Unprecedented Access

A Steamy MMF Hockey Romance
by Isla Wilde

Available from Apple Books and the Fractal Enigma Store

Pairing: MMF (Why-Choose Triad)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Hockey Romance, Teammates to Lovers, Why Choose, MMF Ménage, Secret Relationship, Forced Proximity, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Triad Romance

When a newly hired sports-medicine therapist falls for the charming rookie center, she expects to shut it down. Then his quiet, intimidating defenseman best friend admits he’s wanted her since training camp — and neither man is willing to walk away.

Maya Bennett doesn’t do complicated. As the newly hired sports-medicine therapist for the Lakeview Blades, she’s fought too hard for her career to let anything jeopardize it — especially not the blue-eyed rookie center who shows up late, flirts shamelessly, and notices things about her no one else bothers to see.

But one night after a team celebration, Maya crosses a line she swore she’d never cross. And before she can talk herself into regretting it, Cole’s best friend and teammate — Wes Dalton, the quiet, intense defenseman who’s been watching her since training camp — tells her he wants her too.

Now Maya is tangled up in two men who couldn’t be more different: Cole, the irreverent charmer who makes her laugh and lights her up. Wes, the steady protector who sees straight through her walls and makes her feel safe enough to fall apart. Both of them want her. Neither will compete. And the only rule that matters is hers: she decides what happens next.

But as the Blades push toward playoffs, hotel rooms blur into something none of them can hide, and the secret they’re keeping threatens everything Maya has built — her career, her reputation, and the two men she was never supposed to love.

Unprecedented Access is a high-heat MMF why-choose hockey romance featuring a confident heroine, two teammates who share her (not each other), explicit scenes, and a committed triad HEA. No love triangle — she keeps both. 🏒🔥

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Two hockey teammates sharing one woman — and worshiping every inch
✅ Explicit MMF scenes that are filthy AND emotionally charged
✅ Charming rookie + brooding veteran = the perfect combination
✅ Hotel room forced proximity on road trips
✅ Secret relationship with real career stakes
✅ A heroine who refuses to be the cautionary tale
✅ Poly triad HEA — no choosing, she keeps BOTH 🏒
✅ 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, frequent, and emotional

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains extremely explicit sexual content (graphic MMF group scenes throughout), strong language, a past emotionally controlling relationship (off-page), workplace power dynamics (addressed and resolved), and career jeopardy. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.

Chapter One

The first rule of being a woman in a men’s locker room was simple: never let them see you flinch.

Not when a six-foot-three winger dropped his towel two feet from your face. Not when someone made a joke about your hands being “real soft for a trainer.” Not when the team physician corrected your technique in front of a patient like you hadn’t spent six years and a master’s degree learning how to do your job better than he ever would.

Dr. Alan Reeves was doing that now. Standing at the edge of my treatment table with his arms crossed and his reading glasses perched on his forehead like a man who wanted everyone to know he’d been to medical school.

“You’re hyperextending the joint,” he said.

I wasn’t.

“The protocol calls for fifteen degrees of passive flexion before you—”

“Twenty.” I didn’t look up from Kowalski’s knee. “The updated ACL protocol from March calls for twenty degrees at this stage. I can send you the journal article if you need a refresher.”

Kowalski, a second-line winger with a reconstructed knee and a low tolerance for awkward silence, glanced between us. “Should I be worried?”

“Your knee is fine,” I said. “Dr. Reeves was just leaving.”

Reeves stared at me for a beat too long. Then he turned and walked out without another word, which was his version of admitting I was right. I’d been with the Lakeview Blades for four months. In that time, I’d learned that Reeves had two modes: condescending and absent. He showed up when he wanted to remind everyone he outranked me. The rest of the time, he was in his office with the door closed, doing whatever team physicians did when they weren’t undermining their staff.

“He doesn’t like you,” Kowalski observed.

“He doesn’t like that I’m right.” I adjusted the angle of his leg and pressed gently into the stretch. “How’s that feel?”

“Like my knee is being held hostage by someone with a grudge.”

“Perfect. That means it’s working.”

Kowalski grinned. I liked him. He was one of the easy ones—showed up on time, did his exercises, didn’t pretend he knew more about his own injury than the person treating it. Half the roster wasn’t that generous.

I finished his session, documented my notes, and cleaned the table. The training room smelled the way it always did: menthol, industrial cleaner, and the ghost of sweat that never fully left any surface in a hockey facility. I’d worked in college athletics for five years before this, and the smell was the same everywhere. Locker rooms were locker rooms. The only thing that changed was the budget.

The Blades’ facility was nicer than anything I’d had at the university—better equipment, better space, a hydrotherapy suite that made me genuinely emotional the first time I saw it. But the politics were the same. Maybe worse. In college, the power dynamics were at least transparent. Here, everything ran on unspoken hierarchies and decades of tradition, and I was the newest person in a room full of men who’d been doing this since before I graduated high school.

I recalibrated the ultrasound unit and set up for my next appointment. Preventive session, scheduled for 9:15. My patient was late.

At 9:23, Cole Barrett walked in like the concept of punctuality was something that happened to other people.

“Before you say anything,” he started.

“You’re eight minutes late.”

“I had a thing.”

“What thing?”

“A thing thing.” He dropped onto the treatment table with the easy confidence of a man who’d never been told no in a way that stuck. “Carlson bet me I couldn’t eat four breakfast burritos. I had to defend my honor.”

“Did you win?”

“I ate three and a half and had to reassess my life choices in the bathroom.”

I pulled his file up on the tablet. “So you’re late because you almost threw up from competitive eating.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It sounds exactly as bad as it is. Shirt off, lie back.”

Cole Barrett was twenty-seven years old, a first-year center with the kind of raw offensive talent that made scouts forget about everything else. He was fast, creative, and fearless on the ice—the type of player who’d dangle through three defenders for a highlight-reel goal and then take a stupid roughing penalty fifteen seconds later because someone chirped his linemate. The hockey world couldn’t decide if he was a future star or a liability. From what I’d seen, he was probably both.

Off the ice, he was worse. Not in a dangerous way—in a disarming way. Cole was the kind of good-looking that snuck up on you. Not the chiseled, magazine-cover type. More like the guy at the bar whose smile made you forget what you were ordering. Brown hair that curled at his temples, blue eyes that crinkled when he laughed, and a forearm tattoo—a compass rose—that peeked out from under his sleeves. He flirted with everyone. The equipment manager. The front-desk receptionist. The sixty-year-old woman who ran the team store. It wasn’t predatory. It was just… him. Cole Barrett moved through the world like it was a party he’d been personally invited to.

He pulled his shirt off and lay back on the table. I kept my expression neutral because that was my job, but I wasn’t blind. He had a hockey player’s body—thick through the shoulders and chest, lean through the core, with the kind of functional muscle that came from skating and hitting rather than vanity lifting. A fading bruise yellowed along his ribs where someone had crosschecked him last week.

“That still bothering you?” I pressed two fingers against the bruise.

“Only when I breathe.”

“So constantly.”

“Pretty much.”

I palpated the area, checking for anything the imaging might have missed. His intercostals were tight but intact. “It’s muscular. I’ll add some targeted work after we finish the shoulder protocol.”

“You’re the boss.”

“I am. Remember that next time you’re debating a fourth burrito.”

He laughed. It was an annoyingly good laugh—open and unguarded, the kind that made you want to be funnier than you actually were just to hear it again.

I started the shoulder protocol. Cole’s right shoulder had been flagged during his pre-season physical—minor impingement, nothing surgical, but the kind of thing that could become a real problem if he didn’t stay on top of preventive work. Which meant he needed to show up on time, do his exercises, and stop treating his body like it was indestructible.

“You bracing your feet like that on purpose?” he asked.

I glanced down. I was standing the way I always stood when I worked—feet shoulder-width apart, weight centered, one foot slightly forward for leverage. It was habit. Years of competitive swimming had given me an athlete’s instinct for balance, and physical therapy school had refined it into something deliberate.

“It’s a stability thing,” I said.

“You look like you’re about to throw someone.”

“Keep showing up late and you’ll find out.”

He grinned. Then his gaze dropped to my left wrist, where a thin white scar ran along the outer edge. Most people didn’t notice it. It was small and old, nearly invisible against my skin.

“What happened there?”

“Caught it on a lane line during a race. Twelve stitches.”

“You swam?”

“Division I. Four years.”

“Were you good?”

“I was conference champion in the two hundred fly two years running.”

He whistled low. “So you’re a psycho.”

“Excuse me?”

“The two hundred butterfly is a psycho event. No normal human being voluntarily does that.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. He wasn’t wrong. The two hundred fly was the event swimmers chose when they wanted to prove they could survive something no one else was willing to attempt. It had been my favorite race for exactly that reason.

“Rotate your arm forward. Slow.”

He obeyed. I guided the movement, feeling the joint track through its range. Smooth. No catching, no crepitus. The impingement was responding to treatment.

“You know what I noticed about you?” Cole said.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

“You’re nice to us, but you’re not friendly.”

I paused. “What’s the difference?”

“Nice is professional. You do your job, you’re good at it, you treat us like humans. Friendly is when you actually let someone in.” He looked at me with those blue eyes, and for a second the charm was gone. Underneath it was something sharper, more attentive. “I’ve been coming here for four months and I don’t know a single thing about you that isn’t on your staff bio.”

“That’s by design.”

“I know. That’s what I noticed.”

I held his gaze a beat longer than I should have. Then I looked down at the tablet and documented the session notes.

“Your shoulder is improving,” I said. “Stay on the home program. I want to see you twice a week until we get the impingement fully resolved.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

“Yes, boss.”

“That’s worse.”

“Maya?”

The way he said my name—not teasing, not performing—made something shift in my chest. Just a flicker. A pilot light catching.

“We’re done,” I said. “Get out of my training room.”

He hopped off the table, pulled his shirt on, and headed for the door. At the threshold, he turned back. “For the record? Conference champion in the two hundred fly is genuinely impressive. You should let people know that about you.”

He left. I stared at the empty doorway for three seconds too long, then turned back to my work.

I treated four more players that morning. Methodical, focused, professional. I was good at this. I’d built my entire adult life around being good at this—around being the person who stayed calm, got results, and never let the work become personal. I’d watched too many women in sports medicine get chewed up by the culture: the ones who tried to be “one of the guys” and lost themselves, the ones who kept too much distance and got labeled cold, the ones who made the catastrophic mistake of sleeping with an athlete and became a cautionary tale whispered about in conference rooms.

I wasn’t going to be any of those women. I was going to be Maya Bennett: competent, respected, untouchable.

By noon, I’d finished my sessions, updated my files, and had a productive argument with the strength coach about a player’s return-to-play timeline. I won. I usually did, because I came prepared and he came with opinions.

The parking garage was cold. October in Lakeview meant the kind of gray, wet chill that settled into your bones and stayed there until April. I was digging for my keys when I heard footsteps behind me.

“Bennett.”

I turned. Wes Dalton was walking toward his truck, gym bag over one shoulder, still in his practice gear with a jacket thrown over it. He was impossible to miss and easy to overlook, which was a contradiction that only made sense when you saw him in person. Six-four, broad enough to fill a doorframe, with dark hair clipped close and a jaw that looked like it had been designed to take a punch. He was the kind of man who made a room feel smaller just by standing in it. But he was quiet. Not shy—quiet. There was a difference. Shy people avoided attention because it scared them. Wes Dalton avoided attention because he simply didn’t need it.

He was thirty-one. Alternate captain. Top-pair defenseman for seven years. His contract expired at the end of this season, and the hockey media had been speculating about whether the Blades would re-sign him or let him test free agency. From what I could tell, Wes didn’t care about the speculation. He showed up, played, protected his teammates, and went home. He was the most consistent player on the roster and the least interested in talking about it.

“Dalton,” I said. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Better.” He stopped a few feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough to not crowd me. I appreciated that. A lot of the guys didn’t think about physical space. Wes thought about everything. “Wanted to say—what you did with Marchetti’s groin strain last week. The modified protocol. He said it’s the first time the pain’s been manageable in a month.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“He’s not great at saying thank you. So I’m saying it.”

“You don’t need to thank me for doing my job.”

“No. But I wanted to.”

He held my gaze. Gray eyes. Steady. Not warm the way Cole’s were—not inviting or playful. Something else. Something that felt like being seen without being assessed. Most men looked at me and calculated: Is she attractive? Is she available? Is she a threat? Wes Dalton looked at me like he was just… paying attention. Taking me in, the way he’d take in the ice before a game. Reading the whole picture.

The moment lasted a second too long. I felt it in the base of my throat.

“Have a good night, Bennett.”

“You too, Dalton.”

He walked to his truck. I watched him go for exactly one second—one—and then got in my car and pulled out of the garage.

My apartment was a twelve-minute drive from the facility, in a neighborhood that straddled the line between “up and coming” and “still figuring it out.” Dani was on the couch when I got home, still in her scrubs, surrounded by Thai takeout containers and an episode of something on the TV that involved people screaming at each other about real estate.

Dani Flores had been my roommate since I moved to Lakeview. We’d found each other on a housing app and bonded over a shared hatred of passive-aggressive dish notes. She was a nurse practitioner at the county hospital, built like a marathon runner, and had the rare ability to be both deeply empathetic and completely ruthless, sometimes in the same sentence. She was the best friend I’d made in years, and I hadn’t told her that because I was pathologically bad at vulnerability.

“Pad thai’s on the counter,” she said without looking up. “How was work?”

“Reeves corrected me in front of a patient again.”

“Was he right?”

“He’s never right.”

“So the usual.”

I changed into sweats, grabbed the pad thai, and dropped onto the other end of the couch. On screen, a woman was crying because her house had termites and her husband had spent their renovation budget on a boat.

“Anything else?” Dani asked. She had a sixth sense for the things I didn’t say. It was incredibly annoying.

“One of the players noticed my swimming scar.”

“Which player?”

“Barrett. The rookie center.”

“The cute one?”

“I don’t categorize patients by attractiveness.”

“So the cute one.”

I shoved noodles into my mouth to avoid answering. Cole Barrett’s face floated into my mind—the curl at his temples, the way his eyes had gone serious when he’d said I’ve been coming here for four months and I don’t know a single thing about you that isn’t on your staff bio. The way he’d said my name. Just my name. Like it was a word he’d been thinking about.

I shut it down. Firmly, completely. The way I’d trained myself to shut down every impulse that threatened to make my professional life complicated. I was good at this. I’d had four years of practice with a man who’d punished me every time I succeeded, and the scar tissue had turned into armor. I did not get distracted. I did not get attached. I did not jeopardize the career I’d fought for so that some charming hockey player could make me feel seen for ten minutes on a treatment table.

“And Dalton thanked me in the parking garage,” I added, because Dani would find out eventually.

“The big scary one?”

“He’s not scary. He’s just… large.”

“Uh-huh. Did the large man make eye contact?”

“He was talking to me. People make eye contact when they talk.”

“Not the way you’re describing it, they don’t.”

“I’m not describing it any way.”

“Maya. You’re blushing.”

I touched my cheek. I was not blushing. I never blushed.

“Eat your pad thai,” I said.

Dani smiled the way she smiled when she knew something I hadn’t admitted yet. I ignored her and watched the woman on TV cry about termites and thought about two different men saying my name in two completely different ways—one like an invitation, one like an observation—and told myself it didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t.

I had rules. I had boundaries. I had a career built on being the most professional person in every room.

That was enough. It had always been enough.

I finished my food, washed the container, set my alarm for 5:30 AM, and went to bed alone in the room I’d made exactly the way I wanted it: clean, quiet, controlled. No one else’s mess. No one else’s expectations.

I lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling and did not think about blue eyes or gray eyes or the way Cole Barrett had looked at my hands like the work they did was the most interesting thing about me.

I didn’t think about any of it.

I was a terrible liar, but I was the only one listening.

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The King-Sized Bed — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon

Two weeks after the epilogue, the king-sized bed finally arrives. Maya, Cole, and Wes say goodbye to the air mattress — and christen every inch of the upgrade. Three orgasms, zero deflation incidents, and one bed that actually holds. Their hottest afternoon yet.

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