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 wordfamily. 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 samebrushed 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.
“Whoa, this is fancy,” I murmur in awe, ignoring the disorientation.
I place my hands on the cool stone ledge and take a few deep breaths. I lift my gaze and study myself in the mirror. I took my time with my hair today, made possible by a brand-new hair dryer that showed up outside my bedroom door this morning. Clearly from Penn, but it was such a thoughtful gesture, it confused me more than anything. He’s the furthest thing from thoughtful that I can imagine, and yet, he was so gentle with me when he managed to free my hair from the jaws of the prior one.
I study my outfit—dark skinny jeans, suede booties, and a soft cream sweater tucked in slightly at the waist. A long,gray wool coat pulls the whole look together, along with a chunky purple knit scarf that’s a subtle nod to the team colors. Unashamedly, I’d scoured Penn’s place for something Titans-branded but came up empty. I suppose Penn doesn’t wear much merch when heisthe merch, but I did find this purple scarf in the coat closet. I didn’t ask his permission to wear it, and I hope he doesn’t mind, but I wanted to at least look like a Titans’ fan.
“You’re looking good, Mila,” I whisper to myself.
And I feel good. Nervous. But good. I can do this. I know I can because compared to running from a stalker, this is like a stroll through Disney World.
With another deep inhale followed by an exhale, I exit the restroom. Jackie is nowhere to be seen, and I note that there are a handful of people milling about. I assume VIP guests or dignitaries, but they all look unapproachable in their tailored suits and highball drinks in hand. I take a tentative step farther in, not sure where to go or who to talk to, when a woman approaches, her slate-blue eyes locked on me. I know who Brienne Norcross is and this is not her.
The pale-skinned beauty has glossy brown hair threaded with golden tones and offers me a warm smile as she approaches. She’s wearing slim black pants and a deep plum turtleneck that flatters her lithe frame. Confident but approachable, she moves with the kind of calm authority that makes people look twice.
“You must be Mila,” she says, smiling and holding out her hand. “I’m Willa. I’m dating Jack Kingston.”
We shake and I can’t think of anything to say but, “Um… okay.”
She grins at me. “I can see you’re not expecting me. Penn told King you’d be here and asked if I could watch over you. I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to sit in the owner’s box, so I said sure.”
For some reason, that makes me laugh and a wave of relief hits me. Another person who’s as awed as I am to be here, even if she’s got more experience being a part of this team by virtue of her relationship with a player.
“It was completely shocking Penn asked for a favor. He never asks for anything. Or talks. Or interacts.”
That makes me laugh again. “Yeah, that tracks.”
