Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Our reclusive star player has actually taken us up on one of a thousand invites to join us for an after-game celebration. We haven’t been able to figure out why Penn is the way he is. While he’s in hockey mode—practices, games, interviews—he’s outgoing and genial, always willing to discuss the sport we play.
But off the ice, he’s locked up tight and wants nothing to do with the camaraderie that makes this job so fucking special. In the nearly three months we’ve been playing together, I can say I haven’t learned a single thing about the guy other than the general information provided in his bio. I’ve never had a personal exchange with him and not for lack of trying.
King raises his hand when Penn looks our way and motions him over. He stares back at us, forehead puckered with what might be indecision. The man looks completely uncomfortable, and I realize what a monumental effort it must be for him to take this step. I plaster a welcoming smile on my face and glance around for the nearest waitress so I can buy him a beer.
But his gaze cuts away and his shoulders seem to round inward in some sort of protective maneuver. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and winds his way through the crowd. I don’t think anything of it—perhaps he just wants to discourage any patrons from stopping him—but then I see him angling straight for two very large bikers standing near the bar talking to each other. Penn actually lowers his shoulder, and my mouth falls open as I see him plow into one of the guys so hard, his beer foams over.
“What the fuck, dude?” the offended customer yells, his voice rising above the bar chatter. Penn neither looks remorseful nor issues an apology, prompting the biker to shove Penn so hard, he stumbles back a step.
“Jesus Christ,” King growls and bolts from his chair so fast, it starts to tip over. I don’t see it hit the floor since I’m already pushing through the crowd, trying to make my way to Penn to protect him before something bad happens.
It never occurs to me to not rush to his aid. He’s my teammate and while he’s clearly in the wrong, I’m not going to let him get hurt no matter how badly he might deserve an ass-whooping.
Through the crowd, I see Penn’s face and the scary thing is, I don’t see a single emotion play out on it. He doesn’t look angry or chagrined. No clue as to what’s going on in his head but to my horror, he again lowers his shoulder and rushes the biker. He hits him square in the stomach, propelling him backward into a group of people sitting on stools.
All hell fucking breaks loose as the biker’s friend jumps in, taking hold of Penn by his jacket and planting his fist in my teammate’s face. Blood sprays and I push someone out of the way in my urgency to reach Penn before more damage is done.
Stevie, the pint-sized bar wonder, goes flying past me with her trusty baseball bat in hand. I’ve heard all the tales from Hendrix how it drives him batshit crazy the way she’ll jump into any fray, and now I have to worry about protecting her too.
Doesn’t matter though as someone shoves me hard to the side and Hendrix is chasing after his fiancée, managing to snatch her arm and halt her momentum.
Rafferty, King and Atlas all arrive at the same time, just as Penn swings for the biker. I don’t think to stop him, positioning myself along with my teammates to form a protective barrier around our crazed teammate.
“Enough!” Stevie shrieks, inserting herself between us and the bikers. Hendrix stands at her back, glaring daggers at anyone who might be stupid enough to take her on.
Stevie beseeches her customers. “Ernie, Sam… please, just stop. Not in my bar, okay?”
One of the bikers stabs a finger at Penn. “That fucknut started it.”
Stevie glances over her shoulder, taking in five large Titans just behind her, and Penn behind us wiping blood from his nose. “Maybe so but I’m asking you nicely to let it go. I’ll handle this.”
To my surprise, the big man merely nods at Stevie, although he shoots a hateful look toward Penn. No doubt in my mind if it weren’t for Stevie, things would have gotten very bad. The two bikers move down the bar and conversation resumes, although at a hesitant and lowered volume.
I step backward as Stevie whirls around, pushing past me to snarl at Penn. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ve suddenly determined it’s because you’re an asshole. You started that and they just defended themselves. Get out of my bar and don’t come back.”
And as if to make sure the message is clear, Hendrix puts his hand on Stevie’s shoulder, not to restrain, but to show his support. His face is livid and I’d bet a pretty penny that Hendrix would like to take a swing at the man.