin blooms up inside, purple and furious, but he doesn’t flinch. “You ever do this before?” I ask.
He nods, eyes fixed on the wall ahead. “Had it done to me. Never tried solo.”
“High pain tolerance, or just like showing off?”
He thinks it over. “Job requirement.”
I switch to a smaller cup, working along the edge of the scapula.
The silence gets heavy, so I fill it with science. “Cupping increases blood flow to the area,” I say. “Good for muscle repair, if you don’t overdo it.”
He grunts, and I can’t tell if he’s impressed or bored.
I keep working, moving methodically down the line.
His breathing is slow and deliberate, each inhale deeper than the last. After the fifth cup, he finally speaks. “You’re new.”
“Is it that obvious?”
He glances over his shoulder, the barest smirk. “No one else would bother after hours.”
There’s nothing I have by way of a response, so I finish the last cup, set the timer, and step back. “Ten minutes. You want water?”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
I watch the timer tick down, hands idle for the first time all day. He doesn’t check his phone or make small talk, just stares out the window at the sodium-lit snow. “Why can’t you sleep?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. I think maybe he won’t, but then he says, “Too much noise. Even when it’s quiet.”
I get it. “You ever try meditation?”
He almost laughs. “Doesn’t work.”
I tilt my head, mock serious. “You know what else increases blood flow to the brain?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Deep, controlled breathing,” I say, “and not being a pain in the ass for your medical staff.”
He holds my gaze, and for a split second, I think he might smile for real.
But he just nods, as if I’ve passed some kind of test. The timer beeps.
I remove the cups, pressing gauze to each angry welt. His skin is hot under the alcohol swab, but he never even blinks. “All done,” I say.
He stands, rolling his shoulders. “Thanks.”
As I clean up, glancing his way as he pulls his shirt back on.
There’s a look in his eyes which he doesn’t put into words before leaving.
I stay in the suite, listening to the echo of his footsteps fade down the empty hall.
I replay the moment, searching for signs I missed or lines I almost crossed.
The rules here are tight, the boundaries stricter than steel.
But some nights, it feels like you can’t help but bump against the walls, just to see if they’ll hold.
Maybe it is time to head home.
With a little sigh, I gather my bearings, shut off the lamp, and head for the locker room.
It’s a time capsule of rubberized blue tile, showers that still run hot past midnight, and a row of lockers with faded Dymo labels from trainers long since vanished.
I have the place to myself, which means the only company is the hum of the fluorescent tubes and the relentless rehashing of my own spectacular first day.
I kick off my sneakers, toss my gym bag onto the bench, and crank open locker seventeen.
The metal groans, a fitting soundtrack for the mental play-by-play already underway.
Scene one: the Beau Kingston flirt-and-flex.
Scene two: Finn Sorensen, still allergic to authority.
Scene three: the Ryland warning, delivered with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Scene four…
I’m halfway through swapping out my scrubs when a folded square of paper slips from my locker shelf and floats to the floor, landing perfectly in the shadow of my gym bag.
I pick it up.
The handwriting is bold and slanted, all caps, the kind of block letters you’d expect to see on a whiteboard during a power play strategy.
No signature.
But the words, scrawled in surgical black Sharpie, are unmistakable:
YOUR WRAP TECHNIQUE IS CLEAN, BUT YOUR SHOULDER ROTATION PROTOCOL NEEDS WORK. MIDNIGHT AGAIN?
For a heartbeat, I just stare at it, half certain this is a prank.
But I flip the note over, and there’s a tiny doodle in the corner—two overlapping circles, dark and brooding, like puck marks on fresh ice.
Grey.
I slide the note into the inside pocket of my bag.
It crackles as it settles next to my keys.
Coach Ryland’s words replay in my head: keep it professional, or it’s over .
I’ve navigated worse environments with less support and more risk. I know how to keep my wits about me.
But the men I dealt with today?
Literally, this is day one and I’ve already met the golden boy, the ice prince, and the dark horse.
And all of them are distracting in wildly infuriating and inconvenient ways. I sigh audibly and mutter under my breath, “At least I made it through without quitting or getting anyone sued. That’s a start.”