Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Hockey is my life. It’s what I was born to do. That’s not ego talking, just fact—I’ve spent years honing my skills, earning my place among the elite. But talent doesn’t erase my mistakes, and no amount of success will make me forget the damage I’ve done. It’s why I keep my distance from my teammates, because if you never let anyone in, you’ll never get hurt. Or those are the lies that I tell myself.
Mila Brennan represents the darkest parts of my history. She’s a ghost I’ve tried to bury, the reminder of everything I’ve lost. When she shows up in Pittsburgh looking for me, I know nothing good will come of it, because our sins don’t stay forgotten. They fester, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and Mila’s arrival means my time is up.
The past isn’t just knocking at my door—it’s kicking it down, crumbling all the walls I’ve built around myself in the process. And when the danger comes for us both, I’m forced to do the one thing I swore I never would. Let her in
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Penn
The roar of the Titans’ crowd is just a memory as I pull into my neighborhood, the quiet hum of my sports car a far different sound than the thunderous arena I just left. Another home win, another solid performance. It should feel good, and for a while, it did. I relished the brief celebration at center ice when the last buzzer sounded, about the only time I truly bonded with my teammates.
But then it was over and I moved on, aiming to get through another day.
I roll my shoulders as I drive, working out the tension from the game. I played well tonight, which is admittedly harder than usual. It’s been a struggle keeping my head in the game lately, playing with the same cool composure I’m known for. I hate that I’ve let myself get rattled by things that should’ve been left in the past, by memories I’ve tried to bury.
And by that goddamn teddy bear last week with the card that read I remember. Do you?
Of course, I remember. There’s not a fucking day that goes by that those awful memories don’t trickle into my brain, taking over and running rampant. Sometimes, I think I might be going crazy, but then other times—like when I’m on the ice—I can let it all go. I suppose if I could play hockey twenty-four seven, I wouldn’t be so tortured, but that’s an obvious impossibility.
My driveway appears, flanked by two massive stone columns and arched steel gates, locked tight for security. I force myself to loosen the grip on my steering wheel as I come to a stop beside the electronic lock pad. My house looms in the distance, cutting through the dark thanks to the multitude of lights placed strategically around the base and in bushes. It’s done for aesthetic purposes, but it’s also a safety measure.
I haven’t invited any of my teammates over since I moved to Pittsburgh, and I wonder if they’d think it’s beautiful or that I’m overly paranoid. A suburban fortress—high walls, a locked gate, a security system that would make any billionaire proud.
Ultimately moot since I have no desire to share any part of me with them.
I roll down my window and punch the code into the electronic keypad, the security cameras blinking their silent watch. The gates swing open and I guide my car along the curved driveway, the tires whispering against the pristine pavement. My home is enormous, coming in at almost ten thousand square feet, multi-leveled and outfitted with every luxury imaginable. It’s what any wealthy professional athlete would aspire to, yet it feels like nothing more than a place to exist. The only person I ever wanted to share it with—my dad—is gone. He never got to see the peak of my success, which is a travesty because I only became as good as I am to make him proud.
The left wing of the house has a five-car garage, and I pull into the far right stall, closest to the interior entrance. The second holds my Mercedes G-Wagon, but the other three are empty. Although I could fill each bay with a high-end car, two is more than enough and some would say one more than I actually need.
I kill the engine, letting silence settle around me as I step out. The overhead lighting casts long shadows, bouncing off the sleek hood of my car. A McLaren, because why not? And the G-Wagon? I paid cash for it. My contract with the Titans is lucrative, and I’ve got nothing else to spend the money on. No family, no social life, no extravagant hobbies—just a massive house, ridiculous cars, and a career that’s the only thing keeping me sane.
I head inside, passing through the mudroom into the cavernous kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of nothing but darkness at this hour. I pull a beer from the fridge, pop the top, and take a long swig.
Congrats on a good game, Penn.
The den is my sanctuary, dark and minimalist, the large flat-screen mounted above the fireplace already tuned to ESPN. I sink into the couch, flipping to the post-game highlights, brew in hand. The ESPN anchor drones on about our win, about our offensive pressure and airtight defense, but I’m not really listening—not until I see myself on the screen.
And I fall back into the memory of a near perfect play tonight as the TV commentator drones on.
There I am, flying down the ice, legs burning but adrenaline fueling every stride. The Demons’ defense is scrambling, trying to get into position, but I see the gap before they do. Stone is charging up the left wing, Boone streaking down the right. Bain and King are holding the blue line, ready to pinch if needed, but this is mine.