Page 8 of Twisted Shot
Theo’s chest seizes like he’s just taken a puck straight to the sternum.
She turns. Sees him. Her smile brightens.
“There he is,” Mila calls, waving him over. “Theo, you antisocial nerd, get over here and save me before Jesse brags about his abs again.”
“I didn’t even bring them up this time,” Jesse says in mock offense as he shuffles over to make room.
Theo raises a hand in greeting, trying not to trip over his own feet as he approaches. He slips into the booth beside Flea, across from Mila, forcing himself to look anywhere but directly at her. He fails.
“About time, Tilly,” Jesse grins.
Theo shrugs, attempting casual. “Traffic,” he says, even though everyone knows the arena is six blocks away.
The table is a hurricane of noise—drinks clinking, voices overlapping, someone yelling about a blown call in the second period.
Mila leans in toward Jesse, eyes dancing.
“So, serious question,” she says. “How does it feel knowing you’ve officially replaced Jake as Whaler Nation’s favorite thirst trap?”
Jesse groans. “God, no. Don’t start.”
“Oh, I must.” She rests her chin in her hand like she’s settling in for a show. “Those screams when you stepped onto the ice tonight? Someone in the front row actually gasped.”
Theo focuses intently on peeling thelabel off his beer bottle, jaw working as he listens to Mila’s voice lilt as she teases Jesse. A familiar knot tightens in his chest—that sharp pang of jealousy he's gotten too good at swallowing. Jesse makes it look so effortless, the way words just flow between them, easy banter that Theo could never manage. He envies how naturally Jesse draws people in, how conversations seem to spark to life around him without any effort at all. Meanwhile, Theo can barely string together small talk without overthinking every syllable.
Flea nearly chokes on his beer. “It was like a boyband concert…except we all have minor concussions and missing teeth.”
Carter raises his glass. “Been here four years. Have not received a single bra. Not even a rogue scrunchie.”
“Grow man bun,” Pavel deadpans in his accented English, gesturing towards Jake at the other end of the booth. “Instant fanbase.”
Theo chuckles under his breath, the low hum of conversation washing over him like static. He’s half-listening to the chirping around the table, but Mila’s voice cuts through the noise.
“You were good tonight,” she says, turning to him. “Smart plays. Cool under pressure.”
Her words go down like a shot of bourbon, burning just enough to prove they’re real.
Theo knows he played well. But he’s not flashy. He’s not the guy fans scream for, or even notice most of the time. He doesn’t thread the puck between his legs or go bar-down in overtime. That’s Jesse’s game. His job is different: hold the line, break up plays, pin guys to the boards without drawing blood or penalties.
He’s the one coaches tap with a minute left and a lead to protect.
He signed with the Whalers straight out of college, knowing it was a development team. For most guys, it’s their stepping stone to the NHL. For Theo, it’s something closer to a finish line. He doesn’t need headlines or league buzz. He just wants to keep lacing up, keep doing the thing he’s built his whole damn identity around.
He clears his throat, caught between gratitude and embarrassment. “Th-thanks,” he says, his traitorous voice cracking.
Fuck.
He swallows, shifts in his seat. Triesagain. “Thanks.”
If anyone hears, they pretend they don’t.
A few people peel off after one round, Natalie and Jake among them. Jake looks vaguely uncomfortable, tugging at his collar.
“I coach half this table,” he mutters. “I’m breaking HR rules by being here.”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “You’re here to support family. That’s allowed.”
Jake kisses her temple and shoots Theo a subtle glance on his way out. “Keep them out of trouble, will you?”
