CHAPTER 1
Penn
The roar ofthe Titans’ crowd is just a memory as I pull into my neighborhood, the quiet hum of my sports car a far different sound than the thunderous arena I just left. Another home win, another solid performance. It should feel good, and for a while, it did. I relished the brief celebration at center ice when the last buzzer sounded, about the only time I truly bonded with my teammates.
But then it was over and I moved on, aiming to get through another day.
I roll my shoulders as I drive, working out the tension from the game. I played well tonight, which is admittedly harder than usual. It’s been a struggle keeping my head in the game lately, playing with the same cool composure I’m known for. I hate that I’ve let myself get rattled by things that should’ve been left in the past, by memories I’ve tried to bury.
And by that goddamn teddy bear last week with the card that readI remember. Do you?
Of course, I remember. There’s not a fucking day that goes by that those awful memories don’t trickle into my brain, taking over and running rampant. Sometimes, I think I might be going crazy, but then other times—like when I’m on the ice—I can let it all go. I suppose if I could play hockey twenty-four seven, I wouldn’t be so tortured, but that’s an obvious impossibility.
My driveway appears, flanked by two massive stone columns and arched steel gates, locked tight for security. I force myself to loosen the grip on my steering wheel as I come to a stopbeside the electronic lock pad. My house looms in the distance, cutting through the dark thanks to the multitude of lights placed strategically around the base and in bushes. It’s done for aesthetic purposes, but it’s also a safety measure.
I haven’t invited any of my teammates over since I moved to Pittsburgh, and I wonder if they’d think it’s beautiful or that I’m overly paranoid. A suburban fortress—high walls, a locked gate, a security system that would make any billionaire proud.
Ultimately moot since I have no desire to share any part of me with them.
I roll down my window and punch the code into the electronic keypad, the security cameras blinking their silent watch. The gates swing open and I guide my car along the curved driveway, the tires whispering against the pristine pavement. My home is enormous, coming in at almost ten thousand square feet, multi-leveled and outfitted with every luxury imaginable. It’s what any wealthy professional athlete would aspire to, yet it feels like nothing more than a place to exist. The only person I ever wanted to share it with—my dad—is gone. He never got to see the peak of my success, which is a travesty because I only became as good as I am to make him proud.
The left wing of the house has a five-car garage, and I pull into the far right stall, closest to the interior entrance. The second holds my Mercedes G-Wagon, but the other three are empty. Although I could fill each bay with a high-end car, two is more than enough and some would say one more than I actually need.
I kill the engine, letting silence settle around me as I step out. The overhead lighting casts long shadows, bouncing off the sleek hood of my car. A McLaren, because why not? And the G-Wagon? I paid cash for it. My contract with the Titans is lucrative, and I’ve got nothing else to spend the money on. No family, no social life, no extravagant hobbies—just a massivehouse, ridiculous cars, and a career that’s the only thing keeping me sane.
I head inside, passing through the mudroom into the cavernous kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of nothing but darkness at this hour. I pull a beer from the fridge, pop the top, and take a long swig.
Congrats on a good game, Penn.
The den is my sanctuary, dark and minimalist, the large flat-screen mounted above the fireplace already tuned to ESPN. I sink into the couch, flipping to the post-game highlights, brew in hand. The ESPN anchor drones on about our win, about our offensive pressure and airtight defense, but I’m not really listening—not until I see myself on the screen.
And I fall back into the memory of a near perfect play tonight as the TV commentator drones on.
There I am, flying down the ice, legs burning but adrenaline fueling every stride. The Demons’ defense is scrambling, trying to get into position, but I see the gap before they do. Stone is charging up the left wing, Boone streaking down the right. Bain and King are holding the blue line, ready to pinch if needed, but this is mine.
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 sharppingof 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.
