Page 119 of Twisted Shot
“You need rest,” she says, mock-serious. “The playoffs are coming.”
Theo leans in, murmuring low into her ear.
“We won’t be resting.”
She laughs, breathless, blushing, and lets herself be led through the crowd.
They walk through the parking lot, hand in hand, the night cool around them, the stars quiet witnesses. The hum of celebration fades behind them. The weight of pressure, expectation, feels far away.
For the first time in his life, the words do not twist themselves into knots behind his teeth, do not clog the back of his throat like stones he cannot swallow, do not collapse under the weight of shame.
They rise, clean and quiet, unburdened by fear, not clawing to be spoken but content to exist in the steady rhythm of his breathing, inthe way his hand curls around hers, in the simple fact that she is here.
There is no battle raging in his chest, no silent scream behind his ribs, no sharp edge pressing against his lungs with every breath he takes.
There is only her.
Only this.
And for once, the strange, foreign, quietly staggering feeling swelling in his chest is not rage or guilt or duty, but something far more terrifying in its simplicity.
He is happy.
And for the first time, it is enough.
EPILOGUE
The sun is shining like it got paid to be here. Maybe it did. Theo wouldn’t put it past Conrad to bribe the weather.
Theo stands on the edge of the immaculately trimmed green, golf shoes biting into flawless grass, surrounded by chirping birds and the quiet hush of swaying pines.
He wants to beanywhereelse.
The course is luxury—five-star fairways, hand-stitched leather seats on the carts, locker rooms that smell like cedar. Normally, this is his sanctuary. Golf is one of the few off-ice obsessions that actually soothes him. But today? Not so much.
Jake stands beside him, whistling cheerfully, leaning on his driver like he doesn’t have a single care in the goddamn world.
“You’re way too happy,” Theo spits out, adjusting his glove with unnecessary violence. He’s been tripping over his words all morning, tied in knots with anxiety over having to spendhourswith his oldest brother.
Jake shrugs. “The sun’s out. The course is mint. Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
Theo glares sideways. “It will be.”
Jake chuckles, but there’s something behind his eyes. A glint.
“I already want to punch him,” Theo grits out as they round the path toward the clubhouse. “And I haven’t even seen his face yet.”
“Just hang on,” Jake says, smiling to himself.
That tone. Theo narrows his eyes. “Hang on for what?”
Conrad Tilbury waits outside the clubhouse in mirrored sunglasses and a smirk that makes Theo’s knuckles itch. He’s flanked, thankfully, by Quentin—cool as ever, leaning against the railing in a charcoal-gray quarter zip, coffee in hand, sunglasses perched like a crown.
Conrad gives a mocking, low whistle. “Look at you. Didn’t realize the AHL paid enough for you to afford clubs like that.”
Jake grabs Theo by the sleeve before he can respond. “Down, boy.”
Quentin steps between them smoothly, offering Theo and Jake fist bumps. “He’s already had two mimosas. Lower your expectations.”
