CHAPTER 10
Penn
The sun managesto 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 forthe 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.”
Atlas’s eyebrows shoot up like I just quoted Nietzsche and he bobbles the puck he’d been flipping. “Uh… thanks, man.”
King glances over at us, a grin breaking out on his face. “Look at you joining in. Who are you and what’ve you done with Navarro?”
I grunt, already regretting the effort. “Don’t get used to it.”
Laughter follows me to my seat and just as I take it, the door swings open and Coach West walks in, followed by a tall dude with blond hair tousled in a way that feels more careless thancalculated. His eyes sweep the room, bright and sparkling with interest.
“Gentlemen,” Coach says, nodding to the new face. “Meet your newest teammate. We finalized the trade yesterday—Matteo Branson.”
We all know Matteo Branson. He’s been in the league about five years and is fast as hell on his skates, a solid addition to our third-line left wing, replacing Evgeny Denisenko.
Matteo flashes a grin that belongs in a whiskey ad. “What’s up, dudes? As Coach said, the name’s Matteo, but I go by Lucky. In fact, I won’t answer to Matteo so don’t even bother. And if you’re curious, yeah… I was born in Boston, cursed by my grandmother at birth and kissed by fate ever since.”
Stone chuckles from behind me and I hear Boone mutter, “What the hell does that even mean?”
Coach is amused and he sweeps his arm to the seats. “Take a chair, Lucky. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know the guys after practice, but we’ve got a lot of stuff to go over first.”
Lucky’s eyes scan the room and he aims for a row where Rafferty and North are sitting just before me. He settles in beside them and I can see he has a vine of shamrock tattoos climbing from his collarbone up his neck. He nods at those around him, even twisting in his seat to nod at me. He’s wearing a corded necklace with a rabbit’s foot pendant settled at the base of his throat like a talisman.
“Lucky, huh?” Rafferty asks. “Never would have guessed by the shamrocks and rabbit’s foot.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s cliché,” Lucky says, grinning. “But hey, it works. Been traded three times, never missed a playoff run. Lucky charms, baby.”
Laughter ripples around us as several players heard that, and there’s something kind of endearing about the guy. Not that I’m interested in making friends.
Coach starts running the plan for tomorrow’s game against Ottawa—matchups, line strategies, what to expect from the Cougars’ aggressive forecheck. I half listen, fingers tapping against the leather armrest. We watch some video, several of us—including me—piping up observations. Our team meetings are always collaborative and that’s been a vibe I’ve very much enjoyed since coming to the Titans.
