Page 24 of Twisted Shot
“The economy’s soft. Ticket sales are down, and concessions—hell, we’ve had weeks where beer sales didn’t cover the vendor payroll. No one has the cash to take their kids to hockey games anymore.”
Jim sighs, continuing. “If I’m going to make a move, I need the team looking strong. Not just on the ice, but in the seats. On paper. In perception. I need this campaign to work, Ms. Anderson. And I think you might be the one who can pull it off.”
Her mouth goes dry. “Why are you telling me this?”
He gives her a tight smile. “Because I trust you. And because Jesse does. But I’m asking you to keep it between us for now.”
Mila nods, but her stomach twists.
As she rides the elevator down alone, the truth presses down on her like an invisible hand.
Natalie and Jake had uprooted their lives for Hartford. They’d bet on stability, on community. If the Whalers vanished, where would that leave them?
And Jesse—God, Jesse was so close. One good season away from getting the call-up. He’d poured everything into this team, into this moment. What would happen if the rug got pulled out from under him now?
Her mind spins to Theo—sweet, careful Theo. Mila couldn’t picture him trying to start over in a new city, with new teammates, new dynamics. He’d retreat into himself.
Pulse pounding, she makes her way to meet a pissy-looking Richard.
She feels honored, furious, responsible, and deeply uneasy all at once.
CHAPTER 8
THEO
The puck snaps off the boards and careens toward center ice. Theo pivots hard, blades biting into the rough surface of the practice rink. His lungs burn, but it’s a good burn—the kind that reminds him he’s doing something, not sitting still in his head.
“Back up, back up! Stick out!” Jake’s voice barks from the bench.
Theo locks eyes with the forward streaking toward him—it’s Flea—reads his shoulder angle, and drops back. He doesn’t go for the puck. That’s not the job. The job is simple.
Cover this guy. Don’t let him score.
Flea tries to cut across the slot, searching for an opening, but Theo stays with him like a shadow at his hip. The pass comes, but Theo’s there first, intercepting it cleanly with a sharp tap and a pivot that sends the puck sliding harmlessly into the corner.
And for a second—a flicker—Theo feels perfect.
The whistle blows. Jake shouts for a line change, and Theo skates back to the blue line, ready to do it again. He doesn’t need to score goals or be flashy. He just needs to stop things from happening. That’s his role. That’s where he lives best.
Jake skates past, slapping Theo’s shin pad with the blade of his stick. “What, you waiting for an invitation to bury him?”
Theo grins, a quick, private smile. “Figured I’d let him think he had a chance. Keeps morale up.”
Jake snorts and keeps moving, not looking back. They’re careful like that. No eye contact, no familiarity. Not out here. Jake’s the assistant coach now. Theo’s just another guy trying to hold his place on the roster.
Still...it feels good. The joke. The moment of ease.
He wonders, not for the first time, is Jake his friend?
He’s not sure. Theo’s never had many. Not real ones. Not the kind who check in or remember his birthday or text him randomly. He has teammates, sure. People who nod and pass the puck and say good shift, man. But that’s not the same.
His older brothers used to rough him up and call it bonding. They’d laugh when he missed a hit or fumbled a pass in youth league. The sensitive one, his oldest brother called him. Among other, nastier things.
Jake doesn’t do that. Jake tells him when he screws up but doesn’t twist the knife. Sometimes he just listens. Sometimes he gives advice that isn’t about hockey.
Practice winds down with a punishing circuit of bag skates—three laps, no pucks, only lungs and legs. Theo finishes middle of the pack, dripping sweat. His thighs scream. His heart pounds. He feels incredible.
He’s tugging off his gloves and stepping into the tunnel when he sees her.
