Page 27 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

The school nurse’s first aid station is really just a fold-out table at the end of the corridor, stacked with single-serve packets of Advil and generic Band-Aids.

Someone has dropped off a bag of ice packs, the chemical kind that crackle and hiss when you twist them, and a roll of neon pink kinesiology tape that matches nothing in the building.

Sage is already there when I walk up, knuckle-deep in a kid’s torn skate boot, talking him through the process of not panicking while she unsticks his socks from the bloody heel.

I watch her work. She’s in the zone, voice steady and soft, hands quick but careful, as if the only thing in the universe is this ankle and the exact right amount of pressure to keep it from blowing up like a balloon animal.

The kid sniffs and rubs his nose, looking everywhere but at the wound.

Sage rips open a wipe packet with her teeth, dabs at the blood, and gives him a lollipop before the words “all done” even leave her mouth.

I take a spot on the other side of the table and start fielding questions from parents.

Mostly they want to know if their child will ever skate again, as if we’re the gatekeepers of Olympic dreams and not just two idiots armed with low-grade Tylenol.

Sage lets me play the expert for the first few cases, but then a kid comes in with a lace bite so gnarly even I wince, and suddenly it’s all-hands-on-deck.

We work side by side, bumping elbows, her passing me tape or scissors before I even ask.

Every so often our fingers brush, just for a second, and each time the jolt travels up my arm and settles in the back of my throat.

She never looks at me when it happens. But I know she feels it, because her jaw sets and her eyes flicker left before she turns back to the next patient.

The rhythm of it is soothing. I can forget everything for a minute—the pressure, the endless scrutiny, the knowledge that someone is probably filming this for a ten-second TikTok that’ll haunt me until I retire. Here, we’re just two people fixing things. It’s almost easy.

Sage cracks her knuckles after the rush dies down, then starts sorting the supplies. She peels off a glove, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, and gives me a look. “You’re good with kids.”

I smirk. “Better than with adults. Adults are just kids with worse tempers and more money.”

She nods like this is a proven theorem, then says, “How’s the quad?”

I flex my leg, make a show of wincing. “Better. I’m following your plan, mostly. Except for the parts that hurt.”

She laughs. “Those are the parts that fix you, Kingston. Otherwise, it’s just a lot of expensive stretching.”

There’s a lull. Someone shouts from the rink, the echo coming up through the floor like distant thunder.

I watch her stack the packets neatly, tucking the labels to all face the same way.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and bites her lip when a packet gets stuck, and for a second, I want to reach out, to smooth the hair down for her, to just do something, anything, instead of standing here like a scared freshman at homecoming.

Before I can, a girl about seven with two perfect braids and a missing front tooth materializes at the edge of the table. She looks from Sage to me, then back, and asks, “Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend?”

I feel my ears go hot; Sage nearly drops the tape. For a full second, neither of us says anything. Then Sage recovers, crouches to the girl’s level, and says, “No, but he’s my friend, and he’s very nice.”

The girl nods, as if she’s already made her own decision, and says, “My mom says you look good together.”

Sage’s cheeks flush pink, and she glances at me, mortified. I give the kid a thumbs-up and say, “We get that a lot.” The girl shrugs, satisfied, and skips away, trailing the ghost of a future where things are simple and nobody cares who’s watching.

Sage busies herself, shoving things around with unnecessary force. Her hands shake a little, and I realize it’s not from cold or caffeine.

“You okay?” I say, keeping my voice low.

She doesn’t answer, just straightens and mutters, “I’m going to check the supplies upstairs.”

She walks off, fast, barely giving me time to react. I stand there, frozen, watching her disappear down the hall. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I follow.

The stairs to the upper level are narrow and lined with team photos from decades ago.

I take them two at a time. At the landing, there’s a low-lit hallway with doors on either side.

I see a sliver of movement at the far end and head that way until I come upon a door that’s marked Staff Use Only .

The space just beyond is kind of half-lounge, half-restroom hybrid you sometimes see in malls or theaters.

Beige tile, soft lighting, and a little bench under the coat hooks.

The stalls are tucked around the corner, but this part is quiet and clean.

Sage is at the vanity, her hands gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Her reflection catches sight of me first.

She doesn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

I step in anyway, close the door behind me, and bolt it for good measure. “Neither should you.”

She breathes out, slow and shaky. “I just needed a second.”

I move closer, not touching, just standing at her back. The space between us vibrates, a live wire running from her shoulder blades to my sternum. I can see her eyes in the mirror, can see the faint rim of moisture at the edge.

“What’s wrong?” I say, softer than I mean.

She shakes her head, hair falling forward as she turns to face me, back to the mirror. “Nothing. It’s stupid. I just—sometimes I wish I could be anyone else.”

I want to argue, to tell her that she’s the best person I know, but the words stick. Instead, I rest a hand on her shoulder, gentle, testing the weight. She doesn’t shrug it off.

She leans back, just a fraction, and says, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

Her eyes are wet. “Don’t make this harder.”

It takes a full second for my brain to catch up. “I’m not.”

I move closer and press her against the sink, caging her in with my hips. She gasps, half a laugh, half a sob. She bites her lower lip, even as her mouth parts. “We can’t.”

“We can.”