Page 5 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

FINN

I post up at the blue line with my shoulder blades chewing through my shirt and the whole left side of my jaw stiff from clenching.

The rink is empty except for Sage and whichever rookie winger drew the short straw for early morning assessment.

She has him stretched out on a mat, testing ankle flexion and talking to him in her soft, sweet voice—she never raises it, never lets the volume get out of her hands.

I watch the way she moves her fingers along the edge of his shin, pressure exact, clinical, no hesitation.

The breeze tastes like old sweat and the ammonia blast from the Zamboni bay.

That’s the real smell of hockey, not the corporate wax or whatever citrus spray the PR guys use on media days.

I don’t remember deciding to watch her work, but I’m here every morning before team skate, running laps, shooting pucks, killing time until the day demands something of me.

Today I watch her because I need to know—need to see with my own eyes—if yesterday was anything but a fluke.

Yesterday was Beau.

I found them in the treatment suite, alone, the spaces between them buzzing with what they weren’t saying.

His hands, too close.

Her face, not angry.

I let the door slam just to see if he’d flinch.

He didn’t.

She only turned away, like it was me interrupting something private.

Now, from the opposite side of the glass, I see the rookie get up, rotate his ankle.

He laughs at something she says, that weird bark of nervous energy, then limps off in the direction of the showers.

Sage starts packing up her tape, and when she stands, her back is to me.

I could leave. I should probably leave.

Instead, I wait until she’s done, then walk the long way around the boards, past where the glass fogs from overnight condensation, and find her in the narrow hallway by the supply closet.

She’s uncomfortable.

I know because her spine clicks straight, her head tips up, and she freezes a half beat before slamming the cabinet closed. “Can I help you?” she says.

She’s still got tape residue on her thumb.

“You could help yourself,” I say, and it comes out harsher than I meant, all edges, all gravel. “If you keep letting Kingston distract you, you’re going to end up in the rumor bin with the rest of the casualties.”

She turns on me, and she looks like a lot of things, but not afraid. “You think I’m a casualty?”

“I think you’re wasting your time,” I say, moving closer.

The hallway is barely wide enough for two, and I let my chest brush her arm.

She’s a head shorter but doesn’t back down.

“Guys like him, they only care about a challenge until it’s not new anymore.”

Her eyes—hazel, with a ring of green like wet grass—don’t leave mine.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions for someone who won’t even let me treat their shoulder.”

“That’s different,” I mutter, caught off guard.

The truth is, I don’t trust anyone with it, and that includes myself. She folds her arms, tape roll pinched in her fingers like a threat.

“You got something to say to me, Sorensen? Or do you just like standing in doorways and making women uncomfortable?”

I lean in, close enough to smell the coffee she didn’t finish.

“You think Kingston is going to save you when Ryland finds out you’re fraternizing with the roster?”

Her voice drops to a whisper, sharp as a skate blade. “I’m not ‘fraternizing.’ And even if I were, it’s none of your business.”

“I’m one of the captains,” I say, because it’s the only card I have left. “That makes it my business.”

She laughs, a bitter snap.

“You know what makes me laugh, Finn? The way you pretend you’re the only one on this team with something to lose.”

I feel the blood heat up the back of my neck.

For a second, I want to push her, just to see if she pushes back.

She would.

She does, in her way: “Instead of policing the staff, why don’t you worry about yourself for once?”

I’m not good at backing down, so I don’t.

I plant both hands on either side of her, caging her in without touching. “Maybe I’m trying to keep you from making a mistake.”

She doesn’t blink. “Maybe you’re jealous.”

For a second, my jaw locks. “If I wanted you, you’d know.”

She tips her head, eyes daring me to close the gap.

“Then show me. Or are you only good at taking cheap shots in the hallway?”

I stare at her.

This close, I can count the freckles on her nose, the line where her mouth curves up even when she’s mad.

My body is an electric fence, every nerve on high alert.

“You want to see my routine?” I say, voice dropping.

“I want to see if you can back up your attitude with anything real,” she fires back. “You talk a big game, but so far all you’ve done is glare at me from across the rink and flinch every time I get within ten feet of your shoulder.”

My hands flex on the cinderblock wall.

She’s not wrong.

“Fine. After practice, you and me, no witnesses. I’ll show you exactly what I do to get ready for the game.”

She straightens, brushing past my elbow.

“You’re on. But if you tap out, I’m telling Kingston.”

That makes me smile for the first time all morning.

“Deal,” I say, and let her walk away first. She smells like eucalyptus and salt and challenge. I want it, bad.

With her gone, I punch the wall—just once, just enough to burn off the static.

Then I head to the weight room, rolling the dare around in my mouth like a toothpick.

I’ll show her what it means to go toe-to-toe with someone who never, ever lets go.

After the ice, after the sweat, after Kingston’s laughs in the showers and Ryland’s chew out in film review, I wait.

I kill time in the gym, trading sets with McTavish and pretending the burn in my deltoids is enough to erase everything else.

It’s not, but pain is at least predictable.

I make my way to the therapy zone after most of the guys have cleared out.

The place is bright, a kingdom of resistance bands and foam rollers and shit nobody uses unless a woman in a training top is watching.

I hear her before I see her—the soft click of pen on clipboard, the drag of a heavy balance board across the floor.

She’s already got everything lined up like she’s prepping for a hostile invasion.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re early.”

I grab the cleanest towel off the stack and pull off my warm-up jacket.

My shirt underneath sticks to my back; I can see in the window reflection that my hair is wild from the helmet, standing up in a stupid crown. “Didn’t want to keep you waiting,” I say, and the sarcasm is soft, almost shy.

She eyes me over the rim of her clipboard. “I figured you’d chicken out.”

I step into the center of the room, bare feet gripping the mat. “You wish.”

She’s wearing fitted joggers and a cropped Storm tee, which should make her look casual but just makes her seem even more lovely.

The shirt rides up at the edge and I see the deep bracket of her abs, tight as a goalie’s glove.

She sets the board in front of me, points with the pen. “Start there. One minute, eyes closed. If you wobble, you start over.”

I plant my heel dead center, test the give. “That all?”

“For now.”

I let my body tip forward, arms slicing out to balance.

I can feel her gaze tracking my every twitch, like she’s waiting for me to screw up.

The first thirty seconds is nothing.

The last thirty is all in the calves, and my left one still trembles from that hit I took last month.

But I hold.

Eyes closed, I let the rest of my senses map the room: the lemon in the wipes, the vanilla ghost from the massage lotion, the tap-tap-tap of her pen. My body wants to break, but I don’t give it permission.

When the minute is up, I open my eyes.

She’s moved closer, almost within reach.

Her pen hovers, ready to score me down for any weakness.

I step off smooth, nod at her. “Next?”

She points to the plyo mat. “Single-leg hops, side-to-side, twenty reps per leg. Show me you can land without rolling out.”

I do.

My knee tracks straight, my arms pumping in rhythm.

The board behind me clatters, but I keep my focus.

At ten reps, she steps right up to the edge of the mat, crouched low, eyes at shin-level, watching for a buckle or a cheat. I finish without a hitch.

She looks up, straight into my face. “You’re not bad.”

I flex my hands, try not to show the smile that wants to break through. “I’m the best.”

She stands, closes the gap, so close I have to tilt my head down to keep eye contact. “Let’s see the shoulder.”

That’s the tell—she’s been building to this the whole time.

She wants to see if I trust her, or if I’ll bail.

I could walk, but I don’t.

I turn so my left side is facing her, strip the shirt off, and let her see the full map of scars and tape residue.

The room is cold on my skin, and the old injury flares with embarrassment as much as pain.

She doesn’t wince or joke.

She just studies, then lifts my arm, careful with the rotation.

“Where’s the pain?”

“Here,” I say, as her fingers slide up to the edge of my scapula.

“Let it go loose,” she instructs, voice gentler now.

I do. I let her manipulate the arm, let her stretch and test the range. Her hands are small but precise.

When she hits the knot, I grunt, but I don’t pull away.

She works it, careful but not coddling.

The pain is real, but so is the relief.

She finishes with a quick tape job, then steps back, appraising her work.

“You could have told me it was this bad,” she says. “I’d have fixed it sooner.”

I shrug the arm, surprised by how much better it feels.

“Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth flick up.

“You’re a piece of work, Sorensen.”

“So are you,” I say. This time the smile comes easy, and it stays.

She grabs the clipboard, marks something, then holds it up. “You passed.”

“Of course I did.”

She lingers at the door, one foot on the threshold.

“Next time, maybe try trusting someone before you implode.”

I watch her go, the words sticking like pine tar.

I sit on the mat until my heart slows down, rolling the memory of her hands over the pain like a lucky coin.

Maybe I was wrong about her.

Maybe the only thing that scares me more than letting someone in is what happens when I actually do.

I stay until the lights dim, the echoes of her challenge still ringing in the cage of my chest.

Then I slide into the conference room, where the comms guy Dylan has asked us all to meet him.

I take the back wall, standing, arms crossed.

Most of the guys are already there, half in and half out of their street clothes, every posture a study in practiced boredom.

McTavish is texting under the table.

Kingston’s up front, shoes off, grinning.

Dylan paces behind the podium, hair shellacked to a perfect swoop. “Okay, people,” he booms, too loud for the hour. “This is important, so let’s try something new: focus.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Dylan ignores it.

“We’ve partnered with a major sports streaming service. Starting next month, they’ll be filming a docuseries. Working title: Storm Front: Inside the Ice .”

He pauses, waiting for someone to make the obvious joke. No one does.

“Episodes will run weekly. They want access: games, practices, locker room. And”—here he pauses for dramatic effect—“some off-ice content. Team bonding, day-in-the-life, all that. So keep your drama to a minimum, or at least make it entertaining.”

“Are they filming right now?”

Kingston asks, holding up a coffee like a prop.

Dylan grins.

“Not until next week. But assume every word you say from now on is public domain.”

McTavish looks up, unimpressed. “Is that it?”

Dylan shifts, hands behind his back.

“That brings me to part two. In order to build camaraderie and market value, we’re heading to a lodge in the Catskills. We get there Thursday, late afternoon. Official retreat is from Friday to Monday. Team building, trust falls, all the stuff Ryland loves.”

This time the groan is real, and Ryland’s glare could melt the Hudson.

Dylan pushes through. “Because of the schedule and weather, we’re going straight from the bus to the lodge. No detours, no night off. The entire support staff will be there—including medical, in case any of you clowns decide to reenact Jackass on the ski slopes.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, and I catch Sage’s face in the crowd.

She’s at the edge, notebook already open, head low.

A few of the guys glance her way too.

The loveliness is obvious—but it’s more than that.

She’s sharp, she knows what she’s doing, and she has a way of making the guys feel good about themselves.

Dylan clicks the next slide. “Also, with the snow warnings, Ms. Moretti will be staying at the lodge all three nights to manage recovery and injury prevention. That means she is on call, twenty-four seven. Treat her with respect or Ryland gets to run punishment drills when we’re back.”

Sage’s eyes look up, just a split second, then settle to a flat, unimpressed line.

Beau whistles low, then covers it with a cough.

I keep my expression deadpan, but inside I can already feel the war coming—three days, one roof, nothing but time and all the chemistry we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

Someone in the back asks about curfew.

Dylan answers, but I don’t hear it.

I’m thinking about the cabin, the long nights, the way a body aches after a hard day and how the only thing worse is when it doesn’t.

I’m thinking about how Sage will look with her hair down, mouth parted, legs around me.

The meeting breaks, and guys scatter, some complaining, some joking.

I hold back, letting the room empty until it’s just me and Ryland by the door.

He gives me a look, not quite disapproval, not quite warning. Just: don’t fuck this up .

I catch up with Sage in the hallway.

She has her bag slung over her shoulder, hair fraying at the edges from the static.

She stops when I catch up. “You ready for three days of team building?” she asks, her voice holding a laugh.

Hands stuffed in my pockets, I lean in just enough so only she hears. “I’m ready for you.”

She lets the words hang, then walks off, pace unhurried, like she knows I’ll follow.

Outside, the snow is falling again, fat flakes sticking to my jacket.

I watch her head disappear into the swirl, and I think about what it means to want something enough to risk breaking the ice you live on.

The retreat is three days away, but I already feel the crash coming. I don’t know if I want to stop it.

I don’t know if I can.

All I know is I want to see what happens when we’re both out of excuses, both out of rules, and nobody left to blow the whistle.