Page 57 of Twisted Shot
He’s a wall tonight, playing with laser focus, shutting down passes before they happen, stripping pucks with quiet precision, and skating backward like he wasborn to do it.
He doesn’t chirp. Doesn’t showboat.
Every time the Storm try to break through center ice, Theo’s there—silent, surgical, clean. When he drops to one knee to block a slap shot late in the second, the entire suite gasps.
Naomi nudges her, voice dry as she sips from a generous pour of red wine. “Babe, you’re staring.”
Mila scoffs. “I’m watching the game.”
“You’re mentally undressing the guy wearing number fourteen. There’s a difference.”
She bites her lip. Busted.
Naomi narrows her eyes. “You still don’t know if it’s him, do you? Your masked man?”
Mila hesitates. She can’t explain it, but she still suspects Theo, despite his general allergy to talking.
“Girl. You’re not exploiting the most obvious plot hole in your entire slow-burn love story.”
Mila crosses her arms. “Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”
“Text him,” Naomi says, grinning like a Disney villain. “Right now. While Theo’s on the ice. If he texts back, it’s not him. If he doesn’t? Game over.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“It feels efficient,” Naomi counters, eyes sparkling. “This isn’t Jane Austen. It’s 2025 and you’re holding the truth in your literal hand. Use it.”
Mila sighs and starts to type.
You look good tonight.
Her thumb hovers oversendlike she’s about to detonate a bomb. Which, let’s be honest, she kind of is.
Naomi leans over, practically draping herself across Mila’s armrest. “Do it. Before you wimp out.”
Mila groans. “Why am I listening to you?”
“Because I’m right.” Naomi takes another sip of wine, utterly unbothered.
Mila hitssendbefore she can stop herself, heart leaping into her throat. The little bubble disappears, and suddenly she feels lightheaded. Like she’s waiting for the universe to call her bluff.
Nothing.
No dots. No reply. Just silence.
Her pulse pounds as she stares at the ice, transfixed. Theo is skating hard, and when he delivers a clean hit along the boards, the impact reverberates through her ribs.
Naomi, of course, is already bouncing in her seat like a kid at a magic show. “Oh my God. This is it. This is our smoking gun.”
“Or,” Mila mutters, clutching her phone like it might spontaneously explode, “he’s just…busy.”
Naomi waves a dismissive hand. “Details. Babe, he’s not texting back because he can’t. Which means your masked admirer is absolutely Theo.”
Mila chews her lip, a giddy nervousness fizzing in her chest. Half of her wants to believe it—wants to believe the shy, stoic man on the ice is the same one who writes to her like she’s the center of the universe. The other half? Terrified she’s about to end up the sad heroine in a bad rom-com, the kind who mistakes eye contact for destiny and then has to move to Bali to find herself.
“Naomi,” she whispers, “if I’m wrong?—”
“Then I’ll buy you three margaritas and a plate of nachos the size of your face. But if I’m right?” Naomi smirks, wicked and triumphant. “You’re basically living in a fanfic, babe. Enjoy it.”
