Page 113 of Twisted Shot
He drags the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, the muscles across his back and shoulders stretching, and Mila watches him with open appreciation, her gaze tracing every line.
“Big game tonight,” Mila says, trying to keep her voice light.
Theo shrugs, casual on the surface, but she’s not buying it. His jaw’s set a little too tight. Shoulders tense beneaththe fabric of his shirt. He’s calm, yeah, but it’s that wired calm. The kind that comes before a storm.
“It’s the last game,” she muses. “You win, you’re in. First playoff shot for the team in what—seven years?”
“Something like that,” he mutters.
“You’ve got this.”
Theo pauses at the foot of the bed, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. She watches the weight settle on his shoulders—top D-man, assistant captain, the one the rookies follow without question. But it’s not ego behind his eyes. It’s responsibility.
“It’s not just me out there,” he says. “But yeah…I think we do.”
The silence stretches for a moment. Mila sees his entire season in it, full of the bruises, the losses, the blood on his knuckles and tape around his ribs. All of it leading here.
“Tilly!” Jesse’s voice bellows from somewhere down the hall. “We’re gonna be late, man! Let’s go!”
Theo groans. “Unreal.”
Mila lets out a delighted squeal. “Did Jesse beat you to the door?”
“He’s getting cocky,” Theo grumbles. “It’s disgusting.”
He leans over the bed and kisses her—really kisses her this time. Slow. Certain. Like he wants to stay, if only for a second longer. She tastes mint on his tongue and feels the warmth of skin just out of the shower. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes her cheek, soft and deliberate.
“I’ll text you after morning skate,” he murmurs. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“You know I won’t.”
Another yell from Jesse. Another curse from Theo under his breath. He lingers a second longer, eyes dragging over her bare shoulders, messy hair, the faintest bruise on her collarbone.
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the room is quiet again, except for the hum still beneath her skin.
Mila curls up in one of Theo’s barstools in nothing but his hoodie, spooning mouthfuls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into her mouth like it’s a religion. Cold oat milk. Perfect crunch. Her thighs are sore, her abs ache from whatever twisted angle Theo pulled her into last night, and her entire body is one long, warm hum of satisfaction.
She didn’t mean to snoop this morning when she wandered downstairs looking for coffee with bed head and bruises in places she shouldn’t love so much. Then she opened the pantry.
And froze.
Five boxes. Five. Perfectly lined up. Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Nut Cheerios, and Raisin Bran. The Raisin Bran felt like a peace offering to adulthood. But the rest? Those were hers. Her childhood favorites. Her current favorites.
Even the milk—oat, almond, soy—all shoved to one side in the fridge like a private cereal buffet waiting for her. He didn’t make a show of it. She’s here, and so is the cereal, which makes it more intimate than anything he said to her last night when he was whispering filthy things into her neck.
She crunches another bite, smiling to herself like a complete idiot, and props her feet on the lower rung of the stool. There’s sunlight pouring through the windows, catching dust in the air, and she feels strangely at home. Like maybe she woke up in a different version of her life, one where it’s allowed to be easy.
The buzz of her phone across the counter shatters the quiet.
She glances at the screen, still chewing, and freezes.
Tilbury.
Her stomach drops. She swipes the screen, her brow furrowing in confusion. He’s supposed to be on the ice right now. Morning skate. Pre-game prep. There’s no reason he should be calling.
She answers. “Hello?”
