Page 19 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
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 reenactJackasson 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.
