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)
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.