Page 23 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
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 labeledNutritional 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 markedMedical. NotMagnesiumorMisc.?”
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?”
