Page 3 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
His English is perfect, but he uses as few words as possible. It might be a Swedish thing, but I have doubts.
I point to the sanitized vinyl table as he takes off his warm-up jacket with the resignation of a man undressing for a TSA pat down.
The Storm’s logo ripples over his chest, the new uniform tighter than last year’s.
I get gloves on, open a packet of myofascial tape, and gesture for him to lie on his stomach. “This will take less than ten minutes if you don’t fight me.”
He grunts, then turns to squint at the clock. “I fight only if you make it weird.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m immune to Scandinavian weirdness.” I peel back the tape, measuring his scapulae with the careful, clinical touch drilled into me from four years with the Olympic team. “You ever use tape before?”
He snorts. “In Sweden, yes. Here, you do things…how you say, for Instagram?”
I resist the urge to remind him of the Olympic medal count for his homeland versus mine. “You’ll be back on the ice sooner if you actually follow protocol.”
His only reply is a low, “Mmm,” somewhere between a cow’s complaint and a reluctant agreement.
I find the trigger point, brace my thumb, and Finn sucks in a sharp breath, then stares at me with new suspicion.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, but the muscles around his mouth are fighting a smirk. “Is just—American girls, they are not usually so strong.”
“Try Italian American girls from Staten Island,” I say, giving the muscle a controlled squeeze. “We break legs for fun.”
He huffs, and it might almost be a laugh, but then his face blanks again.
I get the tape aligned, the dark blue pattern like a racing stripe over his pale skin.
As I smooth it into place, Finn mutters something in Swedish—three rapid-fire syllables that sound like a roast and a curse all in one.
I ignore it, but I log the tone in my mental dictionary.
Athletes always think you don’t understand the language. It’s one of my party tricks: getting more fluent in Finnish, Czech, and Russian the more I work with surly players.
When I move to secure the shoulder wrap, Finn pushes up onto his elbows, disrupting the precise tension I’ve just measured.
He sits up, slow, looming over me. For a heartbeat, it’s almost intimidating, but his eyes are more tired than angry.
“You done?” he says.
“Not yet. If you’d stay still, I’d?—”
He reaches for the tape, peels it off in one motion, and tosses it onto the tray. Then he stands, zips his jacket, and leaves without another word.
The door swings shut, then slams so hard the handle rattles.
I exhale through clenched teeth.
On the wall, my reflection in the glass cabinets stares back, red-cheeked in outrage.
I strip the used tape from the tray, bag the gloves, and make a note:Athlete noncompliant. See file for details.
I line up the new tape, relabel the roll, and square my shoulders. The next slot on my schedule blinks: “Ryland, Coach, consult only.”
He gives me two minutes before making an appearance, and when he does, it’s clear that he doesn’t believe in knock-knock jokes.
He appears at the threshold like a glacier with a face, arms folded, head angled just enough to suggest he could end your career with a single, well-placed word. “Morning,” he says, voice gravelly. “You got a minute?”
