Page 6 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

GREY

T he lodge looks nothing like the brochure.

They say “mountain rustic,” but what they mean is: spent three million on antler light fixtures and ran out of money for everything else.

The place smells like fake pine and real dust, and if you squint, you can still see the stains from every corporate retreat that came before us.

The only reason anyone is excited is because the schedule says no curfew in red ink, but I know what that means—Ryland is going to wake us at five for trust falls and war games anyway.

I hate these things.

All the forced bonding and fake concern about our “mental fitness” that’s really just them praying we don’t get caught vaping or fighting in public.

I step over a pile of branded duffel bags dumped by the entrance.

A documentary camera swings my way and I snarl at it, hoping they’ll use the footage.

Beau is already holding court in the main hall, feet up on a driftwood table, voice dialed up for maximum echo.

Finn’s nowhere to be seen, probably staking out the best room or ignoring the welcome lecture in the gym.

I take the stairs two at a time, hoping the upper floors are less haunted by management’s good intentions.

No luck.

Even up here, every twenty feet there’s a motivational poster. Rise Above. Hustle. Relentless.

The last one is mounted crooked.

I wonder how long it would take to find a ladder and hang it upside down.

On the second-floor landing, I catch a glimpse through a warped window: the entire mountain slope is melting into slush, so even if the ropes course was a real thing, we’d all just die of exposure.

I hear someone yelling below—Ryland, probably, already threatening to make us run drills in the snow.

I duck through a fire door and end up in the staff wing, which is where the air changes from chlorine and Axe spray to something faintly medicinal.

That’s when I hear Sage’s voice, stretched thin, all the way down the hall, ricocheting off cinderblock and raw wood like a girl who grew up fighting in stairwells.

She’s not yelling.

She never yells.

But the edge is there: “No, I needed the dry ice kit for today , not tomorrow. If you can’t find the right address, call my cell. Yes, that’s my cell.”

I slow-walk, quietly, to the door marked Athletic Recovery—Portable .

Someone, probably Sage herself, added “portable” in Sharpie under the stenciled letters.

The room is barely bigger than my old college dorm, but she’s filled it with enough gear to stock a triage tent in the middle of a playoff brawl.

Every flat surface is buried under tape rolls, foam rollers, those weird massage hammers the size of handguns, and at least two unopened crates that have, in all caps, URGENT—DO NOT DELAY stamped on them.

Sage is propped on one hip against the counter, head bent, eyes closed like she’s bracing for a body check.

She doesn’t notice me.

That half-undone braid, the soft curve of her neck, the way her shirt clings to her ribs like it’s barely holding on.

Even tired and pissed and probably ready to throw something at the next guy who breathes wrong, she’s stupid pretty.

Pretty in the way that makes guys lose their common sense.

She opens her eyes, sees me, but doesn’t drop the clipboard.

“I’m going to pretend I look decent,” she says, no inflection.

I let my shadow fill the doorway for a second, then step inside.

After surveying the room and sizing up the problem, I go straight for the crates.

They’re heavier than they look, filled with God knows what—probably three years of athletic tape and enough Icy Hot to embalm a mastodon.

I set them on the table next to her, no drama, then start tearing the packing tape with my fingernails.

She watches, arms still crossed. “You’re not on the volunteer list, McTavish.”

“Neither are half the guys out there, but that never stops them,” I say, and start unpacking.

She comes off the counter, rolls her neck like she’s about to spar. “If you mess up the inventory, I’m blaming it on you.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I set out the contents—stack of towels, bags of instant cold packs, sterile wraps—and slide the box down the table.

I move to the next crate.

The rhythm of it, the repetition, is exactly what I need.

My brain stops spiraling the second my hands are busy.

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks.

She sets about making a neat line of the tape rolls, then color-codes the ace bandages, then sharpens a pencil and starts scribbling in a battered notebook.

The room’s less of a mess with every box I flatten and every row of gauze she aligns.

We’re a two-person assembly line, and somehow the silence is less suffocating than the rest of the lodge.

After the third crate, she finally softens. “You ever do this for a living? Hospital work?”

I grunt. “Did a semester as a PT tech before juniors. Got fired for making the interns cry.”

She smiles, the faintest uptick at the corner of her mouth. “What’d you do?”

“I called it ‘tough love.’ The nurses called it ‘unlawful supervision.’” I open the last box—this one’s full of single-use heat pads and bottles of electrolyte concentrate.

She shakes her head, marking something on the clipboard, and chuckles. “You don’t seem that bad.”

I find a free spot on the counter, arrange the heat pads, and shrug. “I like systems. I like when people know what they’re doing.”

She’s closer now, leaning over the table to reach for the bandage she wants.

I catch her scent, some blend of mint and whatever fabric softener she uses.

Our arms brush as we both grab for the same roll.

She gives a fake sigh, lets me take it.

She gestures at the chaos of the room. “Most of the guys pretend to help, but they’re just here for the free tape jobs and an excuse to talk about themselves.”

“I hate small talk,” I say. “So, you dating Kingston, or is that just for the cameras?”

I haven’t seen anything odd, except the way they look at each other sometimes.

She snorts. “I’m not dating, if that’s of interest to you. And why are you lurking?”

I give her a look. “I’m not lurking. I’m observing.”

“Yeah? What have you observed so far?”

I could tell her the truth, about the way she bites her lower lip when she’s trying not to scream, about how she tracks every variable like a chess player in the middle of a crisis.

But that would be too much.

Instead, I go with, “You’re better at this than you let on.”

She lets the compliment pass, but her eyes narrow.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

We fall into another round of sorting, the only sounds are the rip of tape and the shuffle of boxes being broken down.

I feel my back loosen, the tension draining from my left shoulder for the first time in days.

She steps around the table, surveys our work, and leans in, voice low. “You know if you keep doing this, people are going to think you care.”

I pretend to consider it. “Let them.”

The silence holds, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Finally, she sets the clipboard down, pinches the bridge of her nose, and gives in. “Thanks,” she says. This time, it’s real.

I nod once and start stacking the empty boxes by the door.

As I pass her, she puts a hand out, stops me with a touch just above the wrist.

Her fingers are cold, but the pressure is steady.

“Seriously,” she says. “I needed this.”

“Me too,” I admit, barely more than a whisper.

She lets go, sits on the counter, and for the first time all day, looks like she might actually rest.

I give her the space, take my leave, and shut the door softly.

Out in the hallway, it’s already louder—someone started a wrestling match in the stairwell, and Beau’s laughter is nuclear-bright.

I stand there a second, letting my blood settle, then head for the one place I know will be empty this time of day: the kitchen.

Maybe I’ll bake something.

Maybe I’ll just rearrange the pantry by protein content and see who notices.

Either way, tomorrow is going to be hell. But at least I know which side I’m on.

Friday morning, the kitchen is a triage zone of hungover rookies and empty coffee urns.

Beau has his own fan section already, three guys in Storm gear hanging off his every word as he demonstrates the proper way to toast a bagel—“Low, slow, and butter while hot, gentlemen.”

I grab an apple, avoid the camera, and find my way back to the therapy room.

Some jobs, once you start them, don’t let you leave until they’re done.

Sage is already there, running her hand through a bucket of ice packs like she’s testing for buried treasure.

She’s got her Storm jacket zipped to the chin, hair up in a makeshift bun, and a look on her face like she just got bad news from a very small country.

She doesn’t see me at first, but the second the door shuts, she clocks me.

“You’re back,” she says, mock surprise.

“Didn’t want you to get lost in here,” I say, and nudge the stack of folded towels into a better column. “This place is a maze.”

She gestures at the chaos on the counter. “Turns out, half the order was wrong. We’re missing the laser stim. They sent me a box of… whatever this is.”

She holds up a shrink-wrapped pack labeled Nutritional Supplement—Grape .

I shake my head. “That’s going to be a fun experiment later.”

She starts sorting the ice packs into rows. “If you want to help, go open the last carton in the hall. It’s the one marked Medical . Not Magnesium or Misc .?”

She says the last word like it’s an inside joke between her and the universe.

I roll my shoulders and head into the hallway, where the carton towers above the rest like an overachiever.

I hoist it, shoulder the weight, and bring it inside.

The cardboard creaks, but it holds.

I slice it open and—yeah, this is the good stuff.

Scissors, suture packs, half a mile of athletic tape.

Beau slides in behind me, voice loud and ready. “Am I interrupting a hot date?”

Sage gives him a withering look. “It’s a work party. No hookups allowed.”

Beau makes a show of looking disappointed. “Guess I’ll settle for manual labor.”