“Fuck,” King mutters. “Have you gone to the police?”
“She has, but they said they can’t protect her against a ghost. They can’t trace the emails and texts.”
King ponders that, rubbing his jaw. “Maybe you should talk to Van.”
“Van?” I ask, glancing around the locker room and tagging our third-line defenseman.
“Yeah, his brother-in-law, Malik, works for a security firm here in Pittsburgh called Jameson Force Security. They’ve got abilities that the police don’t and they can also protect. It would be worth a talk with them.”
That sounds way too appealing. “Yeah… great. I’ll talk to Van after the game.”
King throws his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to get ready, but for what it’s worth, everyone respects the hell out of you here, including me, especially after you just came clean. That took guts.”
Emotion tightens my throat. “Thanks, man.”
He nods, then shifts slightly, almost awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Hey, uh… Willa and I were thinking about grabbing a quiet beer after the game tonight rather than hanging out with the team. Maybe you and Mila wanna join us? Something low-key.”
Surprise flickers through me. Socializing still isn’t exactly my comfort zone, but the offer feels genuine. Safe. “Yeah. Actually, I’d like that. I think Mila would too.”
King’s smile widens. “Good. That’s good. We’ll plan on it then.”
“Yeah,” I repeat softly, feeling oddly hopeful. “Sounds like a plan.”
He claps my shoulder lightly. “All right, Navarro. Let’s go kick some ass.”
I chuckle, tension easing from my muscles. “You got it, man.”
As I take my stick in hand again, it hits me that somewhere along the way—maybe through Mila, maybe through the unexpected camaraderie of guys like Lucky and King—I’ve started letting people in.
It’s terrifying.
But damn if it doesn’t also feel fucking liberating.
CHAPTER 15
Mila
The night airis cold, plumes of frosty air escaping my mouth. Penn and I walk side by side, our steps falling into a natural rhythm as we head to a bar where we’re meeting King and Willa. Everything is so new and sometimes awkward. The space between us feels… complicated. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, shoulders squared as if he’s got his walls back in place.
I wish he’d take my hand. Show me a sign of affection so I’d be reassured I didn’t dream that we’re now in some sort of relationship. But maybe those are just foolish, romantic notions. Maybe what Penn and I have is only physical and in the bedroom.
Please take my hand, Penn, and prove me wrong.
The thought nags at me, making my fingers twitch at my side, but I don’t dare reach for him first. We’ve crossed so many lines in the last twenty-four hours—lines we didn’t know how to define, boundaries we didn’t even realize existed until we obliterated them. And now? Now we’re here… somewhere between what we were and whatever the hell we’re becoming.
I sneak a glance at him as we walk. His jaw is strong but not tight. He doesn’t seem angry. Just lost in thought. Maybe the same thoughts swirling around in my head are swirling in his.
“Cold?” Penn asks quietly, snapping me out of my silent musings.
I shake my head quickly, offering a small smile. “No. I’m good.”
He nods, his gaze flicking toward me briefly before returning straight ahead. Shit… I should have said I was cold and maybe he would have put his arm around me. Next time I’ll do that.
I let my mind wander back to the game, my lips lifting into a genuine smile. God, I loved being there tonight. Sitting in the stands with Willa, watching Penn on the ice… it was different this time. I’ve watched plenty of his games over the years, followed his career from a distance, but tonight felt personal. Like I wasn’t just a spectator anymore. I was part of his inner circle.
I can still see him in my mind—his body slicing through defenders with brutal precision, his movements a perfect blend of power and grace. But it was his goal in the second period that stole my breath.
Penn had taken a pass from Boone in the neutral zone, skated hard toward the net with a defender practically draped over his back. He’d deked once, twice, then flipped the puck up over the goalie’s glove side, hitting the top corner so clean it was poetry in motion.
