Page 15
CHAPTER 15
North
T he locker room churns with the usual pre-game energy—players cracking jokes, the clack of gear being tossed into lockers, and the faint scent of liniment in the air. It’s routine, comforting in its familiarity, but my thoughts keep drifting elsewhere.
Namely, to Farren.
Our rock-climbing adventure was epic. Farren, gripping the climbing wall, her determination etched into every movement. I can still hear the laughter echoing between us, see the flush on her cheeks when she finally reached the top. She was amazing—strong, funny, and just a little vulnerable in a way she’d probably hate me for noticing.
And last night… God, last night. Farren in my kitchen, cooking dinner like she’d always belonged there. We ate on the couch, sharing bites of her surprisingly good stir-fry while a movie played in the background. There wasn’t anything dramatic or over-the-top about it, it was just us .
Easy.
Natural.
And for a single guy who’s spent most of his adult life on the road, that kind of quiet intimacy felt like the rarest gift.
“Yo, North!” Foster’s voice pulls me back to the present, which is a good thing because if I started thinking of how hot we were between the sheets after the movie, an embarrassing reaction might occur. “You planning to stare off into space all day, or are you gonna put your gear on?”
“Shut up,” I grumble, sitting on the bench to tie up my skates.
He snickers and nudges Atlas, sitting next to him. “Must’ve been a hell of a night. You’ve got that dazed, ‘I’m in trouble’ look.”
I ignore him, focusing on my laces, but then Rafferty pipes up, too casual to be innocent. “Speaking of nights… don’t you have some news to share, North?”
My head jerks up, and I give him a sharp look. I was hoping to ease into this. “Dude!”
Rafferty leans back against the bench, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Come on, man. Might as well get it out there.”
Foster perks up immediately, his grin wide. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
I sigh, rubbing my jaw. I had every intention of telling these knuckleheads about me and Farren, but I wanted to do it on my own terms. There’s no point in avoiding it now. “Fine. Farren and I… we’ve been hanging out.”
Atlas nearly chokes on his water. “Hanging out? What does that even mean?”
“It’s casual,” I clarify, shooting a glance at Rafferty, who looks far too amused for my liking.
Foster whistles low. “Casual? As in dating a teammate’s sister casual?” He looks between us, eyes shifting back and forth with confusion. “Are we in the Twilight Zone?”
Atlas tilts toward Rafferty, grinning. “And you’re cool with this? Seriously?”
Rafferty shrugs, his expression exaggeratedly indifferent. “He’s North. He’s decent enough. Could’ve been worse.”
“Worse?” Foster snorts. “Like who?”
“Like you,” Rafferty shoots back, and the group erupts into laughter.
I roll my eyes, adjusting my gloves. “Can we focus on the game now?”
“Not a chance,” Foster says, his grin wicked. “This is way more entertaining.”
The teasing continues for another few minutes, lighthearted but relentless, until Coach walks in carrying a small package. The laughter fades as he scans the room, his eyes locking on one player.
“Penn,” Coach says, holding out the package. “This was left up front for you.”
Our reclusive star first-line center, who has been sitting quietly before his cubby, already fully dressed, freezes as his head slowly rises. He looks at the package like it’s a bomb about to go off but eventually stands to take it. The rest of the room falls silent, everyone watching as he examines the brown paper bag with a red bow on it. There’s something ominous about a gift in an ordinary brown bag with a shiny bow on it that raises my hackles.
Penn reaches inside and pulls out a white teddy bear wearing a bright scarlet sash that says Happy Anniversary in silver glitter.
“What the hell is that about?” Atlas murmurs, so low I think he’s talking more to himself.
Penn doesn’t hear him or if he does, he ignores him. He opens the attached card, his expression unreadable, but something shifts in his posture—his shoulders tightening, his jaw clenching. Whatever’s written on that card isn’t good.
Foster, always the bold one, speaks up. “What’s the special occasion?”
Penn’s gaze snaps to him, sharp and cold. Without a word, he walks to the garbage can, tosses the bear and the card inside, and strides out of the locker room, the door swinging shut behind him.
The silence he leaves behind is heavy. No one says anything at first, all of us exchanging uncertain glances. Finally, Coach claps his hands, breaking the spell. “All right, enough gawking. Get your heads back in the game.”
Reluctantly, we all return to our gear, but the vibe feels different now—charged with unease. Foster, Rafferty, Atlas and I continue to dress in silence.
After a few minutes, Atlas stands, his curiosity getting the better of him. “I’m gonna look.”
“Atlas, don’t,” Rafferty warns, but Atlas is already at the trash can, fishing out the card.
He opens it, his brow furrowing as he reads aloud: “ I remember. Do you? ”
A chill runs through me, and I glance at Rafferty and Foster, both of whom look equally confused.
“What the hell does that mean?” Foster asks, his voice low.
“Beats me,” Atlas says, staring at the card like it might offer more answers. “But whatever it is, it’s got Penn spooked.”
“Fuck… I’m spooked,” Foster mutters.
Rafferty shakes his head, pulling on his gloves. “We should leave it alone. If he wants to talk about it, he will.”
Foster doesn’t look convinced, but he eventually nods. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Still, the tension lingers as we head out of the locker room, ready to hit the ice for warm-ups. My thoughts drift back to Penn, to the look on his face when he read that card. I don’t know what it means, but clearly it’s something big.
Something possibly scary.
As I step onto the ice, I resolve to keep an eye on him. Whatever’s going on, he’s carrying it alone and no one should have to do that. Certainly not one of my teammates.
?
The whistle shrieks, signaling a line change, and I shift uneasily on the bench as Penn’s line takes the ice. He skates out, his movements sharp but somehow lacking that usual fire that makes him unstoppable. Boone and Stone flank him on the wings, while King and Bain settle into their defensive positions. Drake stands ready between the pipes, tapping his stick against the post.
I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder at Farren. She’s just a few rows back, and every time I return to the bench from my line shift, I sneak a quick look her way. She’s usually perched on the edge of her seat, her Titans jersey draped loosely over her frame. She’s fully immersed in the game, cheering at the top of her lungs. One time she caught me looking and blew me a kiss, and I was smiling as I plopped down on the wood. She’s wearing her brother’s jersey, but it does feel like she’s cheering just for me. Can’t tell you the why of it, but if I didn’t think it would freak her out so bad, I’d buy her a sweater with my name on the back.
My attention stays on the ice though as Penn’s line presses into the offensive zone. Boone digs the puck out of the corner, battling two Vipers players and kicking it out to Penn. He picks it up cleanly, but instead of his usual precision pass or shot, he hesitates, fumbling with the puck just a second too long. The opposing center swoops in, stealing it right off his stick, and Penn skates after him, his jaw tight with frustration.
“What the hell is going on with him?” Foster worries beside me, leaning forward with one gloved hand on the short wall.
“Don’t know,” I reply, watching as Bain manages to block the rush, bailing Penn out. “I’m guessing that mysterious teddy bear has him rattled.”
The puck circles back to Penn a moment later as Boone and Stone hustle into position. Penn surveys the ice but makes a sloppy pass that doesn’t even come close to Boone. It slides harmlessly into the neutral zone, and Boone throws a frustrated glance over his shoulder as he chases it down. The crowd murmurs, the unease palpable. This is not the Penn Navarro they’re used to seeing.
The Vipers regroup, pressing hard, and Penn seems a step behind the play. Then it happens.
Bain moves the puck up to Stone, who sends a crisp pass across the blue line to Penn. He catches it, but instead of moving up ice, he skates laterally, right into pressure. The Vipers’ defenseman reads him like a book, stripping him of the puck and launching a counterattack.
Penn’s left flat-footed and the Vipers streak down the ice in a two-on-one against King, who does his best to cut off the passing lane. It’s not enough. A perfect pass threads between King’s legs, and the Vipers winger fires a one-timer past Drake. The red light flashes, and the crowd groans.
“Jesus Christ,” Atlas mutters from the bench, shaking his head. “What is going on with him?”
Penn skates slowly toward the bench, his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Boone slams his stick against the boards, and Stone yells something that gets lost in the noise of the arena. Coach doesn’t say a word as Penn drops onto the bench, his expression dark and unreadable.
I glance at Rafferty, who’s sitting on the other side of Foster. He arches a brow at me, clearly thinking the same thing I am. This is bad. Really bad.
It’s not just the turnover. It’s the hesitation, the bad passes, the complete lack of focus. Penn Navarro doesn’t make mistakes like this. He’s the best player in the league for a reason. His focus, his skill, his ability to see plays developing before anyone else.
But tonight?
Tonight, whatever that bear represented, it rattled him hard.
“Come on, Penn,” I growl under my breath as Coach calls for the next line change. “Get your head in the game.”
But even as I think it, it’s obvious something bigger than hockey is affecting him. I can only hope that he doesn’t spiral to a point where he can’t be helped.