Page 38 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

BEAU

O n the fourth drill rotation, I shank the shot so wide it doesn’t even hit the glass, just flies into the dead air above the boards and plummets to the ice like it’s lost the will to participate.

I catch Finn’s eye in the reflection off the penalty box glass and see him wince, just a little, the same microexpression he gets when a greenhorn blows a one-timer in the first round of preseason.

I want to murder the puck, but instead I follow it to the wall, collect, and skate back into the neutral zone, jaw clenched so tight my teeth buzz.

Coach is already blowing his whistle, the sound splitting the air into strobing chunks. “Again!” he yells, then fixes me with a look so flat it could be used to level drywall. “Let’s see it, Kingston.” He’s running short on patience, and I can feel the team clocking every second of my performance.

I square up, take the drop, and bury the next puck in the bottom right corner like I’m extracting an apology from the net.

The velocity is enough to rattle the water bottle off its perch.

It spins, lands with a splat, and the rookie goalie just freezes, arms spread, as if the force of the shot has temporarily reprogrammed him.

Finn is the first to laugh, sharp and mean in that way only he can get away with, but there’s an edge to it—like he knows the margin for error is razor thin, and today I’m skating on the wrong side of it.

The other guys join in, and for a second, the world returns to its regular orbit: the collective exhale after a near miss, the low-grade sadism that keeps us from going soft.

But the energy is off, and everyone feels it.

The drills cycle through, but every pass, every shot, every pivot is just a little out of sync.

Nobody says it, but the reason has a name, and it’s floating around the rink like an open wound: Sage.

Or, more specifically, whatever the hell is going on with Sage, and with me, and with the sudden uptick in team surveillance that’s made even the locker room feel like a confession booth.

The whispers started two days ago. At first, it was just the junior guys trading rumors—something about Sage getting “special treatment,” something about the docu crew editing footage to show her “in compromising situations.” By last night, it had metastasized: someone claimed to have seen her in Coach’s office after hours, another said she was being “looked at” by HR, a third swore she was on the verge of getting benched from the treatment suite for “boundary violations.”

None of it made sense, but the volume of the gossip was enough to make it real.

I could see it in the way the guys looked at her, or didn’t, during taping and rehab.

I could feel it in the way Sage had started moving around the facility—eyes down, shoulders up, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles even when the rooms were boiling with human heat.

We finish practice with a three-on-three drill that turns into a minor bloodbath.

At one point, Grey hip-checks me so hard I see static.

I retaliate with a stick hook that would be a five-minute penalty in any other league, but here it’s just another day at the office.

We collide, tangle, and end up in a pile behind the net.

For a second, neither of us moves. I see the pulse in Grey’s throat, the way his jaw sets, and I know he’s holding back something more dangerous than a punch.

He’s the one who finally rolls off, then hauls me up by the elbow. “You’re skating angry,” he mutters, not even pretending to hide it.

“Maybe I’m just trying to keep up,” I shoot back, but my heart isn’t in it. Grey holds my gaze for a fraction longer than normal, then skates off, leaving a vapor trail of unasked questions.

After the last whistle, I coast to the bench, tug my helmet off, and pour a cup of Gatorade over my head.

The cold helps, but only a little. The locker room is a pressure cooker.

Guys stripping pads, slamming sticks, slumping into their stalls with the defeated posture of soldiers after a losing skirmish.

The soundtrack is the hiss of tape, the clatter of plastic, and the low, persistent hum of rumor.

I park myself in the corner and start unlacing my skates, pretending to focus on the knot but actually listening to the room.

“Did you see her after practice?”

“No, but I heard she was with Ryland and the board.”

“She’s in deep, man. That’s why she’s ghosting everyone.”

“Bet you five she doesn’t last the month.”

“What did she even do?”

“Doesn’t matter. Coach wants her gone.”

None of it makes sense, and all of it makes sense. It’s how this world works: you win, you’re a God; you slip, you’re chum. I don’t say a word, just finish with the laces and start stripping off my pads with surgical precision.

As I peel the last layer, I catch a sliver of movement at the edge of my vision. Sage, passing by the open door, clipboard tucked tight to her ribs, hair in a messy bun. She doesn’t look in, doesn’t acknowledge the room, just walks fast, eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.

The silence that follows her is so absolute you could drop a pin and hear it roll. Then, like clockwork, the volume surges back.

“There she goes.”

“She’s not even talking to Kingston anymore.”

“Wonder what he did.” The last comment is just loud enough for me to catch, and I don’t have to look up to know who said it.

Coach comes in and kills the mood with one look.

“All right, assholes, listen up. Next practice is Thursday at nine. We’re running specialty drills, so I want the first line here early for briefing.

No exceptions. If you’re not on the ice by the horn, don’t bother showing up.

” He pins me with his eyes. “Kingston, that means you.”

I nod, but my stomach drops. Coach is a master at the art of public execution, and today I’m the one on the block. He doesn’t elaborate, just turns and leaves, but the message is clear: get your shit together, or get out .

I shower fast, dress even faster, and bolt for the hallway.

I don’t want to see the way the guys look at me, or the way they don’t.

I don’t want to deal with Finn’s version of concern, which is to shoulder check me into a wall and then act like nothing happened.

I just want to get to the parking lot, into my car, and scream into the dashboard until my voice gives out.

But as I round the corner past the training suite, I hear voices—low, urgent, familiar.

I slow my pace, letting my sneakers squeak against the tile.

The sound is coming from the media lounge, a room that’s always locked unless there’s a PR event or a donor visit.

Today, the door is propped with a wedge of folded cardboard. I edge closer, keeping out of sight.

Inside, I see Dylan, perched on the edge of a desk, and Talia pacing tight figure eights in front of him. They’re talking in that rapid, code-switching way people do when they think nobody is listening.

Dylan says, “So you really think it’ll stick? The optics aren’t great.”

Talia, not breaking stride, says, “It doesn’t matter if it sticks. It’s about pattern building. Multiple informal interactions, cross-referenced with time-stamped footage, plus the off-record testimony. Even if she walks, she’ll never work in a professional league again.”

Dylan grimaces. “Is that what Ryland wants? I thought?—”

Talia cuts him off, voice going flat. “What Ryland wants is irrelevant. The board is documenting everything. If we don’t manage this now, we’ll have a legal shitstorm by the offseason.” She pauses, then adds, “The only variable is how clean we can make it look. She’s too visible to just let go.”

Dylan nods, then glances at his phone. “You want to spin it, or do you want me to…?”

Talia stops pacing and fixes him with a look that could freeze vodka. “Just be ready when they call you in. That’s all you need to do.”

The conversation ends, and I back away, careful not to make a sound. My hands are shaking. The urge to hit something is almost overwhelming, but I clamp down, focus on my breathing, and walk—don’t run—to the nearest exit.

I punch the door open and stand in the blast of cold air, letting it numb the panic out of my bones. For a second, the world is quiet. I close my eyes, count to ten, and when I open them again, I see the horizon line: the empty lot, the dead grass, the haze of early spring settling over everything.

I want to call Sage, tell her what I heard, but I know better.

Anything we say can be used against her now.

I want to tell Finn and Grey, but they already know something’s up; they’re not idiots, and I’m not the only one with a nose for bullshit.

So I do the only thing I can: I walk to my car, open the trunk, and grab my spare stick.

I walk to the far side of the lot, away from the cameras and the lights, and take a hundred practice shots into the chain-link fence until my arms go numb.

When I finally stop, sweat running down my back despite the cold, I notice something tucked behind the back tire of my car. It’s a folded piece of paper, pale blue, with the Storm logo embossed in one corner. I pick it up, fingers already knowing what’s inside.

It’s a printout. Not just any printout—a time stamp log, cross-referenced with facility camera footage. My name is circled three times, highlighted in red. Below it, in smaller type, are two other names: Grey and Finn. Each entry has a time, a location, and a short note.

Inappropriate proximity.

Non-treatment context.

Possible optics concern.