Page 14

Penn

T he sun manages to penetrate the tinted windows lining the upper arena corridors. It filters through in streaks as I walk the inner hallway toward the team meeting room.

I’ve always liked being early but today I’m running a bit late. We won our game against Columbus last night and the thrill of it was still coursing through me by the time I was ready to leave. I had a staff person escort Mila to the players’ garage and from there I followed her home.

She’s only been at my house two days after having not laid eyes on each other in ten years, and yet it didn’t feel odd that she was there.

The rest of my team was out celebrating the win, but I wasn’t invited.

Those invitations stopped a while back after I repetitively said no.

I knew they’d never be reissued when I showed up at Stevie’s bar that one night, beyond pissed off at my world, and picked a fight with two bikers.

Yeah, my teammates were angry about my tantrum and I was persona non grata after that. But here I was, in the comfort of my own home with a woman I consider… a friend?

Yes, a friend.

So why shouldn’t we celebrate with a beer?

Except when I offered her one, she barely looked me in the eye, said she was tired and scurried up the stairs to her room.

It was strange but I didn’t think twice on it, instead enjoying that beer while watching ESPN’s highlights of the game.

This morning, I lingered a bit longer than I normally would, hoping to talk to Mila if she came down before I had to leave for the arena. But she never showed her face and I was late getting out of the house.

I pull open the heavy door to the meeting room and step inside. I’m not so late as to miss the start of a meeting, which I’ve never done before, but not early enough that I don’t have to walk past half the team to find a seat.

A few of the guys are scattered across the rising tiers of wide leather chairs that curve around the central pit of the room.

Boone and Bain are mid-conversation in one of the upper rows, sneakers propped on the small flip-up tables.

Atlas is in the second row, flipping a puck across his knuckles as he chews on a stick of gum.

He’s half slouched, looking like even sitting upright requires more effort than he’s willing to give this early.

For a split second, I hesitate in the aisle before moving to an empty row.

I’ve never initiated casual banter. Never inserted myself into the rhythms of camaraderie that these guys have been building over the last two seasons.

But something about this morning—it pushes at me.

Maybe it’s because Mila’s presence has forced me to confront my past and that, in and of itself, makes me different.

Perhaps I’m trying, in some small, awkward way, to be better.

To be… present.

I nod toward Atlas. “Nice wrister last night against Fleury.”

Atlas’s eyebrows shoot up like I just quoted Nietzsche and he bobbles the puck he’d been flipping. “Uh… thanks, man.”

King glances over at us, a grin breaking out on his face. “Look at you joining in. Who are you and what’ve you done with Navarro?”

I grunt, already regretting the effort. “Don’t get used to it.”

Laughter follows me to my seat and just as I take it, the door swings open and Coach West walks in, followed by a tall dude with blond hair tousled in a way that feels more careless than calculated. His eyes sweep the room, bright and sparkling with interest.

“Gentlemen,” Coach says, nodding to the new face. “Meet your newest teammate. We finalized the trade yesterday—Matteo Branson.”

We all know Matteo Branson. He’s been in the league about five years and is fast as hell on his skates, a solid addition to our third-line left wing, replacing Evgeny Denisenko.

Matteo flashes a grin that belongs in a whiskey ad. “What’s up, dudes? As Coach said, the name’s Matteo, but I go by Lucky. In fact, I won’t answer to Matteo so don’t even bother. And if you’re curious, yeah… I was born in Boston, cursed by my grandmother at birth and kissed by fate ever since.”

Stone chuckles from behind me and I hear Boone mutter, “What the hell does that even mean?”

Coach is amused and he sweeps his arm to the seats. “Take a chair, Lucky. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know the guys after practice, but we’ve got a lot of stuff to go over first.”

Lucky’s eyes scan the room and he aims for a row where Rafferty and North are sitting just before me.

He settles in beside them and I can see he has a vine of shamrock tattoos climbing from his collarbone up his neck.

He nods at those around him, even twisting in his seat to nod at me.

He’s wearing a corded necklace with a rabbit’s foot pendant settled at the base of his throat like a talisman.

“Lucky, huh?” Rafferty asks. “Never would have guessed by the shamrocks and rabbit’s foot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s cliché,” Lucky says, grinning. “But hey, it works. Been traded three times, never missed a playoff run. Lucky charms, baby.”

Laughter ripples around us as several players heard that, and there’s something kind of endearing about the guy. Not that I’m interested in making friends.

Coach starts running the plan for tomorrow’s game against Ottawa—matchups, line strategies, what to expect from the Cougars’ aggressive forecheck.

I half listen, fingers tapping against the leather armrest. We watch some video, several of us—including me—piping up observations.

Our team meetings are always collaborative and that’s been a vibe I’ve very much enjoyed since coming to the Titans.

Twenty minutes later, the meeting’s over and now it’s time to lace up and hit the ice for practice. Players file out toward the locker room to suit up, but before I can even exit my row, Callum is walking in. His eyes scan the crowd and land on me, and he doesn’t have to say a word.

I know by that look on his face he’s here to see me.

I make my way down to him and we loiter until the room is cleared. When we’re alone, he holds out his phone to show me an article online from the Pittsburgh Times .

“You’ll want to read it,” Callum says, his voice clipped.

I take the device and start reading. The title jumps out at me in bold serif font:

A Decade of Silence: Hazing, Tragedy and the Secrets of Juniors Hockey

By Jillian Towne

Just over ten years ago, a promising young player named Nathan Gentry died after a night of drinking and alleged hazing while playing for the Muskogee Wraiths, a junior hockey team based in Minnesota. The case sparked whispers but no charges—until suddenly, there were.

My heart slams against my breastbone as I read a succinct summary of the criminal complaints against Jace, Peter, Ryan and Colton and how two minor-aged witnesses were able to help the district attorney get guilty pleas. I glance up to see Callum watching me warily and then return to reading.

Now, for the first time, one of the two unnamed witnesses from that investigation is speaking out.

“I was fifteen when it happened,” says Mila Brennan, who contacted me after receiving multiple anonymous threats over the past several months.

“I overheard my brother and three other players talking about what they’d done to Nathan.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done—knowing that by helping the police, I was condemning my brother, but I had to do the right thing. ”

According to her account, she overheard how Gentry, a rookie already struggling under the pressure of elite-level play, was subjected to a brutal hazing ritual organized by several of his own teammates, which led to his death.

“He was still breathing when they walked away,” she says. “They just assumed he’d sleep it off.”

Gentry aspirated overnight. His body was found by a rink employee the next morning.

Initial investigations stalled due to a wall of silence from the team.

But prosecutors were later able to press charges after two key witnesses came forward.

The identities of those witnesses were protected to prevent harassment or intimidation, but according to my sources, their testimony was critical in securing plea deals for two players and junior hockey bans for others.

Mila says she had dated Gentry briefly and overheard her own brother discussing the incident the night it happened. When she told her parents, they urged her to stay quiet.

“They called it stupid boy fun. They told me it was a tragic accident. But I knew better,” she says. “I knew they left him to die.”

Another teammate, unnamed in this story, also testified. According to Mila, he’d gone to the police first, quietly, but the case didn’t progress until she corroborated the story.

“He was brave,” she says. “He did the right thing before anyone else. But the team turned on him. Just like my family turned on me.”

Today, Mila lives out of state and works remotely. She has been terrorized by threats purporting to cause her harm—emails, messages, voicemails from burner numbers.

“I don’t know who’s behind it but it’s clear they want revenge,” Brennan said. “I live in constant fear.”

When asked why she chose to speak out now, she admitted it was for her own protection. “Because if something happens to me, I want people to know why.”

A spokesperson for the Wraiths declined to comment, as did the league.

The words blur.

Not because they’re poorly printed. Because I stopped breathing somewhere in the middle of the paragraph that begins with “Another teammate, unnamed in this story…”

I clench Callum’s phone so tightly, I’m afraid it will crack.

My eyes lock onto the photo provided along with the article—Gentry.

Fifteen years old. Smiling with his helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t know this photo will outlive him.

He doesn’t know people will forget his name while remembering the headlines.

“Did you know about this?” Callum asks.

My eyes lift to his and I shake my head. “She never said a word.”

“It won’t be long before someone figures out you’re the other witness.” Callum scrubs his hand through his hair. “Now that Mila’s outed herself.”

“I can’t believe she fucking did that,” I growl, anger flushing through me and settling into my bones.

“I’ll alert our PR department. We need to be prepared to issue a statement.”

“I have to go,” I mutter. “I won’t be here for practice today.”

“Penn—” he starts, sounding concerned, but I’m already walking away.

No, storming away, deliberate and with fury boiling over… burning my blood.

It’s out there now. Mila put it out there and the fucking spotlight is now shining bright.

It doesn’t matter that she didn’t name me. Callum’s right—someone will put it together. Hell, fucking North figured it out easy enough and King knows the full truth.

Any good reporter with half a brain will find the old court records, cross-reference rosters, timeline the witness statements. And even if they don’t, it won’t take long for someone who was there—any of the Wraiths—to piece it together and send the whole thing spiraling.

By the time I shove open the door to the players’ garage, I’m vibrating with a need to strike out at Mila.

She’s got to answer for this, then she can pack her bags and get the fuck out of my house.