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)
My stomach drops and a wave of guilt crashes over me. Penn is very much a private person and Brienne Norcross has an image to maintain for this team. No one knows that I’ve spoken to a reporter. That the story’s written. Scheduled. Ready to drop.
I don’t know that I thought of the repercussions once this goes public beyond putting a spotlight on me, which would in turn keep me safe. But that spotlight will be on Penn, Brienne… the whole fucking team.
I feel nauseated and I open my mouth to confess all. But it closes just as quickly. Perhaps I can stop this thing.
We talk a bit more—she’s kind, thoughtful, even warmer than I expected. And the longer we speak, the worse I feel.
After she excuses herself to greet someone else, I slip back into the private bathroom. I don’t notice the luxury details, instead pulling out my phone with shaky hands to dial Jillian Towne.
I squeeze my eyes shut in despair when I get her voicemail. “It’s Jillian. You know the drill. Speak at the beep.”
Beep.
“Jillian, it’s Mila. I know I said to run the story, but… I’ve changed my mind. I’ve got someone helping me now. Someone I trust. I don’t think it’s the right time anymore. Please call me back.”
I end the call and stare at my reflection.
Too late? Maybe not.
I just need to hear her say she’ll pull it.
The game starts and I rejoin Willa and Lilly. I try to focus on the ice. The energy. The thrum of the crowd.
But every time I glance down at my phone, there’s nothing.
No missed call.
No voicemail.
No text.
Until, finally, one pings.
From Jillian Towne. I’m so sorry, Mila. I couldn’t stop it. It’s already gone to print. It’ll be out tomorrow morning.
CHAPTER 10
Penn
The 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.”