Page 7 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

He leans against the table, eyes scanning the inventory. “You got the stim, or is this a lost cause?”

I gesture at the grape supplements. “Trade you three of these for one bottle of bourbon.”

“Deal.”

He pockets the packs, then grabs a bin and starts loading it with gauze.

His method is pure chaos—he shoves in as much as it’ll hold, snaps the lid, and moves to the next.

Finn appears in the doorway.

He’s in full Storm gear, but his hair’s still wet from the shower.

He watches for a second, then wordlessly starts breaking down boxes, stacking them in neat squares.

I watch the way his hands work: intentional, almost gentle, like he’s folding origami instead of cardboard.

Sage gives directions in clipped sentences. “Stack the tape rolls. Sort by width. No mixing.”

“The portable ultrasound goes in the top drawer, not the bottom.”

“Finn, can you tape a sign to the door that says TEAM USE ONLY ? Maybe they’ll listen if it’s in all caps.”

Finn shrugs. “You want English or Swedish? I can make it scarier in Swedish.”

“Dealer’s choice,” Sage deadpans.

Beau lines up the bins along the wall, stands back, and squints.

“This looks good. Like a real team operation. Next thing you know, we’ll be singing ‘Kumbaya’ in the sauna.”

“Keep dreaming,” I say, but even I can hear the smile behind it.

Sage stops, leans against the counter, and surveys the room.

For the first time all day, she looks satisfied. “Not bad,” she says. “You guys might be useful after all.”

Beau bows, extravagant. “Anything for you, Coach.”

Finn grunts, almost a laugh.

I move closer, tossing the last empty box onto Finn’s stack. “What now?”

Sage stretches, a vertebra at a time, then points at the mess of sports medicine packs.

“Someone needs to relabel these. Some idiot put the stickers on upside down.”

I sit on the floor, grab a Sharpie, and start peeling and resticking.

The others hang around, making jokes, pretending they’re just waiting for instructions but really just not wanting to leave the room.

Eventually, Beau gets bored and heads out.

Finn follows a minute later.

That leaves just me and Sage, quiet, relabeling packs.

She sits across from me, knees folded up, watching my hands.

“You’re good at this,” she says. It’s not a compliment, more like an observation.

“Good at what?”

She gestures at the room.

“Getting people to show up. Stay on task. Not kill each other.”

I finish the last pack, set it in the tray, and look up. “Never thought of myself as a leader.”

“Maybe you should,” she says.

The moment feels like it’s before a face-off, both sides waiting for the puck to drop.

I stand, stretch my arms overhead, and offer her a hand up.

She takes it, her grip firm and dry.

“Thanks,” she says, not letting go right away.

“Anytime,” I say, and mean it.

She releases, smiles for real this time, and starts packing her stuff.

I help without thinking.

When the room’s empty, we walk out together, side by side, ready for whatever hell Ryland has planned.

In the hall, the draft is cold, but my chest is warm.

I could get used to this.

The therapy room is cleaner than when we arrived, which might be a first in the history of team sports.

The halls are mostly empty now, everyone gone off to Ping-Pong, night runs, or the endless food orgy downstairs.

Sage and I walk together in silence, our steps in sync down the main corridor.

The lights are low, the shadows long and weird.

It feels like the place belongs to us.

We pass the lounge—empty except for the camera guy, collapsed on a beanbag with his gear on his chest.

Next is the trophy case, where Finn’s reflection wobbles in the glass for a second before he disappears into his room.

There’s a fork in the hallway: left for the guest rooms, right for staff quarters.

Sage slows, almost imperceptibly.

I do too.

We stand there a second, side by side, not talking. It’s too dark to read her face, but I can feel her watching me, waiting to see if I’ll play it safe or do something reckless.

I reach out, let my hand skim the line of her back, just above the waistband.

It’s a soft touch, but I mean it.

She doesn’t flinch or step away.

Instead, she turns toward me.

I look her straight on.

“You should stop pretending you’re not the most interesting part of this whole damn team.”

Her lashes lower and lift in a soft sweep.

I can see the gears turning, the part of her that wants to laugh it off, the part that wants to correct me, and the part—maybe the biggest—that doesn’t want to let go.

For a heartbeat, she just stands there.

Then she steps into my space, close enough for her shoulder to brush my chest.

She speaks so low I almost miss it. “You’re such a liar.”

I grin, let my fingers graze her back one more time, firmer this time. “Never lied to you.”

She holds my gaze, then shakes her head like she’s resetting a circuit.

“If you’re late to team breakfast, I’m taping your mouth shut,” she jokes, but there’s a crack in her armor.

“I’ll bring the tape,” I say.

She turns, walks down the hall to her room, never looking back.

I watch until her silhouette vanishes in the dark.

I stand there a minute, heart racing, then head to my own room, replaying the moment on a loop.

Tomorrow, everything will be different.

And I can’t wait.