Page 26

Penn

T he suite I rented is on the twenty-second floor of the Fairmont, overlooking the river.

It’s clean and modern, with cool tones of steel and slate and understated elegance in the brushed chrome fixtures and stylish furniture.

A glass coffee table anchors the sitting area, and floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with natural light.

If I were to press my face against the window and look left, I’d see the baseball field across the river, though the view isn’t what I’m focused on.

Across from me, seated with her laptop balanced on her bent legs, is Jillian Towne—the journalist who ran Mila’s story.

She’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with short dark hair that curls softly around her jaw.

Her sharp brown eyes flick between me and Mila, who sits quietly on the edge of the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Jillian is professional, polished, and looking at me with the eagerness of a young journalist poised to win a Pulitzer.

“You really want to do this?” Jillian asks, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Mila’s article already stirred things up. This will add fuel to the fire.”

“That’s the point,” I say, dead serious, but I do look to Mila for confirmation. If this scares her in any way, I won’t do it, but so far she’s on board.

Of course, I have to look away quickly because any time I look at the black-haired beauty, I want to pull her into my arms and fuck her senseless.

I cannot get enough of her, and every time I tell myself this will never last. And yet, nothing has ever felt so right as when I’m with her… inside of her.

I bite my cheek, letting the pain ground me and force away the impending hard-on that will soon follow my lewd thoughts.

Jillian’s verification helps. “So, to be clear, you want to provoke whoever’s behind the threats with this article?”

I nod. “I do.”

Her fingers pause above her keyboard. “Why? Wouldn’t that put you at greater risk?”

“I’m not worried about me,” I say and take a moment to explain that I’ve employed security for protection.

Jillian doesn’t know it, but a Jameson agent is standing just outside the hotel room door, waiting on us.

“Mila is paying the price for something we both did. And that ends now. I want this over sooner rather than later.”

Jillian shifts slightly in her chair, still skeptical. “All right. I’ll listen. But if you’re planning to call people out by name—”

“I am.”

She holds up a hand. “Just understand that could cross into libel, depending on what you say.”

“I don’t care,” I say flatly. “Print it word for word, or there’s no interview. Besides, you’ll be quoting me as the source, so there’s no blowback on you.”

Jillian studies me for a beat, then nods slowly.

She presses a button on her phone to start recording, which I’d previously given her permission to do.

“Okay, Mr. Navarro. You’ve got the floor.

Why don’t you start at the beginning, tell me your story, and I’ll try to hold all questions until the end. ”

I nod in understanding, lean forward and clasp my hands between my knees.

“I was seventeen. A junior player with the Muskogee Wraiths in Minnesota. One night, I was hanging out with a handful of the older players at the house of Peter Brennan. He was the coach’s son.

” I feel Mila’s hand touch my back and she keeps it there for support.

“They were drinking, talking shit and laughing about something that didn’t sit right with me. ”

Jillian’s fingers move across her keyboard, making notes and probably a list of follow-up questions. I keep going.

“They were bragging—joking—about what they’d done to Nathan Gentry, a fifteen-year-old player who had just joined the team. He’d been struggling to adjust and they thought a little hazing would straighten him out. I know you know the details of that incident, so I won’t go into it again.”

Jillian nods, her eyes focused on her laptop screen, but I can tell she’s tuned into me.

I press on. “That’s how I learned what they’d done, but that was before anyone knew that Nathan had died.

When I found out the next morning, I was sick to my stomach.

” My jaw clenches at the memory. “The police had no clue what had happened and I’d thought, outside of those guys, I was the only other one who knew the truth. ”

“And who exactly was in attendance?” Jillian asks and then glances up at me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry… didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s all good. The only ones there beside me were the ones who did the actual hazing.”

Jillian looks to a spiral pad beside her, flips a page and consults the notes. “So just you, Brennan, Holloway, DeLuca and Briggs?”

I twist my neck, look to Mila who smiles with encouragement, her hand still warm on my back. I return my attention to Jillian. “Unbeknownst to me, Mila was hiding just outside the open doorway in the hall and she overheard everything.”

“What did you do?” Jillian asks.

I lift a shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do.

I was terrified. I was torn because on one hand, I thought it was a horrible accident gone wrong and the guys shouldn’t be punished.

But on the other hand, I couldn’t believe how funny they thought it was and how cruel I found them to be.

I was worried about getting them in trouble, I was worried about Nathan’s parents not having closure, and I was worried about our team suffering.

But I talked to my dad about it. I told him everything.

And he said something I’ll never forget—‘Doing the right thing isn’t supposed to feel easy.

’” I exhale slowly, the weight of that memory still fresh.

“So, I went to the police. Gave them what I overheard. They were grateful for the information, but were very clear that it wouldn’t hold up because it would be my word against theirs. ”

Jillian looks up from her laptop, eyes narrowing slightly. “And that’s when Mila came forward?”

I nod. “She’d heard enough to know that I wasn’t involved in it. She was torn just like me and she had her parents telling her to stay quiet. That’s when she approached me and I found out she’d heard all of it.”

“I wanted to corroborate his story,” Mila explains.

I reach back, take her hand in mine and pull it into my lap as I settle against the couch beside her. “I didn’t want her to go to the police.”

“We fought about it,” Mila says. “But I did it anyway.”

Once again, I turn to look at her, those blue eyes staring back at me with full trust. “And I was pissed at her for it. I knew her life would be ruined.” We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, although I keep talking to Jillian.

“But she went,” I say, quieter. “And because she did… because she backed me up… the police had enough to charge Peter and Jace. They took plea deals. Went to prison. Ryan and Colton were kicked off the team. Their careers were over.”

“And now you potentially have four people who are pissed at both of you and might want some revenge,” Jillian murmurs thoughtfully.

“Four potential cowards,” I growl menacingly, and Jillian blinks out of her thoughts. “Four weak-minded men who want to terrorize a woman by sending her vile messages… promising pain. Promising death. And they think they’re safe hiding behind anonymous accounts and burner phones.”

“Do you believe it’s one of those four men?” she asks.

“I do.”

“Which one?”

“Maybe all of them.” I look her dead in the eye. “Let them come for me. Peter Brennan. Jace Holloway. Ryan DeLuca. Colton Briggs. I’m calling you out and I want to know if any of you are man enough to face me.”

Jillian’s fingers freeze above her keys.

“I should have said this a decade ago,” I continue. “Should have looked you each in the eye and told you what I thought of you. You picked on a scared, innocent kid and left him to die. You were supposed to be his teammates—his brothers. But you weren’t. You were cowards.”

My words are sharp, clipped. “Then you turned on me for doing the right thing. Turned on Mila. You made her an enemy for exposing the truth. You threatened her. You’ve been making her life hell. And I’ve had enough.”

Jillian’s mouth is slightly open now, her expression unreadable.

“You want to punish someone?” I say, rising to my feet. “You come after me. I’m the one who went to the cops first. I’m the one who testified. I’m the one who’s putting my name on this story. But if you lay one fucking finger on Mila…”

I pause, taking in a gulp of air to calm myself.

“I will come for you. And I promise—I will make you wish you’d stayed buried in the past where you belong.”

Silence follows as Jillian stares at me agog. “You want that printed word for word?”

“Word for word,” I say tightly. “Feel free to embellish with sensory details. You hear my conviction, I’m sure.”

Jillian snaps out of it, her fingers flying. “Oh, I hear it all right. Gave me a cold chill down my spine.” She smiles almost gleefully and continues typing. “Pretty sure that’s going to do the job and piss them off.”

“I hope so,” I say, reaching to pull Mila to her feet. “That’s the whole point. To draw them out. And end this. How soon can this go to print?”

Jillian glances at her watch and then lifts her gaze to us. “If you two get out of here and let me work, I can get it off to my editor by day’s end. He’s waiting for it, and we can print it tomorrow.”

Relief flushes through me, because even though I just threw down the proverbial glove to four vile pieces of human trash, I feel euphoric that this will end soon. Between Jameson digging into these guys and me poking them, someone has to fuck up.