Page 3 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

BEAU

A few days later

Here’s a secret about the best locker rooms in professional sports: no one ever puts away the Gatorade towels.

You’d think after a decade on the ice I’d lose my fascination for the little rituals, but it’s the routines that keep me upright.

Half an hour post-practice, I’m gliding down the hall in my slides, hair still wet and cut jaw stinging from the day’s new nicks, and I catch the telltale flex of Sage Moretti’s shoulder through the rehab suite window.

She’s not my type, if anyone’s asking. I usually go for women who know exactly how hot they are.

Sage doesn’t.

She walks around in scuffed sneakers and a ponytail, smelling like menthol and liniment, and somehow still manages to look like she wandered out of a dream and into a war zone.

Her beauty doesn’t ask for attention because it’s too busy getting shit done.

And maybe that’s what messes with me most: she has no idea what she does to men.

But I linger anyway, elbow hitched on the door frame like I’ve got nowhere better to be.

Technically, I do—media huddle, then a post-practice film session, and Ryland’s death glare can be seen from space—but there’s something about watching Sage tape up Finn Sorensen’s beefcake shoulder that makes the clock run slower and the blood rush to my cock.

Finn says nothing, just lets her manhandle his arm through a range of motion.

I don’t miss the way her biceps flex under the sleeves of her training top.

It’s almost more impressive than the taping job.

She finishes with a little flourish. “Try not to take it off this time, Sorensen,” she says, voice bone-dry.

Finn glowers under his thick brows and mutters, “No promises,” and hops off the table.

Once again, I don’t miss the way his face looks unusually bright, like this entire visit has cost him a little piece of his control.

I make my move. “You’re going to ruin his tattoo collection if you keep taping him like that.”

Sage doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe it’ll distract from the fact he can’t hold a puck in the neutral zone.”

This is why , I think to myself. Her energy is irresistible . “You’re feisty for a rookie.”

“I’m not a rookie,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel, “I just know how to do my job.”

There’s no invitation for more, but I can’t resist. “Hey, speaking of, you got that new KT tape I like?”

She jerks her chin at the med cart. “Top drawer. Don’t mix up the colors.”

I palm a roll of electric blue and shoot her a thumbs-up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Finn, now fully mummified in black tape, snorts and heads for the door.

I hang back, letting the silence stretch.

Sage levels me with her no bullshit stare. “Anything else, Kingston?”

She’s the only person in this building who uses my last name with the right balance of contempt and sarcasm.

It’s almost intimate.

I twirl the tape between my fingers and lean in, dropping my voice like we’re sharing a state secret.

“Yeah, actually. You ever have a patient who just, I don’t know, refuses to get better unless you’re the one treating him?”

She frowns, not buying it. “Is this about your hamstring, or your ego?”

“Little of column A, little of column B.” I flash the full wattage smile, the one that gets me out of speeding tickets and into club VIPs. “But if you could work me in before practice, I’d owe you.”

“Some debts are too dangerous to collect,” she says, but I see the hint of a smile she tries to strangle at birth.

That’s all I need.

I give a two-finger salute and drift out, pretending I don’t care if she’s watching.

There are things I need to get done; like the media huddle that I’d pay good money to skip.

But that’s the job.

Skate hard, smile harder, and hope the cameras don’t catch what really matters.

The media scrum is as predictable as a goalie’s morning espresso.

Bored reporters huddle in a phalanx, pointing their phones at me and praying for a soundbite that’ll trend for more than a quarter hour.

I give them my usual: big shrugs, bigger smiles, all the right lines about “team chemistry” and “staying hungry.”

Then comes the curveball.

A rookie journalist, probably just graduated from a YouTube channel, lobs: “Hey Beau, any thoughts on the new physical therapist? She’s gone viral for her injury prevention routines. You a believer in the Moretti Method?”

A dozen heads pivot.

The whole room is suddenly more awake.

I know better than to answer honestly.

But honesty never made headlines.

“She’s got innovative hands,” I say, keeping my face straight while trying very hard not to choke on the world’s worst-timed laugh. “I think I speak for the whole team when I say we’re in excellent care. Plus, her tape jobs are almost as good as my grandma’s pasta.”

The room cracks up.

The PR director, lurking in the back, does not.

I clock the look and immediately regret nothing. After the cameras pack up, I duck into the player’s lounge to kill time before film.

Someone left the morning’s New York Times open on the table; my face beams out from the back page, next to an opinion piece about athletes and accountability.

The photo editor picked my best side, I’ll give them that.

I pour a black coffee and scroll my notifications.

The Moretti quote is already blowing up—fans, teammates, a group chat full of blue-check ex-players.

Grey McTavish, in classic fashion, weighs in first: “Innovative hands? That’s what she said, bud.”

I send back a GIF of Michael Scott.

The real action is in the DMs, where Talia’s name is waiting, unread.

PR director, ex-girlfriend, co-architect of my image rehab after last year’s tabloid disaster.

Her texts are always exactly four lines, never more, never less.

Talia: Next time you comment on staff, remember we have HR training Monday.

Talia: Or I’ll add another hour to your community outreach.

Talia: No one wants that, least of all the children.

Talia: See you at postgame.

I smile in spite of myself. She’s always been a better adversary than ally, which is probably why we lasted six months and then didn’t speak for another twelve.

Our breakup was less a split than a mutually assured detonation: her career, my reputation, a very expensive sushi dinner reduced to one hissing argument over who got to keep the apartment’s wine fridge.

I’m not stupid enough to believe Sage would ever tangle herself with a player, not after the public crash-and-burn of her predecessor.

But the idea of it—the possibility—fizzes under my skin like a dropped Alka-Seltzer.

I chug the coffee, check my reflection in the microwave (perfect), and head to film, which is basically a team meeting where we rewatch footage from the last game so the coaches can break down everything we did wrong in slow, painful detail.

Ryland runs the session like he’s teaching a master class in boredom.

He stops the tape every six seconds to underline the ways we nearly fumbled the last period, and if the volume on his pointer clicks any louder, my eardrums are going to retire early.

I zone out, letting my mind drift to tomorrow’s practice, the cold snap of the air in the arena, and the exact way Sage’s eyes flash when she’s about to roast me.

Then Talia appears, sliding into the seat beside me with a legal pad and a look that could freeze-dry a Siberian husky.

She waits for Ryland to hit pause, then leans in, whispering out of the side of her mouth. “You know the athletic commission reads your quotes, right?”

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint them,” I whisper back. “Besides, ‘innovative hands’ was a compliment.”

Her lips twitch. “Just be careful. This city eats drama for breakfast.”

“I’m not the one they need to worry about,” I say. “Besides, I’m practically married to this team.”

“Don’t make me tell your actual exes,” she says, flicking her eyes to the screen.

But the banter is a shield.

Underneath, I can feel her watching me, cataloguing every microexpression for the next press disaster.

When the film session ends, Ryland dismisses us with the usual “Bring more grit tomorrow.” I’m halfway out the door when Talia snags my wrist, just for a second.

“Seriously, Beau,” she says, low and urgent. “Don’t be stupid enough to get involved with her.”

She doesn’t say who, but she doesn’t have to.

That’s the thing about people who know your secrets: they can gut you with mere words.

The first time I hooked up with Talia was after a preseason win in Philly.

She had me pinned against the glass wall of her hotel suite, arms over my head, and when she whispered, “Don’t you dare fall for me,”

I swore I wouldn’t.

Two months later, she was moving her stuff into my closet and double-booking my dentist appointments.

Three months after that, I found out I wasn’t the only guy getting postgame highlights in her DMs.

She said it “wasn’t serious”—just a backup plan in case I got boring.

That should’ve cured me of bad ideas.

But there’s a part of me that can’t resist testing the strength of a system by pushing it to the edge.

I need a minute to clear my head.

Most of the team cleared out fast; bus to a sponsor event, drinks after, whatever gets them into their regular Friday-night rituals.

I lace up, slip past security, and take the long way around to do a post-practice routine with a slow lap around the upper concourse, watching the cleaning crew swab the seats for tomorrow’s home game.

The lights are low, the empty rows echoing with nothing but the hush of brooms and the occasional beep of a floor scrubber.

I pause at the glass overlooking the main ice, watching the surface heal itself under the Zamboni.

For a second, the world is calm; no cameras, no trainers, just me and the sound of water freezing in real time.

For the hundredth time, I tell myself that I won’t do anything stupid.

I’ll keep things professional, play the golden boy, and never, ever risk the team for a crush that probably isn’t even mutual.

But tomorrow’s another day, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that rules were made to be tested.