Page 25 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
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.
