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)
The silence he leaves behind is heavy. No one says anything at first, all of us exchanging uncertain glances. Finally, Coach claps his hands, breaking the spell. “All right, enough gawking. Get your heads back in the game.”
Reluctantly, we all return to our gear, but the vibe feels different now—charged with unease. Foster, Rafferty, Atlas and I continue to dress in silence.
After a few minutes, Atlas stands, his curiosity getting the better of him. “I’m gonna look.”
“Atlas, don’t,” Rafferty warns, but Atlas is already at the trash can, fishing out the card.
He opens it, his brow furrowing as he reads aloud: “I remember. Do you?”
A chill runs through me, and I glance at Rafferty and Foster, both of whom look equally confused.
“What the hell does that mean?” Foster asks, his voice low.
“Beats me,” Atlas says, staring at the card like it might offer more answers. “But whatever it is, it’s got Penn spooked.”
“Fuck… I’m spooked,” Foster mutters.
Rafferty shakes his head, pulling on his gloves. “We should leave it alone. If he wants to talk about it, he will.”
Foster doesn’t look convinced, but he eventually nods. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Still, the tension lingers as we head out of the locker room, ready to hit the ice for warm-ups. My thoughts drift back to Penn, to the look on his face when he read that card. I don’t know what it means, but clearly it’s something big.
Something possibly scary.
As I step onto the ice, I resolve to keep an eye on him. Whatever’s going on, he’s carrying it alone and no one should have to do that. Certainly not one of my teammates.
♦
The whistle shrieks, signaling a line change, and I shift uneasily on the bench as Penn’s line takes the ice. He skates out, his movements sharp but somehow lacking that usual fire that makes him unstoppable. Boone and Stone flank him on the wings, while King and Bain settle into their defensive positions. Drake stands ready between the pipes, tapping his stick against the post.
I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder at Farren. She’s just a few rows back, and every time I return to the bench from my line shift, I sneak a quick look her way. She’s usually perched on the edge of her seat, her Titans jersey draped loosely over her frame. She’s fully immersed in the game, cheering at the top of her lungs. One time she caught me looking and blew me a kiss, and I was smiling as I plopped down on the wood. She’s wearing her brother’s jersey, but it does feel like she’s cheering just for me. Can’t tell you the why of it, but if I didn’t think it would freak her out so bad, I’d buy her a sweater with my name on the back.
My attention stays on the ice though as Penn’s line presses into the offensive zone. Boone digs the puck out of the corner, battling two Vipers players and kicking it out to Penn. He picks it up cleanly, but instead of his usual precision pass or shot, he hesitates, fumbling with the puck just a second too long. The opposing center swoops in, stealing it right off his stick, and Penn skates after him, his jaw tight with frustration.
“What the hell is going on with him?” Foster worries beside me, leaning forward with one gloved hand on the short wall.
“Don’t know,” I reply, watching as Bain manages to block the rush, bailing Penn out. “I’m guessing that mysterious teddy bear has him rattled.”
The puck circles back to Penn a moment later as Boone and Stone hustle into position. Penn surveys the ice but makes a sloppy pass that doesn’t even come close to Boone. It slides harmlessly into the neutral zone, and Boone throws a frustrated glance over his shoulder as he chases it down. The crowd murmurs, the unease palpable. This is not the Penn Navarro they’re used to seeing.
The Vipers regroup, pressing hard, and Penn seems a step behind the play. Then it happens.
Bain moves the puck up to Stone, who sends a crisp pass across the blue line to Penn. He catches it, but instead of moving up ice, he skates laterally, right into pressure. The Vipers’ defenseman reads him like a book, stripping him of the puck and launching a counterattack.
Penn’s left flat-footed and the Vipers streak down the ice in a two-on-one against King, who does his best to cut off the passing lane. It’s not enough. A perfect pass threads between King’s legs, and the Vipers winger fires a one-timer past Drake. The red light flashes, and the crowd groans.
“Jesus Christ,” Atlas mutters from the bench, shaking his head. “What is going on with him?”
Penn skates slowly toward the bench, his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Boone slams his stick against the boards, and Stone yells something that gets lost in the noise of the arena. Coach doesn’t say a word as Penn drops onto the bench, his expression dark and unreadable.