Page 40 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

FINN

T he next day, a knot of bodies forms around the corkboard of the Storm’s locker room, all staring like there’s something obscene posted.

Maybe there is. Every team has a hierarchy: first liners in the center, rookies at the edge, everyone else jockeying for a sightline.

I watch as Beau cocks his head, frowns, then looks over the top of the announcement at Grey, who grunts, unimpressed.

A ripple of silence as the rest crowd in.

The paper is clean, its edges unfrayed by the usual parade of hands. The header is in red, which is either a threat or a joke depending on who wrote it. In this building, it’s both.

Nonessential Staff Boundaries , it says, the font size calculated to reach the back of the room. Underneath, a set of bullet points in legal black:

- Effective immediately, player contact with non-essential personnel is limited to scheduled sessions only.

- All off-hours interactions must be logged with Team Admin.

- Failure to observe professional distance may result in disciplinary review.

- See HR for clarification.

There’s a subtext in the phrasing—each period a nail, each noun a knife.

The author doesn’t sign it, but the parenthetical at the end ( Questions?

Ask Talia! ) is a dead giveaway. I almost laugh.

There’s not a single player in this room who would ask Talia a question unless the alternative involved surgery without anesthesia.

A sense of confusion and impending doom prevails. Somebody says, “Shit,” wry and resigned.

A different voice, higher, “Does this mean no more ice baths?”

Someone else snorts, “Only if you want to get written up.” Grey reads the whole memo, then tears it off with a single smooth rip. He folds it in half, then in half again, then passes it to Beau, who gives it a ceremonial flick into the trash.

For half a second, I think that’s the end, but a tension lingers, like nobody’s sure if the memo is the threat or just the warning. Nobody moves toward the showers, nobody resumes the usual pre-practice shit talk. Instead, every eye in the room migrates, magnetized, to me.

I don’t make them wait. I cross to the board, scan the wall for any follow-up postings, find none, and then turn to face the team. “It’s nothing,” I say, which is my native tongue—downplay, ignore, move forward.

Finn, you idiot. Even your inner monologue calls you out.

My jaw tightens before I can help it. The blood in my ears picks up tempo. I know what this is about, and so does every asshole in the room, but nobody will say her name. Not in public. Not where it could get back to her, or to me, or to Coach.

The red ink is still visible in the wastebasket, curling like a tongue. I want to kick it, but I settle for clenching my fists until the knuckles bleach white.

Some of the guys drift away, peeling off toward their lockers, but Beau hangs back. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but says, “You think they’ll actually enforce it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, voice steady, but my head is already racing through the permutations: If they’re putting it on paper, it means they want us scared. Means they want her scared. Means someone’s keeping count.

A rookie—Leif, I think, the one with the messy hair and the Swedish vowels—asks, “What if it’s, like, an accident? If you run into them at the store?”

Grey answers for me: “Then you better fucking log it.” The joke lands, but just barely.

I shoulder past, toss my bag onto the bench, and start the slow ritual of taping my wrists, layer by layer. Each loop is a shield, a mask, a reminder of what my hands are for. My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it.

A minute passes. Two. When I finally check, there’s a notification from an address I don’t recognize.

The subject line: Who’s the Mystery Woman Behind the Storm’s Stars?

It’s a link to the local sports blog—one I’ve read enough times to know it by the color of its banner.

The lead image is a photo from the charity skate, Sage and Beau in the center of the frame, both mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, heads tilted together as if the whole world is just a rumor that hasn’t reached them yet.

The caption is worse than the headline: Storm’s beloved star center Beau Kingston shares a laugh with the team’s enigmatic new sports therapist at a recent charity event.

My stomach drops, an elevator in freefall. There’s nothing technically wrong with the photo, but in light of the memo, it’s a loaded gun.

I look up, expecting the room to have shifted, but nobody’s looking at me now. The new silence is a gift, or maybe a setup. Above the weight rack, there’s a plaque with the old team motto, painted in cursive so elaborate it looks like a dare: All In.

I bite down on the words, taste the metal, and remind myself what that means.

Practice starts in six minutes, and I’m already behind, so even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I get down to it.

The hallway to the practice rink is lined with banners from past seasons, every year a silent accusation: Champions 2018 , Division Finalists 2020 , and then just a blank for last year.

I walk it every day, sometimes twice, and usually the muscle memory takes over—shoulder the duffel, cut through the side door, keep my head down and my mouth shut.

Today, the soles of my shoes feel too loud, echoing off the tile like I’m announcing an invasion.

The photo is still on my phone, the blue light of it burning a stripe into my thigh through my pocket.

I want to delete it, but I can’t. I want to throw the phone against the wall and grind it under my heel, but I need it for the group chat, for the next angry text from Coach, for the only link I have to Sage now that the rules have been posted like commandments.

I round the corner near the media lounge and there she is, just as I knew she would be: Talia, leaning against the frame like she owns the air in this part of the building.

When she sees me, she straightens, takes one smooth step into my path, and blocks the entire fucking hallway with a smile so perfect it could be on a recruitment brochure.

“Finn,” she says, voice syrupy, “could we have a quick word?”

I want to say no, but my feet have already stopped. I can feel the energy in my fists, every tendon in my forearms itching.

She glances down at the clipboard, pretends to read something, then looks back up. “You’re a team leader,” she says, as if this is news to me. “Which means optics are especially important right now.”

I don’t answer. She doesn’t care.

“I saw the blog post,” she says, head tilting, lips pursed in mock sympathy. “Cute picture. But not the smartest move, making it personal. Especially with everything going on.”

Her eyes flick to my pocket, then back to my face. I realize my jaw is clamped so tight my molars ache.

“Team rules are clear,” she says, and now the sweetness is gone, replaced by the corporate edge that’s her real voice. “We need everyone to model compliance, or we’ll have to escalate.”

I take a breath, slow. I feel the words building in my throat—something in Swedish, probably not printable—but I force them down.

There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t be used as evidence.

Instead, I look her dead in the eyes and let the silence do the work.

Her smile stays frozen, but there’s a flicker, a microsecond of doubt.

“Is that all?” I say, voice low, careful.

She hesitates. “For now,” she says. “But let’s keep things…professional. For everyone’s sake.”

I nod, one sharp dip of the chin, then walk past her, shouldering just close enough that she has to sidestep or get clipped.

She chooses to move. I keep going, pace steady, even as my insides snap and writhe.

The second I’m out of her sightline, I let the curses come—quiet, in the language I reserve for home and for war.

Helvete. Dj?vla helvete.

The tunnel to the ice is colder than usual, the kind of cold that leeches the feeling out of your hands.

I go through the ritual: left skate, right skate, pads, helmet, gloves, tape.

My hands shake for a second, then calm as I lace up, the mechanical repetition working like a sedative.

I check my phone one last time before stowing it.

The photo is still there, still perfect.

I tuck it away and take the first step onto the ice.

Warm-ups are supposed to be autopilot. This morning, I can’t get the throttle right.

Every pass I make is a little too hard, every shot off the stick a little wild.

Grey chirps me, “You got somewhere to be?” and I want to flip him the bird but settle for slapping the next puck so hard it bounces off the glass and nearly concusses the backup goalie.

The guys laugh, but the sound is tight, nervous, like they’re all waiting for something to explode.

Coach blows the whistle, once, twice, and the whole team lines up for drills.

I take my spot on the left, eyes on the blue line, and try to banish the image of Sage’s face from my mind.

It doesn’t work. I see her everywhere—in the flick of a towel, in the color of the Gatorade bottles, in the way the trainers hustle along the bench, pretending not to notice the memo taped up at every entrance.

First drill is a breakout. I fuck up the first pass, send it three feet ahead of the center, who dives but misses.

Coach doesn’t yell, not yet, just makes a note on his clipboard.

The silence is worse than any scream. I grit my teeth, take the next puck, and overcorrect, sending it straight into Grey’s skates.

After the third screwup, Coach stops the drill. The entire team stands still, breath frosting the air. He walks onto the ice and stands directly in front of me. “Is there a problem?” he says, not loud, but with a gravity that makes the rink shrink to the size of a phone booth.

“No, Coach,” I say. I don’t look away.

He holds the stare for a beat, then two. “Good. Because we don’t have room for problems right now. Understood?”

“Understood.”

He walks away, blows the whistle, and the drill restarts.

I play harder, sharper, but it’s not the same.

My hands remember what to do, but my brain is elsewhere—tracking the movements of every camera in the arena, every shadow in the stands, every possible angle where Sage could be caught by the wrong lens.

At the end of the session, I skate a few extra laps, burning off the rage until my legs tremble. I pull off my helmet, run my hands through my hair, and try to remember the last time I was this afraid of something I couldn’t punch.

The answer, of course, is never.

Practice runs late, and by the time I limp out of the locker room, the arena has shifted from day to night mode. The lights in the main bowl are down to half, and outside the big glass doors, the catering trailer glows like a spaceship set down on a planet of salted asphalt.

I cross the lot, steam from the showers still clinging to my skin, mixing with the cold air in a way that feels like punishment and reward all at once.

The trailer is a repurposed lunch truck, white paint flaking, the Storm logo stenciled on the side but weathered to the point you have to squint to see it.

The door is propped with a broken broom handle, and I duck inside, blinking against the brightness.

Sage is at her post, behind a battered Formica counter, the surface scattered with protein powders, pill bottles, and an industrial blender that sounds like a jet turbine.

I watch from the doorway, caught between wanting to help and not wanting to be another witness to her exhaustion.

I watch until she notices me, which takes longer than it should.

When she finally looks up, the smile she manages is so small it’s almost negative.

“Hey,” she says, then waves me off before I can answer. “I know. I look like hell.”

She doesn’t, but I don’t say it. Instead, I nod toward the plates. “They got you doing catering now too?”

She shrugs, a one-shoulder move that leaves her lopsided.

“Nutrition lead called in sick. I’m the next warm body on the list.” She sets the last bottle in place, then leans both hands on the counter and closes her eyes for a count of three.

“You want something, or you just here to critique my presentation?”

I step closer, but not too close. “Just checking in,” I say.

Some of the sadness in her eyes dies down. “Thanks for that.”

I want to ask about the memo, about the blog post, about the way her name is now code for problem . Instead, I point at the crate of bottled water behind the counter, where it’s perched at a bad angle, threatening to topple. “That’s not OSHA approved,” I say, trying to make her laugh.

She almost does, but then the crate shifts, and she moves fast, catching it with both hands. Her arms shake with the effort, and I see her wince—tiny, but real. I move to help, but she stops me with a glare so cold it might freeze the water inside the bottles.

“I’ve got it,” she says, through clenched teeth.

The crate slams down. One bottle falls, rolls across the floor, and bumps into my shoe. I pick it up, turn it over in my hands. “Let me help, Sage.”

She’s still bracing the crate, shoulders up, jaw set. “I said, I’ve got it.” The words echo in the trailer, louder than anything the blender could do.

I get why she’s being paranoid. Any wrong angle that captures us looking like more than two professionals speaking with each other, and she loses her job while I get into deep shit.

She’s protecting me.

I set the bottle on the counter, hands raised. “Okay,” I say, soft. “Okay.”

She releases the crate, then straightens, rubbing her palms together. There’s a red mark on her wrist, and I want to ask if she’s okay, really okay, but I know the answer.