Page 26 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
BEAU
I f you want to know what a hockey player looks like in his natural habitat, don’t go to Madison Square Garden.
Go to a middle school charity skate at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, when the air smells like three brands of disinfectant and the old Zamboni exhaust lingers in the cinderblock vestibule.
No TV cameras. No PR snipers waiting for your next fuckup.
Just a hundred kids in neon parkas wobbling around the rink with their parents, most of whom couldn’t lace up a skate if their lives depended on it.
This is where you see what matters: not points, not stats, but whether you can make a roomful of children believe the world is magic for ninety minutes.
I cut tight around a knot of third graders, pop a backward crossover, and stop on a dime in front of the blue line.
My blades leave a rooster-tail of ice that makes three kids shriek with delight and a chaperone raise her eyebrows in alarm.
I grin at her, teeth and all, and then point at the Storm jersey on her kid.
“Solid taste,” I say. “Did you pick the number, or did you let your mom do it?”
The boy flushes, but I see the light in his eyes.
He’s wearing my number. Has to be, with that hair and that lopsided smile.
I tap his stick, give him a low five, and then pivot to see how many other little monsters are in Storm blue.
At least half the rink, which means PR did its job.
The kids swarm me in a minute, tugging at my sleeves, wanting to race or be bodychecked or just hear me say their names.
I oblige. It’s easy. Being the center of gravity is what I do best, especially when there’s no one here to judge how hard I’m trying.
I don’t see Sage until my third lap, because she’s not wearing the armor I’m used to.
She’s pressed up against the boards on the near side, half-hiding behind the assistant coach’s wife.
Her hair isn’t in the usual severe bun, just loose and tucked behind one ear.
The Storm wellness hoodie she’s wearing is at least two sizes too big, zippered halfway down, and showing a black tank top underneath.
She’s got a thermos in one hand and her face tilted up, not toward me, but toward the cataclysm happening at center ice, where a pack of five-year-olds has staged a coup against the PE teacher.
Sage is laughing. Not a polite titter, not the exhausted huff she gives after a hard day in the rehab room.
A real laugh, unguarded and bright, which is maybe the rarest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.
I almost miss the turn. I have to double back and come up on her from the other side, sliding to a stop with enough snow to pepper her shoes. She barely notices. I have to knock on the glass to get her attention.
“Is that actual cocoa?” I say, loud enough to carry. “I thought you banned that from the approved Storm hydration plan.”
She doesn’t even blink. “It’s organic. I spiked it with flaxseed and despair. Want some?” She lifts the thermos, eyebrows up.
“I’d die instantly. I’m 90 percent high-fructose corn syrup and MSG.”
The assistant coach’s wife snorts and walks off to save her toddler from an impending faceplant, leaving us alone at the edge of the rink.
Sage sips her cocoa, eyes crinkling at the corners.
She looks better than she has in weeks. There’s color in her face, and the shadows that usually live under her eyes are replaced with something close to sleep.
I want to ask her how she managed it, but I can tell she wouldn’t answer.
I lean over the boards. “You ever get out there? Or just judge from a distance?”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s playful. “I’ll have you know I was the junior figure skating champ of Hudson County two years in a row.”
I look her up and down. “No tights? No sequins? I call bullshit.”
“I don’t need costumes to be better than you, Kingston.”
It’s an old game, but this time there’s no edge to it. I pop the gate, step onto the rubber mat, and stand so close I can see the ghost of a smile still flickering on her lips.
“You good?” I ask, soft.
Her face goes flat for a heartbeat, the real Sage breaking through for just a beat. “I’m fine. Just…tired of pretending it’s not a shit show.”
“Isn’t that what we do? Perform until someone buys the act?”
She looks at the chaos on the ice, at the kids and the parents and the volunteers stacking donuts at the snack bar. “They buy it,” she says. “We don’t.”
For a second, neither of us talks. The only sound is the relentless scrape of skate blades and the squeal of sugar-addled children.
I watch her, the way she holds the thermos with both hands, the way her hair falls into her eyes and she doesn’t bother to fix it.
The only thing sharper than her tongue has always been her sense of control, but here, now, she’s letting it slip, and I can’t decide if it makes her more beautiful or just more real.
“Want to make a bet?” I say, tapping my stick against the bench.
She side-eyes me. “What are we talking?”
“You race me, blue line to blue line. Loser gets a hundred bucks.”
She sips her cocoa, thinking.
“Scared?”
She grins. “Of you? Please. I bench more than your body weight.”
She sets the thermos down and gives me another, full-bodied smile, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
She pulls a pair of gloves from her back pocket, slips them on like she’s putting on surgical scrubs.
I step out onto the ice and wait for her at the blue line, heart thumping like I just killed a penalty.
She’s smooth. The second her skates hit the ice, she’s pure grace—no wasted motion, just a gliding line from point A to point B.
I go easy on the start, thinking I can catch up at the turn, but she’s smarter than that.
She hugs the boards, uses the angle, and by the time we hit the midpoint, I’m barely even with her.
I dig in, put my weight into the last stretch, but she slips ahead, one clean stride, and beats me by a full skate length.
She throws her hands up in mock victory, then circles back to me, cheeks flushed, breath coming quick.
“Easy money,” she says, voice low.
I pretend to be winded as I hand her the cash. “I let you win.”
She looks at me, really looks, and shakes her head. “You never let anyone win. Not even me.”
We skate a slow lap, not talking, just pacing each other.
The noise on the ice softens as the kids thin out, some heading to the snack bar, some to the stands.
I watch the way her shoulders relax, the way her stride settles into something effortless.
She’s in her element here, away from the corporate bullshit and the constant threat of exposure. I wonder if I am too.
We head back to the bench.
“You ever think about leaving?” I ask. “Just…quitting the circus?”
She stares at the ice, then at the chaos in the stands. “All the time.”
“What would you do?”
Sage chances a glance my way, and there’s a wry, wistful smile on her lips. “Open a coffee shop. With donuts and exactly zero hockey players allowed.”
I try to picture it: Sage in an apron, pouring espresso, handing out pastries. I can’t.
She nudges me with her elbow. “You?”
“I’d teach. Coach juniors, maybe. Somewhere nobody cares about the standings.”
We stand there, side by side, and for the first time since I don’t know when, I feel like we’re both telling the truth.
The hour passes fast. The kids swarm again, this time in smaller clusters, begging for photos or autographs or just a quick lesson in how not to fall on their asses.
I sign hats, shirts, one cast, and then show a kid in mismatched skates how to tie a double knot that won’t come undone.
Sage works the edge of the rink, patching up scraped knees and giving out ice packs with the same ruthless efficiency she brings to the big leagues.
Every so often she glances my way, and when our eyes meet, it’s like the rest of the world blurs out.
At the end of the session, the event coordinator lines everyone up for a group photo.
I wind up next to Sage, our shoulders pressed tight.
Someone hands us a banner, and we hold it together, grinning like idiots for the camera.
The moment the flash goes off, I feel her hand slip from the edge of the banner to my wrist, just a quick squeeze, then gone.
Afterward, I help her load the medical supplies into a plastic bin. She peels off her gloves, flexes her fingers, and laughs at something I say, a real laugh, the kind that vibrates in my chest long after the sound fades.
“Thanks,” she says, slamming the trunk shut. “For today.”
I don’t know if she means the race, the banter, or just not being a total asshole for once.
“Anytime,” I say.
She looks at me, eyes shining. “You’re a better person than you think, Kingston.”
I shrug. Just then, a volunteer coordinator with a clipboard waves me down before I can follow Sage with something about a last-minute request for player autographs near the raffle table. I share a half smile with her, a silent see you later , and then head left while she goes right.
By the time I find her again, it’s already noon.