Page 19

Penn

I walk into the Titans’ locker room, my mind swirling with far too many things taking up valuable space.

I just settled Mila in the family lounge and Willa is going to meet her soon.

They’ll sit together during the game and after…

well, I don’t know what we’ll do after the game.

We didn’t talk about it, but as Mila says…

we’ll take it one step at a time, one day at a time.

A slightly bigger worry is my teammates.

I’ve spent months ignoring their offers of friendship.

I’ve hidden ugly secrets from them and now there’s a very real possibility that this news article will blow up into a PR nightmare.

Several of the players have tried to befriend me while others have started to figure out my backstory.

And then there’s King, the one guy who knows it all.

But those worries will have to wait because I’ve got to concentrate on the game. There’s a reason we all get to the arena so early, and that’s so we can mentally prepare ourselves for the battle ahead. Ottawa won’t be an easy opponent and we have to be on our A game at all times.

Which is why it sucks having this burden hanging over me—this need to start repairing relationships—but more importantly, I need to share my story with them so they at least have some understanding about why I’ve been such an asshole.

Mila told me today before we left my house that since I’ve found some ability to trust her, maybe it’s time to do the same with my teammates.

That’s a big fucking ask, for sure, because I was so devastated when the Wraiths team turned against me for doing the right thing. That betrayal has shaped my entire adult life, and I can’t just switch off those fears as if they were a light switch.

I head to my cubby, a large wooden open-doored locker where our game gear has been neatly stored for us.

All the players’ last names are displayed at the top of each cubby and the new guy, Branson, has been put beside me.

I always liked Evgeny being there because he never tried to forge any type of bond.

He was all business, focused on the game of hockey and nothing more.

Despite my reticence to engage with my teammates, I do very much like the electric atmosphere when I walk in. The usual pre-game energy is heightened by a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. I sit on the bench and work on taping my sticks, a pre-game ritual that I find meditative.

Movement to my right catches my eye and I see Lucky take a seat on the long bench our cubbies share. He glances at me, lifts his chin and then pulls his phone out of his back pocket.

I return to my stick taping, but he shoves the phone at me. “Here, man.”

Stunned by the offer, I take it from him, unsure what he wants me to do.

He nods at it in my hand. “Just hold it up, make sure you get me from head to toe, and hit that red button. Don’t stop recording until the music stops.”

“What?” I ask, so confused I can’t even be pissed that he’s bothering me.

He doesn’t answer but steps a few feet away, rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles. “Okay, ready?”

“Um… yeah?” I say, as if I’m questioning the sanity of this entire situation.

I watch him curiously, as do a few other guys. Lucky hasn’t been with us long enough to become predictable, but this is definitely unexpected.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Boone murmurs from his cubby, squinting in confusion.

“Got me,” Atlas says, sliding onto the bench next to me and watching with a bemused expression. “New kid might be cracked.”

Lucky straightens, glancing around the room. “Need absolute silence, boys. This is art in the making.”

Stone pauses mid-lace, eyebrows arching. “Art?”

Lucky grins, all charm and confidence. “You’ll see.”

With no further explanation, he points at me. “Hit it, Navarro.”

I jolt at my cue and tap the red button. Immediately, the unmistakable beat of Dua Lipa’s “Levitating” fills the room from the speaker on his iPhone.

“Aw, fuck.” King chuckles, shaking his head. “This ought to be good.”

Lucky steps smoothly into frame, body relaxed, hips moving effortlessly to the rhythm.

He starts dancing—actually fucking dancing—right there in the locker room, lip-syncing along to the words with the ease of someone who’s clearly done this many, many times before.

He twirls, points dramatically at the camera, spins again, even drops before popping back up with an exaggerated flourish.

The guys are stunned silent for a beat, but I do my duty, keeping him in the frame. Then Bain lets out a loud bark of laughter, shattering the silence. “Holy shit, he’s good.”

A mix of chuckles, head shakes, and “What the hell” murmurs follow, but no one stops Lucky. He finishes strong, sliding gracefully out of frame as the song fades. The music stops, and as ordered, I tap the button to stop the recording.

He takes it from me with a knowing wink. His fingers fly over the screen as I watch dumbfounded.

“And… posted.” He looks up, grinning widely, completely unfazed by the astonished stares. “TikTok dance trend fiend here, boys. Get used to it. I have followers who rely on me.”

Atlas laughs, popping off the bench. “That was awesome. Totally going to follow you, dude.”

Lucky points a finger at him, tossing his phone on top of his gear bag. “LuckyBranson69. Give me a follow and a like.”

Everyone goes back to their pre-game rituals and Lucky starts to undress. I resume wrapping my stick, but curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s the 69 signify? A superstitious number or something?”

Lucky’s grin is devilish. “Nah, man… 13’s my lucky number.” He points to his jersey where the large purple one and three glare back at me. “But 69 is definitely my second favorite, and I’ve never had a lady complain yet.”

I walked right into that one, and I can’t help but chuckle. I shake my head, attention going back to my stick.

“So… heard you’re kind of closed off and unapproachable. Any truth to that?” he asks, plopping down on the bench to unlace his dress shoes.

The locker room quiets noticeably as heads swivel toward us. I lean back slightly, a smirk tugging at my lips, fully aware I’m about to shock every damn guy in this room. “Only if I don’t like you, Branson. Jury’s still out.”

Several jaws literally drop because it’s the most generalized conversation I’ve probably ever had with a teammate. King stifles a laugh, and Stone looks like he might choke on his water.

Lucky chuckles appreciatively. “Fair enough, man. Fair enough. Guess I better keep working on winning you over.”

I shrug, still amused, and I wonder how much of this easygoing feeling I’ve got circulating has to do with Mila and the night we spent together. “Keep dancing like that, you might have a shot.”

A chorus of laughter erupts from the guys, but Lucky just flashes another carefree grin and continues gearing up.

“What’s the story, anyway?” I ask after a beat, curiosity getting the better of me. “Why ‘Lucky’?”

Lucky glances sideways, his expression open.

“My grandmother swore I was cursed at birth. Born on Friday the thirteenth during a full moon. Everyone figured I was doomed, but turns out, the opposite happened. Weirdly good shit always finds me. Scholarships, trades to playoff-bound teams, girls throwing themselves at me, lucky bounces on the ice… and, apparently, a shit ton of TikTok followers.”

I huff out a laugh. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“Most people don’t until they see it in action.” He taps the rabbit’s foot necklace hanging loosely from his neck. “This thing hasn’t let me down yet.”

“Sounds more like superstition.”

“Hey…” Lucky points a finger my way, mock serious. “Whatever works.”

I shake my head, genuinely entertained. This guy’s a gust of fresh air, oddly compelling in his relentless positivity.

And all of a sudden, I realize… I don’t feel that oppressive weight that I’m normally carrying everywhere I go. It’s often even more burdensome when I’m around my teammates because of the inherent distrust I have among them. My past haunting me, refusing to let me be more.

But maybe it’s time to try something different. Walls broke open last night with Mila and I’ve peeked through. Maybe Lucky’s absurd dance and the team’s acceptance of such a thing is a sign.

I glance over at him, taking in the shamrock tattoos peeking over his opened collar and the rabbit’s foot necklace.

There’s no deep thought put into what I’m about to do. I just know that now is the time to do it. Going to rip that motherfucking Band-Aid off and expose the wound.

I push up from the bench, place my stick in my cubby and then call out, “Can I have everyone’s attention?”

The chatter is loud and I might not ordinarily be heard in such an environment, but the novelty of Penn Navarro asking his teammates to listen to him has the locker room falling immediately silent.

I realize not everyone can see me, some of the players coming around their cubbies to get a better look.

I hop onto the bench, placing myself higher so I can be seen.

“Um… I need to talk to you all about something.”

“Holy shit,” someone murmurs in astonishment.

My gaze drifts around, trying to find who said that, but not to chastise. I can’t locate the person, but I offer a wry smile. “Yeah… this is monumental, I get it. Reclusive Penn Navarro is about to make a statement.”

I see Coach West coming closer, along with the other coaches. King, Foster, Rafferty and North are standing the closest and it’s North who offers me a reassuring smile.

The man I attacked in anger. I guess I better start there.

I take in all the curious faces. “Last week I attacked a fellow Titan.” My gaze moves to North, but I continue to address the team. “I was angry and it was stupid and uncalled for. I was wrong and for that, I’m very sorry. I hope North can forgive me, as well as my other teammates.”

North lifts his chin. “It’s all good, man.”