Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
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.