Page 14 of Twisted Shot
“Hello?” comes a familiar voice, tentative and low.
She turns—and nearly chokes.
Theo steps into the entryway, looking like he walked out of an entirely different universe. One where people sleep eight hours and don’t wake up with mascara crusted under their eyes.
He looks immaculate in a plain black polo shirt stretched over his muscled shoulders, khaki shorts, and a baseball cap pulled low over dark, sleep-tousled hair. His golf bag is slung over one shoulder, biceps straining to grip the strap. When he shifts the heavy gear higher on his shoulder, the cuff of his sleeve rides up just enough to reveal hard, cordedmuscle and—oh.
Ink.
The edge of a tattoo curves along his tricep—something dark and intricate. Another one teases up from his collarbone, mostly hidden beneath the neckline of his shirt. It’s nothing obvious. Just a flicker. A whisper. But it makes something low and primal twist in her stomach.
Theo glances around like he’s not sure whether he’s walking into brunch or a hostage situation. Gordie Howl is losing his tiny dog mind at the invasion of guests, skittering around the kitchen, tail wagging like he’s trying to power a helicopter.
Mila, in her slept-on ponytail and borrowed hoodie that smells like beer, immediately regrets every life choice that led to her current condition. She becomes horrifyingly aware of her stained sweats and the sour taste in her mouth.
Had she even brushed her teeth?
She watches him through her lashes, trying to keep her expression neutral, unaffected.
It doesn’t work.
Her stomach drops like she's missed a step on a staircase, and she looks away too fast. Her heart starts doing this dumb fluttery thing, and she desperately wishes she could run to the guestroom and hide.
Jake’s eyes widen. “Shit. Theo. Golf.”
Theo blinks. “Uh…yeah. I texted you like thirty minutes ago.”
Jake swears under his breath. “I completely forgot. Things blew up.”
Natalie doesn’t look up from her phone. “Theo, come in. Your teammate’s trending for being licked in public.”
Theo steps further into the kitchen and sets his golf clubs down, brows lifting as he takes in Jesse slumped on a stool looking pale and guilty.
“I saw the video,” he says. “Someone, uh…put it on the team group chat.”
He says it to Jesse, but his eyes flick toward Mila briefly, making her spine straighten.
She sips her coffee, schooling her features into what she hopes looks like casual nonchalance, but burns her tongue again. Damnit.
“Theo, could you ask whoever shared it to delete it? We’re trying tostop the spread,” Mila asks, angling her face away from him, hoping he can’t smell her breath.
“Sure thing.”
Natalie looks up from her phone, her fury boiling down into a thin, lethal line aimed directly at Jesse. “I knew this would happen when you moved in with Tristan and Trayvon. You three are idiots together. You’re moving in with us.”
Jesse sits up. “What? No, I?—”
“No arguments,” Natalie snaps. “I’m done pretending you’re a functioning adult. You need curfews. A meal plan. Supervision.”
Jake sighs, clearly trying not to laugh. “Babe, he’s nineteen, not nine.”
“He’s nineteen with the brain chemistry of a Labrador,” she fires back. “He needs boundaries. And maybe a leash.”
“I am not living with you guys,” Jesse groans. “Jake makes smoothies naked at 6 a.m. and meditates to whale sounds. Plus you bang, like, all the time. I can’t be around that.”
“They’re not whale sounds, they’re healing frequencies,” Jake replies defensively. He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “But you are right about the—uh, other thing.”
Natalie turns to him, eyes sharp like daggers. “What’s the alternative? Let him keep partying until someone records him actually committing a felony? Sit by and watch him mess up his chance to make the NHL?”
