Page 30 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

FINN

T he look on Sage’s face yesterday at the charity skate event told me everything I need to know. She still wants us, and from the looks of it, Beau has already tested the theory. It doesn’t solve the lingering doubt that snags in my chest: why is she resisting this so hard?

When I walk into the weight room, the relief is chemical.

There’s no camera crew here, no board members, no motivational posters about relentless process or team above all .

Just the faint whirring of the recirculation fan and the ozone snap of the deadlift platform grounding out static.

You can always tell when the docu crew has been through a room—someone has adjusted the benches so they line up perfectly, and all the dumbbells are racked in descending order like some intern is angling for an early parole.

I take the far platform that faces away from the mirrored wall, and load up the bar with plates so old the numbers are worn to silver.

The feel of them—dense, cold, honest—is the only reason I haven’t thrown a chair through a window at least once since this morning.

I could do this by algorithm, but instead I let my hands tell the story: palms already tender from tape residue, blood drawn into the tips from last night’s overtime, tiny blisters forming under the calluses.

I wrap the bar, set my feet, and let the world reduce to numbers.

Five sets of five at one sixty, rest ninety seconds, increase by five, drop reps, repeat.

It’s all ritual and self-correction. No one here to see if I cheat the last rep or grind out an extra.

The body doesn’t lie, and neither does the ache in my quads as I finish the first ladder and rerack the bar with a solid, satisfying clang.

Halfway through the set, I catch myself glancing at the frosted glass window, waiting for the flicker of a lens or the red dot of a recording light. There’s nothing. Even the clock above the whiteboard is stuck at 6:44, as if time itself agreed to be suspended while I got my head right.

I’m midway through a set of bent-over rows when the door opens.

The sound is a pneumatic hiss, the faint slap of sneakers against tile, a whiff of latex and coconut.

I freeze, arms flexed, bar halfway to my chest. For a second, I hope it’s just the cleaning crew, but then I hear the distinctive clatter of a cafeteria tray and a muttered curse in a register only matched by a woman who’s spent her entire adult life explaining to men why they’re not as clever as they think.

I don’t turn right away. I finish the set, focus on the microtremors in my grip, the tension at the base of my spine, the familiar burn that tells me I’m still here and not dissolving into the mental noise of everything that waits outside this room.

When I do look up, she’s already halfway across the gym.

Sage is carrying a tray loaded with what looks like bricks of artisan soap but is probably her latest experiment in sports nutrition.

She’s in a Storm hoodie that’s two sizes too big, sleeves pushed to her elbows like she’s been working, and shorts that make her legs look like something a man could lose sleep over.

She doesn’t see me at first, or pretends not to.

She’s got her hair in a bun, but strands have escaped and caught on the sweat at her temples.

There’s a red streak on her wrist, marker ink or maybe a burn from the oven.

She is so completely not supposed to be here that for a second, I think I’m hallucinating, some cortisol-induced mirage of what I wish would interrupt this monotony.

But then she looks up and sees me, and I know it’s real because her mouth goes flat in a line and she doesn’t say a word.

We stand there, the barbell suspended in my hands, the tray balanced on her palms, both of us weighing the physics of this new arrangement.

I break first. “Early shift for R & D?” My accent always gets worse when I’m tired, more Helsinki than Brooklyn, but she never mentions it.

She blinks, like she’d forgotten she had to interact. “Someone in media suggested we get player buy-in for the new recovery bars.” She lifts one of the blocks between two fingers, as if it might squirm away. “They wanted honest feedback.”

I drop the barbell with a muted clang and wipe my palms on my shorts. “I don’t think you want my version of honest.” I nod toward the tray. “Is it coconut?”

Her eyes narrow. “Coconut oil, with flax. Supposed to promote cognitive resilience. That’s the theory.”

I step closer, lean an elbow on the rack, and let her set the tray on a bench. “Theory always falls apart on contact with reality.” I reach for one, roll it between my fingers. It’s dense, sticky.

She watches me, arms folded. “Go ahead. I need a baseline.”

I take a bite, let the flavor flood my mouth. The texture is grainy at first, then an oily coating on my tongue, followed by an aftertaste that is somewhere between sunscreen and funeral lilies.

I chew, swallow, and try not to make a face. “You want the brutal or the constructive?”

She shrugs, but there’s a challenge in it. “Surprise me.”

“Too much oil. Texture is off. If you dialed it back and added a binding agent—maybe psyllium or oat flour—you’d get a better chew. The taste is…” I search for a diplomatic phrase, but there’s no point. “Like eating beach candle.”

She doesn’t take offense. Instead, she grabs one and bites it, as if to confirm my assessment.

“I knew it. The last batch collapsed at room temp, so I doubled the coconut oil. Should have trusted my notes.” She says it to herself, not to me, but I can hear her mind working as she files the data away for next time.

We stand in silence, both chewing, both pretending not to notice how empty the gym is.

Eventually she says, “I thought there’d be more players here.”

“They’re all in the media lounge, waiting for their next close-up.” I lean back, brace myself on the bench, and for the first time since October, I let the conversation go where it wants. “Nobody comes in here unless they need to. It’s not about improvement anymore, it’s about optics.”

She considers that, rolling a protein bar in her hands. “You’re the only one who actually likes it, aren’t you?”

“The weights don’t lie.” I look at her, direct. “Everything else is negotiable.”

There’s another silence, this one less awkward and more deliberate. She sits on the edge of the bench, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed. The tray sits between us like a peace offering.

I tear off another piece, smaller this time. “I could help you with the ratios. If you want.”

She looks up, surprised. “You cook?”

“My mom ran a catering business.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do. “Every Sunday, I had to prep enough Karelian pies for the church crowd or I didn’t get to leave the table. You learn about starch and fat ratios fast.”

She seems to process this, then nods. “I’ll bring the next batch. You can stress test it.”

We sit there, two idiots in a weight room, passing chunks of failed nutrition bar back and forth, neither of us willing to leave first.

Outside the door, I hear the echo of laughter, the shout of a PR guy corralling the rookies for another “team building” segment.

It sounds a hundred miles away. In here, the only sounds are the click of teeth, the crinkle of wax paper, and the controlled exhale of two people trying very hard to look like this is just another day at the office.

I reach for another bar, and our hands brush, knuckles grazing. The contact is accidental but electric, and for a second, neither of us pulls away.

She leaves her hand there a beat longer than necessary, then retracts it, reaching for her phone to jot a note.

I take a deep breath. “Next time,” I say, “try dark chocolate. It masks the aftertaste.”

She nods. “Noted.”

We sit in the quiet. Sage checks her phone, then sets it face down. “Do you ever miss it? When we didn’t have to care about cameras?”

I consider the question. “I miss the quiet. I miss when it was just about winning.” My voice gets softer, accent flattening the vowels until I almost sound like my grandfather.

“Now everything is a story. Even this.” I gesture to the tray, the weights, the empty gym.

“They want drama. They want to see us crack.”

Sage picks at the edge of the protein bar, not looking at me. “You never crack though. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

I almost laugh. “You should see my apartment.” I’m not sure why I say it, but it’s true: laundry everywhere, takeout boxes stacked in the sink, a collection of penalty notices from the building association that I keep meaning to pay but never do.

“If I had a camera in there, nobody would believe it.”

“I would,” she says. Then, after a pause: “I can’t cook for one either. I mean, I can, but I don’t enjoy it and live off protein shakes and those meal kits they send you in a box. Sometimes I just eat dry cereal and go to bed.”

I look at her. She’s never said anything like that before. I try to think of something that doesn’t sound stupid, but all I come up with is, “You ever want to try real food, you could come over. My mom’s recipe. Rye bread and egg butter. It’s not fancy, but it’s good.”

She smiles, a real one this time, and it changes her whole face.

“Maybe I will,” she says.

We go back to sampling the bars, trading pieces and notes.

At one point, I lean back on the bench, stretch out my legs, and watch the ceiling tiles drift in and out of focus.

“You know, when I was a kid, my dad used to take me out on the lake. Ice fishing. He never talked, but we’d sit there for hours, just waiting.

Sometimes we’d get nothing. Sometimes a whole bucket.

But it was always better than being at home. ”

She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she gets it. Maybe better than anyone. She reaches out to pat my arm, and our hands collide, fingers overlapping, warm and rough and uncertain. Neither of us pulls away.

For a moment, I think maybe I could just stay here forever. No cameras, no games, no next move to consider. Just this: the taste of dark chocolate, the weight of her hand on mine, the way her breathing syncs up with my own.

I look at her, and she looks back, and for the first time in months, I don’t feel like I have to win.

She’s the first to break the spell. Sage stands, brushes a crumb from her shorts, and starts gathering the tray and her notebook like she can tidy away the entire hour.

Her hands move fast, efficient, as if each motion reclaims a layer of distance that the silence and the chocolate and the accidental touch had dissolved.

“Thanks for the input,” she says, and the tone is professional again, but softer. “You’re a good test case. The rest of the team just tells me it’s fine and throws it out when I’m not looking.”

She tucks the tray under her arm, checks her phone, then turns toward the door with a finality that makes my stomach go hollow.

For a second, I almost let her go. But something inside me—primal, stupid, resistant to all logic—doesn’t want the moment to evaporate.

I close the gap in two strides, step into her path before she can reach the exit.

She stops, tray wedged between us, eyes wary but not annoyed. I take the tray from her hands, careful, and set it on the nearest bench. I can feel her watching every muscle in my face, waiting to see if this is a joke or a mistake or a test.

I don’t make a move right away. My heart’s in my throat. I scan her face for any sign that this is wrong. All I see is the rise and fall of her breath, the slight quiver at the corner of her mouth, like she’s trying not to speak and ruin it.

I raise my hand slowly, not touching her until I’m sure she’ll let me.

A strand of her hair has come loose, curled against her cheekbone like it belongs there.

I tuck it back, barely grazing her skin.

Her face tilts into my hand like it’s instinct, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

She’s so warm it hurts. So alive it knocks the ground out from under me.

The gym seems to fall away, everything except the shape of her, the shallow rise of her breath, the pulse I can see fluttering in her neck.

She doesn’t move. Not away. Not toward. Just watches me with eyes that look like they’ve already lived the ending of whatever this is and still want to try again.

If I don’t kiss her now, if I let this moment slip past, it’ll be the kind of regret that wakes me in the middle of the night for the rest of my life.

So I do. I kiss her.

She gasps once, soft and startled, and then she’s kissing me back like she’s been waiting for the world to stop long enough to let her.

Her hands grip my arms, nails catching in the fabric of my sleeves.

Her mouth opens under mine, and I lean into it—her—like I’m drowning and she’s the only thing worth sinking for.

The noise of the gym is gone. The tension in my shoulders, the months of silence and missteps and almosts, it all melts under her mouth.

Her body responds, chest to chest, nothing between us but the gravity we keep trying to deny.

My hands slide to her waist, and I feel the tremor in her as she arches into me, like she’s fighting herself and losing.

But then she breaks the kiss with a soft exhale and a look that’s equal parts apology and promise. Her lips are flushed. Her voice barely a whisper. “I need to be somewhere else.”

She places her hand on my chest, fingers splayed, as if anchoring herself there for just a second more. Then she steps back, but her eyes stay on mine. And when she turns away, I swear I see the ghost of a smile, fragile and real.