Page 6 of Twisted Shot
They cheer their way through the rest of the lineup, with Mila cat-calling the familiar names with gusto. Tristan Fleisher, also known as Flea, milks his entrance like a rockstar. Slovak defenseman Pavel Pekar glides out with his trademark stoicism. Then comes team jokester Trayvon Carter, who once convinced her that a shot of pickle juice could cure heartbreak. (It didn’t. But it did burn impressively.)
There are fresh faces, too. A rookie with wide eyes and a nervous grip onhis stick, Jean-Paul Bélanger looks like he should still be sitting in a high school algebra class rather than lacing up for professional hockey. There’s a new goalie, Garrett Tall, whose name feels less like a coincidence and more like a prophecy fulfilled. He looms in the net with the wingspan of a commercial airliner.
“That guy’s enormous!” Mila squeals, grabbing Natalie’s arm.
“Jake says he played in college.” She grins and puts on a fake baritone. “He’s got real potential.”
The announcer’s voice swells with pride.
“And now—behind the bench for his first game as assistant coach—Jake MacDonald!”
The arena explodes.
Jake steps forward, raising a hand to acknowledge the crowd. His navy sports coat pulls snug across his broad shoulders, and his golden hair is pulled back into a low, clean ponytail. He looks serious. Composed. Every bit the coach he’s become and not the bruiser he used to be.
Natalie’s up on her feet, clapping like her hands are on fire, eyes sparkling, utterly in love. Mila bumps her hip.
“You’re such a hockey wife.”
She beams, not even trying to deny it. “I know. I’ve become one of those bunnies we used to make fun of.”
“Honestly? It looks good on you.”
The game starts, and Mila remembers how much she enjoys watching hockey. The sound of blades cutting ice, the thunk of the puck hitting the boards, the surge of the crowd rising and falling like a living thing. Jesse’s flying—fast, aggressive, laser-focused. Every time he touches the puck, the fans lean in. Every shot, every pass, feels like something might happen.
“He’s killing it,” Mila says during a shift change.
Natalie nods proudly. “He’s hungry this year.”
Mila settles back into her seat, letting it all wash over her. The cold air, the scent of popcorn and beer, the scraping sound of skates carving across the rink. There’s something comforting about it, like slipping into a favorite hoodie. She fled to Hartford to escape herlife, but here, in the presence of people she loves, she feels like she’s come back to herself.
Midway through the third, with the score locked, Theo cuts across the slot and strips the puck clean from an opposing forward, his stick quick and sure. In the same breath, he threads a sharp pass up the ice to Jesse, who catches it in stride and takes off like he’s been fired from a cannon. The crowd surges to its feet in one long, collective inhale as he barrels over the blue line, dances around the last defender, and snaps the puck top shelf as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, sending it sailing into the net.
The placeexplodes. Jesse throws his arms up, grinning like a maniac as Theo and his teammates mob him at the glass. Natalie’s screaming. Mila’s screaming. Somewhere, she thinks a beer gets flung into the air.
By the final buzzer, the Whalers take it 3–2, and Jesse’s the undeniable star of the night—one goal, one assist, and one cocky wink at the camera.
“C’mon, we’ll celebrate at Huckleberry’s,” Natalie says, as they make their way through the crowd.
CHAPTER 3
THEO
The best part of winning? The locker room after. Always.
A chaotic sprawl of gear, tape, and half-naked bodies steeped in sweat. Music thumps from someone’s speaker—probably Carter’s—too loud and way too heavy on the bass. Half the team is still in various states of undress, jerseys flying into the laundry bin for the trainers to collect.
Jesse stands triumphantly on the bench, holding up a hot pink bra like he’s hoisting the Stanley Cup.
“Tell me I imagined that,” Carter says, squinting at the lace dangling from Jesse’s fingers.
“Nope,” Jesse grins, spinning it on one finger. “Section 108. She launched it like a slingshot. Nearly took out Tilly.”
He gestures toward Theo, who ducks his head, heat creeping up his neck.
The guys erupt.
Flea, with a towel slung low on his hips, cackles. “It’s the curls, man. You’ve got slutty hair.”
