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 thatstupid 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.
Is she married? Kids?
Again, why in the fuck is she here to see me? We have nothing to say to each other. We’re nothing to each other. We may have shared one tiny thread of a bond years ago, but that no longer exists, and even if it did, I still would have hung up on North.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. No. I’m not doing this. I’ve worked too damn hard to keep my past buried, to move forward, even if I’ve been doing it alone. I won’t let her drag me back into the wreckage of that night, and that is exactly what would happen if I even laid eyes on her from afar.
And once I saw her, I’d think of the others. Nathan. Peter. Ryan. Jace. Colton. I close my eyes, lean my head back on the cushion and let the memories come. No sense in trying to fight them. Mila’s presence has stirred up too much shit.
The smell of sweat and ice filled the Wraiths’ practice facility, the familiar sound of skates carving into the surface, a steady rhythm in the background. Practice was over, the team lingering on the ice, joking, shoving, talking shit like always.We were a group of fifteen- to eighteen-year-old hockey phenoms, each of us with a huge ego but the skills to back it up, playing in such an elite league.
I skated toward the boards where a few guys had gathered. Nathan Gentry was laughing at something, his helmet shoved up on his forehead, his sweaty hair sticking out from the sides. He was only fifteen, barely able to shave.
Jacob McLendon was beside him, chuckling, his usual cocky grin in place. To his left was his best friend, Ryan DeLuca, and to his left, Jace Holloway. They were seventeen like me, the ones the younger guys looked up to.
And just beyond them, standing by the glass, was Mila. Her black hair in a ponytail and she was chewing a piece of gum. I can still smell the spearmint.
She was watching, pretending not to be staring at Nathan, but it was obvious. The way her eyes tracked him, the way her fingers twisted in the hem of her hoodie. She had a huge crush on the newest player on our team and it was kind of adorable. Of course, I had told Nathan he’d better be careful because our coach just happened to be Mila’s father. Not only that, Peter, her overprotective brother, was on the team.
He didn’t listen to my advice and it was obvious he liked her too.
