Page 32 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
FINN
T he match is a grinder from the opening shift, full-body contact from the first whistle, forechecking that bruises collarbones, every line change met with fists on glass and sticks slamming against the boards.
We don’t win this one clean. We win it by scraping our edges raw, by finishing every hit, by blocking shots with rib cages and fighting for pucks like they’re the last ones on earth.
My shoulder takes a bad turn late in the second, but I roll it out and finish the shift because quitting has never once occurred to me in the middle of a game.
Grey plays like a ghost between the pipes, disappearing and reappearing just in time to make the save.
Beau scores the tying goal in the final three minutes, something slippery and impossible off the rush, the kind of move that reminds the league why they still put his face on posters.
I seal the win with a one-timer from the blue line, puck screaming top corner like it knows where it belongs. It feels good. But not satisfying.
When the horn goes, the building erupts.
Reporters swarm the tunnel, cameras snapping, bright lights hunting for quotes.
The other guys peel out one by one, chasing sponsors and nightclubs and the kind of validation that comes loud and fast. I keep my skates on, tell them I need to cool down, grab a towel and head back to the rink while the building starts to empty.
It’s a lie, mostly. My body could rest. But my head won’t.
The ice is scarred and patchy, fogging under the weight of floodlights.
I move slow, crossovers at half speed, carving lazy circles into the surface that’s already half melted from the postgame heat.
My breath clouds in the air in front of me, but I’m not cold.
I’m still carrying the heat of the game in my chest. That low, residual hum. Controlled violence turned inward.
I step off the ice eventually and strip down in the back hallway, towel slung across my shoulders, T-shirt clinging to my back, hair damp against my neck. The locker rooms are quiet now. The music is gone. The noise has drained out, leaving only echoes and the scent of sweat and victory.
That’s when I see Sage, half turned in the corridor, tote bag pulled across her body like she’s shielding something she doesn’t want anyone else to touch.
Her ponytail is falling loose, and she’s walking like she’s past tired but doesn’t trust herself to stop moving.
I almost call her name, but something about the set of her shoulders tells me not to.
She ducks into the recovery lounge. I follow, slow and quiet, steps measured to match hers even though she doesn’t know I’m behind her yet. She’s digging in her bag when I speak.
“You forget something?”
Her head lifts just enough to meet my eyes. “Charger,” she says.
I nod, stepping closer. “Want me to walk you out?”
She hesitates, like she’s considering saying no, but something flickers in her eyes that lands soft and steady. She shifts the bag on her shoulder, doesn’t answer directly, just falls into step beside me.
We pass the empty viewing suites, the executive wing where sponsors usually hover during intermissions, whispering about contracts and deals they’ll never honor.
It’s dark now. Clean. Silent. That stillness after a storm breaks.
I stop in front of a door with no label, just a lock and the faint scratch of old tape where someone’s name used to be.
She raises an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Nowhere,” I say. “But it’s quiet.”
It’s the executive box suite that overlooks the rink, tucked at the far end where the glass curves and the sound drops off.
I’ve used it before—quiet meetings, recovery sessions with the sports psychologist, the kind of conversations they don’t want on record.
No cameras, no staff. Just a view of the ice and the silence that comes after a war.
Officially, the key belongs to the front office, but they handed me a spare last season after a sponsor left mid-series and I needed somewhere to think.
I never gave it back. Some part of me knew I’d need it again.
I pull the spare key from my skate bag and slide it into the lock.
The door opens with a soft click, hinges tight, and I gesture for her to step inside.
The room is dark except for the spill of light from the rink, filtered through glass streaked with the memory of palms and snowflakes and too many nights like this.
The seats are plush, untouched. It smells faintly of pine cleaner.
I walk to the glass, lean my hands against it, and look down at the ice.
It’s empty now. Just lines and scuffs and history.
She steps up beside me without a word. The sound of her breath settles next to mine like it belongs there.
A while later, Sage sits beside me on the plush leather couch, her body angled more toward the glass than toward me, as though she’s trying to stay both present and removed.
I watch her reflection rather than her, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the way her hair fans out against the seat.
My fingers stutter over the edge of the glass, cold against my palm.
I lean forward a little, not sure how to steady the thrum inside me.
I lean in and let the words spill out: “I hate feeling watched. I’ve been losing sleep, not from the games, but from not knowing how you’re doing. ”
She doesn’t answer with words, just shifts.
Her shoulder leans against mine for a breath that feels like gravity.
Her head rests there, quiet and trusting and brief, and I taste something in that contact that I’ve held in my mouth long enough to choke on it.
Then she pulls away, sliding down the couch like she’s undoing a knot she never meant to tie.
The space between us stings with all the things left unsaid.
I reach and take her hand. My palm covers hers. Fingers curl around her wrist. I keep my voice pitched low. “I don’t need the whole story. I just need you to stop pretending you don’t want this too.”
She looks at me, a glint in her pale eyes. Then she moves. Slowly. She lifts herself up and straddles my lap. Her hands thread into my hair, strong fingers guiding me closer, anchoring me where I need to be. She leans forward, her lips ghosting over my throat, whispering my name.
My fingers rest against the clasp at the top of her blouse, fingers brushing warm skin beneath the fabric. I unbutton it, pulling it open, watching as the collar falls away. My breath tilts in my chest and I murmur, “Tell me to stop.” She doesn’t.
Her body shifts just enough to settle over mine with real weight, and every instinct I’ve spent so long keeping in check claws to the surface all at once.
She’s warm through the fabric, soft in places I remember too well, and her breath ghosts over my cheek like she’s testing the air between us before setting it on fire.
My hands rest at her hips, fingers spread wide, holding but not pressing, waiting for that signal I don’t trust words to give.
She leans forward, arms slipping around my neck, her thigh brushing the edge of my zipper, and the sound I make is too close to desperate.
I don’t kiss her yet. I just let myself feel it, the curve of her spine as she shifts, the press of her chest against mine, the slow draw of breath that lifts her rib cage and brushes her closer every second.
The city glows behind her, all that pale, golden light diffused through glass, painting her edges in gold like a promise.
Her eyes find mine and don’t look away. There’s something fierce there that says this might still destroy us but we’re already past the point of pretending it won’t matter.
When she leans in, our mouths almost touch but don’t. She stops just short, lets me feel the heat of her breath on my lips, and it’s that pause—that quiet refusal to be the first to break—that undoes me.
I close the gap.
Our mouths meet with a heat that’s deeper than hunger, slower than urgency, more than anything we’ve said out loud.
She tastes like salt and fire and every sleepless night I’ve spent trying not to think about this exact moment.
Her hands tangle in my hair, firm and unshaking, pulling me into her like she’s staking a claim she’s tried too long to deny.
The clothes come off next, and then she’s back on my lap.
I let her take control at first, let her move the way she wants, like she’s exploring something holy or forbidden.
But when she rocks forward—just once, enough to feel the pressure build—I grip her hips tighter, my thumbs finding those hollows above her thighs, anchoring myself to the heat of her.
The rhythm she sets is cruel and perfect, just enough to tease without tipping.
My chest rises into hers, every nerve lit up and reaching.
Her lips skim my jaw, her breath rough with restraint, and when I feel the edge of her teeth against my neck, I let out a sound I didn’t know I could make.
She lifts her head then, looks at me with pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-swollen, skin flushed in the golden dark.
And in that moment, I know exactly where this is going.
Her rhythm is steady, torturous, like she knows exactly how to make me unravel one nerve at a time.
I grip her hips, thumbs digging into the hollows above her thighs, grounding myself in the heat of her.
Every shift of her body drags a breath out of me, tight and rough.
She leans forward, palms braced on my chest, and I feel her nails trace down my sternum, leaving a line of fire in their wake.
The light from the city bleeds in through the glass, soft and gold, and I watch her move against me in silhouette—hair tangled, lips parted, skin gleaming.
Her breaths come shallow now, her body tightening around mine every time she sinks down.
I buck up to meet her, matching her pace, chasing the edge without falling over it.
She slows deliberately, teasing, rocking her hips in small circles that make my vision blur.
Her mouth finds my neck again, tongue flicking against the place where my pulse stutters.
I groan, low and broken, and wrap one arm around her waist, the other sliding down to cup her ass, guiding her the way I need.
She lets me, lets herself be moved, and it’s the surrender in that moment that shatters something in me.
I flip her—fast, smooth, without letting her go. Now she’s beneath me, legs tangled with mine, eyes gleaming like starlight. I brace on one elbow, the other hand skating down her side, memorizing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the sweat-slicked bend of her thigh.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” I whisper against her mouth.
“Good,” she breathes, arching into me.
I push into her again, and this time I watch her come undone—eyes fluttering shut, teeth catching her bottom lip, hands curling into my back like she’s trying to hold on to gravity. I stay deep, grinding instead of thrusting, and the sound she makes is half gasp, half growl.
We find a rhythm, dark and hungry. I kiss her like I need to taste her thoughts, bite the edge of her jaw, the spot under her ear that makes her hips buck.
She wraps her legs around me, heels digging in, pulling me deeper.
I fuck her hard, then slow, then hard again, reading her like the crease of a playbook—every noise, every flinch, every breath a signal.
She clutches my face, her fingers rough and frantic, dragging me down for another kiss that leaves both of us gasping.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the slip of her skin under my hands. I feel her start to shake, her body going taut, a tremor building in her legs.
“I’m right there,” she whispers, voice cracking.
“Then let go,” I say, and drive into her harder, faster, chasing the way she falls apart.
She breaks beneath me, a soundless scream stretched tight across her face, body locking around mine. I hold on, barely, pulse hammering like a gunshot in my throat.
But I don’t come. I stop myself on the edge, hovering in the dark with every muscle trembling.
My breath stutters out of me, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
She’s still shaking beneath me, gasping into my neck, and I press my forehead to hers, grounding myself in her heat, her scent, the weight of what we just nearly lost control of.
I flip her again, catching her on top of me, swaying her in time with the thrust of my cock, groaning as she clenches around me, her mouth half open.
The positions keep changing, but I can’t get enough.
I’m so focused on losing myself in her that I don’t realize there is someone else in the room.