Page 13 of Twisted Shot
“You were on top of a bar. What part of that suggested privacy?” Jake asks dryly.
Natalie throws up her hands, eyes wild with frustration.
“Jesse, this is the worst possible time for you to screw up. The league’s already under a microscope. Every week there’s another story about some asshole crossing lines they can’t uncross. And now you’re caught partying underage? Grabbing a girl’s face and shoving your tongue down her throat? Maybe she was fine with it—but on that video?”
She pauses, clicking her tongue.
“It doesn’t look good. And if it doesn’t look good, it doesn’t matter what actually happened. Consent has to be obvious, not questionable.”
“I swear she asked me to kiss her,” Jesse blurts, pulling out his phone. “Look, we’ve been texting all morning. She’s literally sending me heart emojis. You believe me, right? And, like, I didn’t even try to take her home—I Ubered home with Carter. Total gentleman vibes.”
Mila closes her eyes. She can’t let this happen. Not to Natalie, who gave up everything, and not to Jesse, who’s so close to making his dream a reality. He’s a good kid. Dumb as rocks half the time, sure, but his heart’s always been in the right place. She remembers when he was a gangly teenager in oversized hoodies, trailing behind her and Natalie like a puppy. He was too embarrassed to ask his sister about girls, so he’d pull Mila aside in the kitchen and whisper questions likeshould I text her first or will that seem desperateanddo girls actually like poetry.
God. Back then, he was all elbows and blushes and cereal crumbs—now he’s six-two and doing body shots.
Mila’s caffeine-deprived fog begins to clear, replaced by a sharp flicker of purpose. Her marketing instincts are kicking in.
“Alright,” she says, straightening. “This is what we’re doing.”
Three heads swivel to look at her.
“Natalie, find out if anyone has tagged his location. If it says the bar name, we need that scrubbed ASAP.”
“Got it,” Natalie says, already scrolling.
Jesse opens his mouth. Mila cuts him off.
“You,” she says, pointing a finger at his chest. “Call your buddies and your bunny from last night and find out who took the video. We need it taken down.”
Jesse nods, grabbing his phone. “I can do that.”
“And, you need to post. Not a Notes app apology—something human. Regretful. No excuses, but also not admitting to anything illegal. Don’t say you were drunk. Don’t say it was a mistake. You’re working with the team and being responsible moving forward.”
He frowns. “So I’m supposed to say what? Sorry for partying?”
“Try again,” she says flatly. “You’re an underage player with a spotlight the size of the sun on you. You want scouts to see ‘fun-loving winger,’ not ‘total liability off the ice.’ Got it?”
“Got it,” he mutters.
She turns to Jake. “I need you to call the team’s PR department and tell them what’s happening. Make sure no statements are made until we’ve scrubbed what we can.”
Jake looks skeptical. “We’re a development team, Mil. Our team’s PR department consists of a couple college grads who do our social media and a half-retired guy named Larry. I don’t think they’re cut out for handling a viral video.”
Mila purses her lips, thinking. “Okay, you and I will handle it. Find out if anyone from the media is sniffing around. And get me some names of the local reporters who cover the Whalers. I’ll call them myself if I have to.”
She walks to the coffee machine and fills a mug, steam curling up invitingly from the dark, life-affirming liquid. A plan is crystalizing in her head, but she’s going to need a lot of coffee.
Natalie leans beside her. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” Mila says, sipping her coffee and wincing as it burns her tongue. “But I can’t let him tank his future over tequila and TikTok. He’s worked so hard. You both have worked so hard.”
Jesse groans, slumping into a chair. “I hate this.”
“You should,” Natalie says, shooting him an icy glare. “You’re lucky Mila’s here and not a lawyer.”
Mila closes her eyes, breathing in coffee and panic, and braces for the next thing to go wrong.
As if on cue, a knock rattles the front door, followed by a slow creak as it swings open.
