Page 89 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
“If it isn’t the franchise,” he says. “What brings you to the land of broken dreams?”
I hold up a thumb drive. “Got a favor. You mind if I ask some questions about the cameras?”
He shrugs, then wipes his hands on a rag and gestures at the folding chair by the workbench. “Shoot.”
I sit, let the silence fill itself. The room’s lined with pelican cases and battery packs, tangled cords coiled like sleeping snakes. On one shelf, a shrine of failed projects—dead GoPros, half-melted helmet cams, a drone propeller sticking out like a trophy.
“So,” I say, keeping it light, “how many cameras you got running on a normal day?”
Hector snorts. “Depends who’s asking. You want the corporate answer or the real one?”
I shrug. “Just curious. Lot of chatter about privacy lately.”
He leans back, pops a toothpick from his shirt pocket, and rolls it between his teeth. “Policy is five stationary, two mobile, all with blinking red. Reality? There’s at least a dozen. Most on the network, some not.”
“Why the extras?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“Because Talia wants redundancy.” He doesn’t hide the sneer when he says her name. “She came in six months ago, doubled our budget, said we needed better coverage for ‘liability purposes.’ Then she started asking for stuff off schedule. Cameras in meeting rooms, supply closets, even the laundry chute. You think you’re not being watched, you’re probably wrong.”
I nod. “What about the physio suite? They got more eyes on it than usual?”
He frowns, the tip of his toothpick still. “That’s where it gets weird. She wanted 24/7, overlapping feeds. Brought in her own guy from Toronto to set up motion triggers. Even paid out of pocket for a couple black-box recorders.”
The words “black-box” make the hair on my arms stand up. “Who gets to see those feeds?”
He looks at me, eyes suddenly very clear. “Not me. Not security. Just her and maybe a couple in league compliance. Everyone else gets a five-minute delay, and anything she marks as ‘incident’ goes straight to her Dropbox.”
Hector starts stacking cables into a crate, as if that’s the end of the conversation. “You want my advice?” he says, not looking at me. “Don’t trust the system. It’s built to protect itself. If you want something done right, you gotta go old school.”
I smile, but there’s no joy in it. “Thanks, man.”
He shrugs, already lost in the guts of a broken camera. I head up the stairs, pocket burning with the shape of my phone.
I know where this ends now. And I’m not going to let them sweep her under. I’m seething all the way to the arena.
The door swings wide when I push through, the wind off the lot slapping hard enough to pull my hood back. I see Grey leaning against the concrete pillar just past the loading dock, hood low, eyes wild, like he’s been waiting for something to punch.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just flicks his eyes toward me, then down to the file folder in his hand.
“You beat me to it,” I say as I take it. Inside are three stills from surveillance footage, all from the rehab suite, each more damning than the last. Sage appears in one—half out of frame, one hand braced on the table, the other curled near her stomach—and the rawness of it, the unfiltered vulnerability, makes my ribs tighten. It was never just fatigue. Never just stress. It was something deeper, something she was fighting without backup, and someone was documenting every second like they were waiting for the right moment to use it.
“She’s been accessing ultrasound records,” Grey informs me, eyes fixed on the far end of the lot where the building lights spill out in slanted lines. “Sage doesn’t know. Transfer request was marked incomplete, but Talia kept the back channel active. She used my name to cover it.”
I close the folder slowly, letting the edges press into my palms. The rage is there, sharp and slow-burning, but what scares me more is how quiet it’s become. There’s no panic left, just facts stacking neatly in my mind like pucks in a warm-up crate.
“I met with Mia,” I tell him. “She found three hidden cameras. Nothing league issued. No studio tags. Local memoryonly. They were placed to follow Sage’s movements. Every week the angles changed, always zeroed in on her.”
Grey nods once, grim. “She’s building something. Not just a case. A narrative. One that puts Sage at the center.”
We don’t need to spell it out further. Between the surveillance, the medical files, and the timing of the leaks, it’s obvious this was never about performance or policy. It was a setup. Quiet, meticulous, and meant to unfold too late for anyone to stop it.
We find Beau outside the staff lot, hunched against the wind in a black hoodie, phone in one hand, eyes scanning the sidewalk like he’s replaying a game that hasn’t finished yet. When we tell him everything, he listens without interrupting, and when we finish, he doesn’t explode like I half expect.
Instead, he drags a hand through his hair and mutters something low under his breath that might be a prayer or a curse. He studies both of us for a long moment, then shifts his weight and squares his shoulders, the way he does before a penalty kill.
“I don’t like it,” he says at last, voice rough with something older than anger.
“You’re not supposed to,” I reply.
