Page 4 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

I run a finger along the edge of the glass, feeling the cold bite, and wonder if Sage Moretti would let me show her how fast ice really melts under pressure.

Night at the arena is when the place feels honest.

The halls lose the scent of audience adrenaline, janitorial bleach rides in on every draft, and the only noise is the dull hum of compressors fighting the ancient wiring for a few more degrees of chill.

I run sprints on the main ice after hours, sometimes just to remind myself I’m still faster than time, but tonight I find myself drifting toward the recovery suite with zero intention and a bag of smuggled peanut butter cups.

The light’s on, but the windows are fogged, like the room itself is exhaling.

Through the glass, Sage sits hunched on a treatment table, ankle elevated, towel-wrapped ice pack balanced with precision.

She’s in Storm warm-ups, hair leaking from her ponytail like she lost a war with a static balloon.

Her eyes are locked on her phone, thumb working a text thread with the kind of focused energy I usually save for breakaways.

I pause outside, watching her jaw clench as she shifts the ice.

It’s not the ankle; it’s how she won’t acknowledge the pain even to herself.

There’s pride there, the kind that can outstubborn a brick wall.

I tap the glass, holding up the roll of kinesiology tape like a bad infomercial host.

She blinks, startled, then waves me in with the universal get lost or make yourself useful flick.

I step inside, exaggerating my limp. “Heard the rumor you were running low.”

She peels the towel back, exposing a bloom of red skin above her sock. “What, you deliver now? Should I tip?”

“I accept cash, cards, or words of affirmation,” I say, dropping the tape on the tray. “But you get a discount if you actually let someone help you.”

She eyes the tape like it’s a contract written in invisible ink. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. That’s why you’re icing alone at midnight instead of telling Ryland you rolled it.”

“I didn’t roll it,” she says, voice tight. “Just overdid the band work. I’m not on the IR, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

I hop onto the next treatment table, facing her. “If you go down, the whole team’s gonna start falling apart.

We need you at 90 percent, minimum.”

She huffs a laugh. “Like the rest of you operate above fifty.”

“Sixty on game nights,” I deadpan. “But only if they spike the Gatorade.”

She cracks, just a little, and the smile is worth the wait.

I gesture at the bandaged ankle. “You want me to tape it? I’m told my hands are ‘innovative.’”

She shakes her head, but the set of her jaw softens. “I’ll live. But thanks.”

I pretend to study her form, all long lines and hidden muscle, the way her fingers grip the edge of the bench.

“You doing your own rehab program now?”

She shrugs, making it look practiced.

“The programs they sent from HQ are cookie-cutter. I’m trialing a new cooldown stretch. See if it actually helps.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees.

“Demo it for me. I’ll rate your technique.”

She looks at me like I’ve suggested we swap blood types, but then she slides off the table and clears a patch of floor.

“You’ll have to keep up, Kingston.”

“Try me.”

She lines up, one bare foot braced behind the other, knee flexed, arms overhead. “It’s like a pigeon pose, but you torque the torso for the lateral chain. Most guys can’t hold it more than ten seconds without whining.”

I mirror her, drop to the mat, and feel the stretch yank my hip flexor like a tow cable. I fight the wince.

“Feels like any other Friday,” I say, holding her gaze.

She grins, then ups the ante, rotating until her rib cage almost touches the knee.

I match her.

The room shrinks to the space between our faces, breath shallow, every tendon in my left side screaming.

I don’t tap out.

She comes upright, cheeks flushed, and offers a palm to pull me up. “Not bad,” she says. “You could have a future in this.”

“Only if you’re my boss,” I say, not letting go of her hand.

She leaves it there, and for a second, the air sizzles with static, her pulse beating through her fingers, my thumb brushing the inside of her wrist.

She tries to slide away, but I keep her anchored, light but insistent.

“Careful,” she warns, but there’s no anger in it.

Only the warning, and the promise.

I close the distance, just enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “What’s the stretch for if not to get closer?”

She laughs, low and surprised, then tries to twist out of my grip.

I shift my angle, blocking her escape, and we end up face-to-face, barely a breath apart.

Her lips part, eyes darting to my mouth, and I almost go for it, almost.

But she tenses, not in fear—more like anticipation—and the sharp pop of her knuckles on my shoulder jolts me back to the present.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, but she doesn’t move.

“Occupational hazard,” I say, voice gone ragged.

Her hand is still in mine.

I can feel the tremor in her arm, the way she’s fighting herself as much as me.

I lean in, this time slower, letting her see it coming.

The kiss hovers in the space between us, less a collision than a question. Yes or no?

But the world is a comedian, and before either of us answers, the sound of the recovery suite door slamming back against the stopper echoes like a slapshot off plexi.

I don’t even have time to blink before Finn Sorensen fills the doorway, all six foot five of him.

He’s wearing a sleeveless tee that shows off last year’s playoff bruise—still green at the edges—and the way he looks at me and Sage is cold enough to refreeze the ice outside.

Sage yanks her hand away as Finn’s blue eyes flick from her to me to the gap between us, calculating the odds of what he just interrupted.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just cocks his head, waiting.

Sage clears her throat. “Hey, Finn. Need something?”

He doesn’t answer, but she bails anyway, brushing past him with a muttered “goodnight.”

For a guy who hates confrontation, Finn’s pretty damn good at clearing a room.

He waits until the suite is empty, then fixes his stare on me.

I’ve seen him take cross-checks to the face with less intensity. “Walk,” he says, then turns on his heel, trusting I’ll follow.

We don’t talk until we’re two corridors away from the main drag, the air colder, no cameras, just the distant rumble of HVAC and the slap of our sneakers on tile.

Finn stops, arms folded, jaw ticking. “What are you doing?”

I play it cool, stretching out my shoulders like he caught me in a pregame routine. “Just checking in on the medical staff. You know, captain stuff.”

“Looked like something else,” he says, voice flat. “You know what happened to the last guy who messed with staff?”

“I’m not ‘messing’ with anyone,” I say, but the lie tastes like bad whiskey.

He shakes his head, disappointment radiating off him in waves. “We have policy for reason, Beau. You want to get the team wrecked again?”

That word— again —hits harder than any puck.

Last year’s off-ice disaster cost us the playoffs, and I was the face of that shame, every headline with my name in twelve-point font and my smirk in full color.

It happened a week after I found out Talia had been cheating on me.

Like a fool, I decided to get drunk and kiss a girl at an after-party, right in front of someone’s camera, while my name was still tied to someone else.

The footage hit the tabloids before I’d even sobered up.

Suddenly, the locker room had reporters in it.

Coach got grilled.

Sponsors pulled back.

Our captain had to hold a press conference just to say I wasn’t being benched.

Guys stopped trusting I had my head in the game, and honestly, they weren’t wrong.

We lost two games we should’ve won, fell out of contention, and PR labeled it a lapse in judgment.

The fans called it betrayal. The league called it unprofessional. I called it mindfuckery.

“I’m not wrecking anything,” I say stubbornly. “You of all people know what it was.”

He tilts his head, still not buying it. “You don’t even know her.”

I grin, go for levity. “That’s why I was doing the icebreaker. It’s called team building, Sorensen. Very big in Sweden, or so I hear.”

He doesn’t blink. “It’s not funny, Beau.”

We stand in the sterile silence, neither willing to blink first.

I think about all the times Finn’s body has been between me and a goon on the ice, how he’s never once let me down in a rush, and I wonder if he’d take a hit for me if the stakes were something worse than a broken rib.

He finally sighs, all the fight gone. “Just…don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

I nod, but he can see right through it.

He turns and walks off, shoulders hunched, muttering something that sounds a lot like, “I miss when staff used to be boring.”

That effectively leaves me alone with the buzz of the building and the tick in my jaw.

I lean against the cold tile and replay the scene, the way Sage’s hand fit in mine, the half second where she almost leaned in, the look she gave me as she left.

Finn’s right: I don’t know her.

But I know the way she makes me want to stop pretending for five minutes that I have everything under control.