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Penn

T he roar of the Titans’ crowd is just a memory as I pull into my neighborhood, the quiet hum of my sports car a far different sound than the thunderous arena I just left.

Another home win, another solid performance.

It should feel good, and for a while, it did.

I relished the brief celebration at center ice when the last buzzer sounded, about the only time I truly bonded with my teammates.

But then it was over and I moved on, aiming to get through another day.

I roll my shoulders as I drive, working out the tension from the game.

I played well tonight, which is admittedly harder than usual.

It’s been a struggle keeping my head in the game lately, playing with the same cool composure I’m known for.

I hate that I’ve let myself get rattled by things that should’ve been left in the past, by memories I’ve tried to bury.

And by that goddamn teddy bear last week with the card that read I remember. Do you?

Of course, I remember. There’s not a fucking day that goes by that those awful memories don’t trickle into my brain, taking over and running rampant.

Sometimes, I think I might be going crazy, but then other times—like when I’m on the ice—I can let it all go.

I suppose if I could play hockey twenty-four seven, I wouldn’t be so tortured, but that’s an obvious impossibility.

My driveway appears, flanked by two massive stone columns and arched steel gates, locked tight for security.

I force myself to loosen the grip on my steering wheel as I come to a stop beside the electronic lock pad.

My house looms in the distance, cutting through the dark thanks to the multitude of lights placed strategically around the base and in bushes.

It’s done for aesthetic purposes, but it’s also a safety measure.

I haven’t invited any of my teammates over since I moved to Pittsburgh, and I wonder if they’d think it’s beautiful or that I’m overly paranoid. A suburban fortress—high walls, a locked gate, a security system that would make any billionaire proud.

Ultimately moot since I have no desire to share any part of me with them.

I roll down my window and punch the code into the electronic keypad, the security cameras blinking their silent watch.

The gates swing open and I guide my car along the curved driveway, the tires whispering against the pristine pavement.

My home is enormous, coming in at almost ten thousand square feet, multi-leveled and outfitted with every luxury imaginable.

It’s what any wealthy professional athlete would aspire to, yet it feels like nothing more than a place to exist. The only person I ever wanted to share it with—my dad—is gone.

He never got to see the peak of my success, which is a travesty because I only became as good as I am to make him proud.

The left wing of the house has a five-car garage, and I pull into the far right stall, closest to the interior entrance.

The second holds my Mercedes G-Wagon, but the other three are empty.

Although I could fill each bay with a high-end car, two is more than enough and some would say one more than I actually need.

I kill the engine, letting silence settle around me as I step out.

The overhead lighting casts long shadows, bouncing off the sleek hood of my car.

A McLaren, because why not? And the G-Wagon?

I paid cash for it. My contract with the Titans is lucrative, and I’ve got nothing else to spend the money on.

No family, no social life, no extravagant hobbies—just a massive house, ridiculous cars, and a career that’s the only thing keeping me sane.

I head inside, passing through the mudroom into the cavernous kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of nothing but darkness at this hour. I pull a beer from the fridge, pop the top, and take a long swig.

Congrats on a good game, Penn.

The den is my sanctuary, dark and minimalist, the large flat-screen mounted above the fireplace already tuned to ESPN.

I sink into the couch, flipping to the post-game highlights, brew in hand.

The ESPN anchor drones on about our win, about our offensive pressure and airtight defense, but I’m not really listening—not until I see myself on the screen.

And I fall back into the memory of a near perfect play tonight as the TV commentator drones on.

There I am, flying down the ice, legs burning but adrenaline fueling every stride.

The Demons’ defense is scrambling, trying to get into position, but I see the gap before they do.

Stone is charging up the left wing, Boone streaking down the right.

Bain and King are holding the blue line, ready to pinch if needed, but this is mine.

The puck is a whisper on my stick, smooth and controlled as I weave between two defenders.

One reaches out, trying to poke it away, but I shift, cutting hard to the left and threading the puck between his skates.

The second defenseman lunges, but he’s too slow—I’m already past him, breaking into open ice.

I think back to that moment. The audio on the TV doesn’t do justice to the way the roar of the crowd started to build, rising in a tidal wave of noise as I closed in on the net. The goaltender drops, his glove flashing up in anticipation of a shot to the far side.

But I’m not going far side.

I see the opening—top corner, stick side.

I snap my wrist, feel the clean connection as the puck rockets off my blade. It’s an instant, a heartbeat, a blink—then the sharp ping of rubber meeting iron rings through the arena as it clips the crossbar and drops in behind the goalie.

The red light flashes. The horn blares.

The arena erupts.

Boone is the first to reach me, slamming into me with a hard embrace, stick clattering to the ice. I remember he yelled in my ear, “Fucking beauty, Navarro!”

Stone is next, grabbing my jersey in a fist and shaking me like he’s trying to empty coins from my pockets. “That’s the shit, baby!” he’d said.

Bain and King close in, both grinning as they slap my helmet, rattling my brain in the best way.

The roar of the fans is deafening, rolling over us like a crashing wave. I can see them in the stands, jumping, fists pumping, beer sloshing in celebration. The energy is electric, humming in my bones, in my blood, in every part of me.

I throw my head back, letting the moment soak in. It’s one of the few times I feel it—real, unfiltered joy. No ghosts of the past. No weight dragging me down. Just the pure, simple rush of the game.

Of a goal.

Of a win.

The highlights move on to clips from the Nashville–Ottawa game, but I cling to the memory of that last play. For a few perfect seconds, nothing else mattered.

Out on the ice, it’s the only time I have a true connection with my teammates, and while I admit it felt fucking good to revel in their shared euphoria, I knew the feeling would quickly fade.

It always does.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table and I glance down at it lazily.

Not many people have this number, and I’m surprised to see it’s North calling.

Of course, I have every member of the team programmed in, as well as the coaches, the general manager and even Brienne Norcross, our owner.

Those contacts were shared when I joined the team and I dutifully saved them, although I never intended to use a one of them.

I stare at it for a second, debating whether to answer. I don’t want to be bothered and for the life of me, I can’t think of a single reason why I should.

And yet, I lean forward and nab the phone, connecting by the fourth ring and just before it goes to voicemail. My tone is suspicious and that can’t be helped. “Hello.”

“It’s North.” No shit, Dick Tracy. “We’re at Mario’s and there’s someone here looking for you. Says she’s a friend.”

My brow furrows. I don’t have friends. Not a single one I can think of.

And then I hear it, despite the ESPN reporter droning on my TV and the sound of revelry in the background at Mario’s, a woman’s voice cuts through and prickles my skin. “Tell him it’s Mila.”

My stomach bottoms out and my hand clenches the phone so tightly, I think it might crack.

North’s voice is louder as he responds. “She says her name is Mila and—”

“I don’t want to talk to her,” I say and without a second thought or a moment’s regret, I disconnect the call.

It’s over. I’ve stopped that cold, and yet my gut is still tied up in knots, sharp and clawing to the point of pain.

Mila Brennan.

I haven’t heard that name in years, and I sure as hell never expected to hear it here, in Pittsburgh.

It’s true, she’s crossed my mind a time or two.

In fact, just last week when I received that stupid teddy bear, I thought of her.

Wondered if perhaps she was the one who sent it, but deep down…

I know it’s not her style. As cute and fuzzy as it was, the message was too ominous and there’s nothing ominous about Mila Brennan.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears. What the fuck is she doing in Pittsburgh? And why is she looking for me?

Memories I’ve kept locked away claw to the surface. The Wraiths—doing drills on the ice. Faces flash before me. Nathan. Peter. Ryan. Jace. Colton.

And Mila. Black hair, bluest eyes, beyond pretty. The last time I saw her she was only fifteen and I can’t even begin to imagine the beauty she must have grown into over the years. She’s two years younger than me so she’d be twenty-five now.

Is she married? Kids?

Again, why in the fuck is she here to see me? We have nothing to say to each other. We’re nothing to each other. We may have shared one tiny thread of a bond years ago, but that no longer exists, and even if it did, I still would have hung up on North.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply.

No. I’m not doing this. I’ve worked too damn hard to keep my past buried, to move forward, even if I’ve been doing it alone.

I won’t let her drag me back into the wreckage of that night, and that is exactly what would happen if I even laid eyes on her from afar.

And once I saw her, I’d think of the others. Nathan. Peter. Ryan. Jace. Colton. I close my eyes, lean my head back on the cushion and let the memories come. No sense in trying to fight them. Mila’s presence has stirred up too much shit.

The smell of sweat and ice filled the Wraiths’ practice facility, the familiar sound of skates carving into the surface, a steady rhythm in the background.

Practice was over, the team lingering on the ice, joking, shoving, talking shit like always.

We were a group of fifteen- to eighteen-year-old hockey phenoms, each of us with a huge ego but the skills to back it up, playing in such an elite league.

I skated toward the boards where a few guys had gathered. Nathan Gentry was laughing at something, his helmet shoved up on his forehead, his sweaty hair sticking out from the sides. He was only fifteen, barely able to shave.

Jacob McLendon was beside him, chuckling, his usual cocky grin in place. To his left was his best friend, Ryan DeLuca, and to his left, Jace Holloway. They were seventeen like me, the ones the younger guys looked up to.

And just beyond them, standing by the glass, was Mila. Her black hair in a ponytail and she was chewing a piece of gum. I can still smell the spearmint.

She was watching, pretending not to be staring at Nathan, but it was obvious.

The way her eyes tracked him, the way her fingers twisted in the hem of her hoodie.

She had a huge crush on the newest player on our team and it was kind of adorable.

Of course, I had told Nathan he’d better be careful because our coach just happened to be Mila’s father.

Not only that, Peter, her overprotective brother, was on the team.

He didn’t listen to my advice and it was obvious he liked her too.

I smirked and clapped Nathan on the shoulder. Lowering my head to him so no one else could hear, I said, “You gonna ask her out or just keep making moon eyes at each other from across the rink?”

Nathan turned red, shooting me a glare. “Shut up, Navarro.”

Ryan laughed and called out to Mila, “What do you think of the moon eyes he’s giving you?” Ryan took off his glove and patted Nathan’s face. “Look at that, Mila… not a whisker to be found.”

Nathan turned even redder and while I laughed, deep down I knew it wasn’t cool to humiliate one of our teammates like that.

Mila huffed, crossing her arms. “Maybe I like a clean-shaven man.”

Laughter rippled around us and Ryan doubled down. “He hasn’t even reached puberty yet, Mila. Our boy’s still in diapers.”

Nathan groaned, shoving past Ryan as he muttered, “Jesus, you guys are the worst.”

Jacob called after him, “Come on, rookie. Grow a pair.”

Nathan didn’t respond but as embarrassing as that was to him, he didn’t need to. He skated right over to Mila who leaned on the boards, eyes sparkling with delight as he approached.

“I don’t know what she sees in him,” Ryan said thoughtfully. “I’d ask her out, but…”

“But Peter would kick your ass,” I said, pointing out there’s no way he’d ever approve of such a thing.

The only thing saving Nathan from an ass-whooping was the fact that Nathan had not asked Mila out and probably wouldn’t. It was just puppy love and wouldn’t go any further than what it was. Nathan was young but he wasn’t stupid.

I blink, snapping back to the present. Nathan wasn’t stupid, but he was dead.

Another sip of my beer and I grimace. It tastes bitter, like most things in my life.

With a sigh, I turn off the TV and leave the half-empty bottle on the table.

I’ll clean it up tomorrow, but all of a sudden…

I’m exhausted. My bedroom seems so very far away and it almost feels like too much effort to get undressed before collapsing into bed.

Even so, I know the minute I do, sleep won’t come easy. Not with her ghost suddenly here, knocking on my door.

Fuck.

Mila Brennan is in Pittsburgh.

And I have no idea what that means for me.