Page 87 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Mia nods. “It wasn’t random. They weren’t filming the room. They were filming her.”
She doesn’t rush. She lets the impact hold long enough that the weight of it starts to settle into my chest. Then she continues. “I started noticing things a few weeks ago. Cameras that weren’t listed in the tech reports. Angles that didn’t make sense. I asked around, and no one had answers. So I did what I had to.”
A glint of defiance comes alive in her eyes. “I flirted with one of the guys from the doc crew. Not for fun. I picked the one who was always lingering in the wrong places. He had the kind of smile that thought it was smarter than it was. I let him think I was interested. I asked questions like I didn’t know better.”
I say nothing. She doesn’t need prompting.
“He told me they move the rigs every week. That it helps ‘preserve spontaneity.’ I thought he meant players, but he kept saying Sage’s name. Said she was hard to catch. That she ruined shots by stepping out of frame. That someone kept requesting more angles on her side of the room.”
Mia’s voice softens at the edges, but her hands stay steady around the cup.
“He said it like it was funny. Like she was stubborn for not staying in view. But that’s when I knew. It wasn’t about game footage. It wasn’t about compliance. Someone was trying to see her when she wasn’t performing for anyone.”
She takes another breath, slower this time.
“So I started looking. I stayed late after one of the recovery nights, said I was finishing inventory. I checked under the taping bench. Behind the med fridge. Inside the backup supply cart. Found three cameras that weren’t labeled with league tags. No studio IDs. Just flash drives and battery packs. Local record only. No live feed.”
My hands are shaking from the need to hit someone, but I let her finish. “Sage didn’t know. Not even a little. She joked aboutthem sometimes, when the crew knocked over a stool or stepped in a tray. She thought it was all part of the show. I didn’t tell her yet because I didn’t want to say anything until I had proof.”
Her voice hitches there, the first break in an otherwise level account. “I was going to tell her the night before the collapse,” she says. “But she was limping, and she looked pale, and she waved me off when I asked if she needed help. I didn’t want to drop it on her. I thought there would be time.”
I can feel it now, that shift in the air. The kind that comes when something big is settling into place, even if no one wants it to.
“I think it’s someone inside,” Mia says, her voice almost flat now. “Someone with access to the placement map, someone who can get into the rehab suite without alerting security. And I don’t think they’re interested in anyone else.”
There is a long pause before I speak.
“Why her?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I think they’re trying to wear her down. Catch her off guard. Maybe break her routine. Maybe just…see what she does when no one’s supposed to be looking.”
When I stand, Mia stands too. She hugs her bag to her chest like she is bracing herself for whatever comes next.
“If you find out who it is,” she says, her eyes steady now, “you’ll tell her. You’ll let her know what this really was.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I will.”
She leaves first, shoulders hunched, head down. I watch her until she’s out of sight, then step outside into the wet chill of the street.
The wind cuts, but I barely feel it as I head to theStorm Frontmedia suite in the arena’s sub-basement, two turns and a staircase below the ice. Even the hallways feel hungover here, the linoleum stained with shoe scuffs and spilled Gatorade, the lights flickering in apology for never being fixed. Most nights theplace is dead, but tonight there’s a sliver of yellow beneath the media room door.
I badge in with my player card and let it slam behind me, hoping whoever’s inside is just bored enough to talk.
The first thing that hits is the smell: old sweat, energy drink, and the greasy tang of half a dozen takeout containers stacked along the far wall. The second is the glow—an entire wall of monitors, all set to different freeze-frames of practice, interviews, game tape, even the parking lot. It’s like sitting inside the world’s least subtle surveillance rig.
There’s a guy at the center console. Early twenties, Storm polo one size too big, hair slicked in a way that says he’s either going bald or never learned restraint. He sees me in the reflection before I say anything and spins the chair around with a flourish.
“Whoa,” he says. “Didn’t know the big dogs came down here.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, grinning just enough to seem harmless. “I had a question about the edit. You got a minute?”
“Sure, sure.” He motions to the empty chair beside him, then starts clearing old Red Bull cans off the desk. “Name’s Drew. You need a clip or something? Social team’s upstairs, but I can pull game highlights if you want.”
“It’s not for social,” I say. “I was hoping to see the raw footage. Especially from last week.” I lean in, voice low. “Lot of rumors going around. Figured I’d get the real story from the source.”
Drew nods, clearly flattered, and taps a few keys. “You want practice? Locker room? Tunnel? We got like five terabytes of the shit.”
“Start with the physio suite,” I say.
