Page 12

Mila

I ’m terrified of driving Penn’s Mercedes because it probably costs more than my entire college education.

Penn tossed me the keys to his “less flashy” ride and told me to park in the secured player garage at the arena.

This was a vast departure from his proclamation yesterday that I can’t go anywhere without him, but we came to an early impasse on how I’d get to the arena for tonight’s game.

Penn had to be there early, around three, and wanted me to come with him and wait in the friends and family lounge.

I vetoed that plan immediately—too much downtime, and I have design work to finish.

Not to mention… that’s not my place. My relationship with Penn is tenuous at best and I think he’s harboring irritation with me for imposing on him with my problems. I qualify as neither friend nor family, and I don’t want any part of that.

We eventually came to a compromise. I’d keep myself securely locked in his gated mansion until it was time to leave and then drive myself to the arena in his vehicle.

He arranged for a Titans’ staff person to meet me in the garage and escort me to the owner’s box.

Seemed easy enough. Still, my nerves are on edge as I pull into the private lot, give my name to security, and get waved through with surprising efficiency.

I barely get the massive Mercedes SUV parked when I see a woman walking toward me. She’s got a blond pixie cut and large framed glasses. I immediately recognize her as a Titans’ staffer by the black pants and purple long-sleeved shirt with the logo on the front pocket. That and her security badge.

“Hi, you must be Mila,” she says as I open the door and practically fall out as it sits so high off the ground. Her hand has mine and she’s pumping it for a shake. “I’m Jackie, one of the valets to the owner’s box. I’m going to take you up.”

“Hi,” I manage and then realize I have to climb back into the vehicle to get my purse. As soon as I’m situated with my bag slung over my shoulder, Jackie offers a friendly smile and gestures me forward. “Right this way. I’ll give you the quick tour on the way up.”

We pass through a set of heavy double doors into a wide corridor that smells faintly of ice and floor polish. Everything down here feels important—slick and clean, with steel trim and the Titans’ logo emblazoned on the walls.

“To your left is the players’ locker room,” she says, nodding toward a secured door. “No entry without credentials, obviously, but that’s where all the guys are pre-game. They’ll come out from here and head straight to the ice tunnel.”

We keep walking, my boots echoing softly against the polished concrete.

“This hallway also leads to the family lounge,” she continues, pointing down another branch of the corridor. “That’s where significant others and kids usually hang out before or after games. Snacks, drinks, couches… it’s cozy.”

I try to keep my face neutral, but my stomach knots a little at the word family . I’m not one of them, and yet here I am, in their space.

She stops in front of a private elevator tucked behind a black glass wall etched with the Titans’ logo. She swipes a security badge from the lanyard around her neck, and the elevator dings open with a soft chime.

“This’ll take us straight up to the owner’s box level,” she says. “Only authorized staff, players, and guests get access, so you’re in VIP territory now.”

The elevator glides up with barely a sound, and when the doors slide open, we step into a plush, carpeted hallway lined with framed photos of iconic Titans’ moments—players in full stride down the ice, gloves midair during fights, a game-winning goal captured in the instant before the puck hits the net.

“This way,” the assistant says, guiding me down the hall toward a set of wide double doors trimmed in brushed steel.

She taps her badge again, and one of the doors clicks open.

The moment I step inside, I’m hit with warmth—both in temperature and atmosphere.

The owner’s box is gorgeous. Sleek and modern, yet somehow cozy, it’s divided into two parts: a lounge with deep purple leather chairs clustered in conversation groups around a glowing fireplace and a long buffet table that smells like heaven, and then the seating area—three rows of buttery gray leather seats overlooking the ice, already buzzing with pre-game energy.

“Make yourself at home,” she says with a smile. “I think some of the players’ partners are already here and waiting for you.”

My stomach tightens at that. I didn’t realize I’d be socializing with anyone from the team and Penn and I never discussed how much information I should give.

“Um… is there a restroom?” I ask.

“Of course.” Jackie sweeps her hand to the left. “Right through there.”

I enter a unisex bathroom—I need a moment to calm my fraying nerves.

The bathroom is a far cry from the cramped, utilitarian restrooms you’d find elsewhere in the arena.

This space is sleek and elegant, clearly designed with VIPs in mind.

The floors are slate tile in a deep charcoal gray, and the walls are a clean, soft white with subtle textured paneling and the same brushed steel accents I’ve noticed elsewhere.

I’m thinking the prominent use of steel is a nod to Pittsburgh’s history as a steel city, plus it denotes strength.

The lighting is warm and flattering, tucked into recessed fixtures, and halo lights above the mirror create an ambiance that’s more spa than stadium.

A private stall with a full door sits in the corner, and the air smells faintly of eucalyptus and something citrusy clean.

There’s even a small padded bench near the door and a wall-mounted screen discreetly playing the game, so no one has to miss a moment of the action.

I had thought a few private moments would settle me, but all this opulence does is remind me that I’m in a completely foreign world. I’ve never been privy to wealth or high-powered people and I suddenly feel inadequate.

A wide vanity stretches across one wall, topped with smooth quartz and fitted with twin vessel sinks and motion-sensor faucets.

Above them, a large backlit mirror runs the length of the counter, framed in matte-black trim.

There’s a basket of rolled hand towels neatly arranged beside a tray of upscale toiletries—glass soap dispensers, lotion, and even a crystal dish with individually wrapped mints.

“Whoa, this is fancy,” I murmur in awe, ignoring the disorientation.

I place my hands on the cool stone ledge and take a few deep breaths.

I lift my gaze and study myself in the mirror.

I took my time with my hair today, made possible by a brand-new hair dryer that showed up outside my bedroom door this morning.

Clearly from Penn, but it was such a thoughtful gesture, it confused me more than anything.

He’s the furthest thing from thoughtful that I can imagine, and yet, he was so gentle with me when he managed to free my hair from the jaws of the prior one.

I study my outfit—dark skinny jeans, suede booties, and a soft cream sweater tucked in slightly at the waist. A long, gray wool coat pulls the whole look together, along with a chunky purple knit scarf that’s a subtle nod to the team colors.

Unashamedly, I’d scoured Penn’s place for something Titans-branded but came up empty.

I suppose Penn doesn’t wear much merch when he is the merch, but I did find this purple scarf in the coat closet.

I didn’t ask his permission to wear it, and I hope he doesn’t mind, but I wanted to at least look like a Titans’ fan.

“You’re looking good, Mila,” I whisper to myself.

And I feel good. Nervous. But good. I can do this. I know I can because compared to running from a stalker, this is like a stroll through Disney World.

With another deep inhale followed by an exhale, I exit the restroom.

Jackie is nowhere to be seen, and I note that there are a handful of people milling about.

I assume VIP guests or dignitaries, but they all look unapproachable in their tailored suits and highball drinks in hand.

I take a tentative step farther in, not sure where to go or who to talk to, when a woman approaches, her slate-blue eyes locked on me.

I know who Brienne Norcross is and this is not her.

The pale-skinned beauty has glossy brown hair threaded with golden tones and offers me a warm smile as she approaches.

She’s wearing slim black pants and a deep plum turtleneck that flatters her lithe frame.

Confident but approachable, she moves with the kind of calm authority that makes people look twice.

“You must be Mila,” she says, smiling and holding out her hand. “I’m Willa. I’m dating Jack Kingston.”

We shake and I can’t think of anything to say but, “Um… okay.”

She grins at me. “I can see you’re not expecting me. Penn told King you’d be here and asked if I could watch over you. I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to sit in the owner’s box, so I said sure.”

For some reason, that makes me laugh and a wave of relief hits me. Another person who’s as awed as I am to be here, even if she’s got more experience being a part of this team by virtue of her relationship with a player.

“It was completely shocking Penn asked for a favor. He never asks for anything. Or talks. Or interacts.”

That makes me laugh again. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Willa loops her arm casually through mine. “Come on, let me introduce you to Lilly. Her fiancé is Boone—he and King both play on Penn’s line.”

She guides me down to the seating area where a woman with long, shiny brown hair and bright blue eyes waves from one of the front-row seats.

She’s dressed in a white Titans’ jersey—Boone’s name and number bold across the back—paired with dark jeans and crisp white sneakers.

There’s something effortlessly pretty about her, with a warm smile that immediately puts me at ease.