Page 89 of Twisted Shot
Mila’s chest tightens as he trips over some of his words. She can see it now—the tiny shift in his jaw, the way his thumb rubs the edge of the cue card. He’s nervous. Not falling apart, but balancing on that edge.
“I wanted to be here anyway,” he continues, slower now. “Not just because I’m on the team, but because tonight is about two organizations that have…changed my life.”
He pauses again.
“The Whalers—and the Connecticut Children’s Hospital.”
There’s a murmur of recognition through the crowd. A few nods. One of the board members sits up straighter.
“I was diagnosed with a speech fluency disorder when I was six years old. I spent many years—more than I wanted to—being treated at this hospital. With speech therapists. Neurologists. A lot of long hallways and fluorescent lights.”
His voice catches on “neurologists,” and he breathes through it, letting the pause settle before continuing.
“If you’ve never heard the term before, it’s a stammer. Or a stutter, depending on where you’re from. So…if you were hoping for an early night…I apologize. We’re all in this together now.”
Laughter breaks out, genuine this time. A few people clap. Theo smiles, and Mila’s stomach unknots.
“It means that my brain and my mouth don’t always move at the same pace. So, sometimes, my words take the scenic route.”
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.
“It’s more common than you’d think. Around five to ten percent of children experience stuttering. Many assume it’s just something kids grow out of—but that’s not always the case. About one in every hundred adults continues to live with a stutter. And even for thechildren who do eventually outgrow it, those early years can still be filled with frustration, bullying, and the struggle of trying to be heard.”
His gaze sweeps the room and lands on Mila, searing like a brand pressed to skin.
“Stuttering isn’t about intelligence. Or confidence. It’s a difference in how some of us speak. But when you’re a kid…It can make you feel broken.”
Theo swallows.
“Growing up, talking felt like a battle. One I usually lost. But hockey…” He hesitates, his voice wavering. “Hockey gave me a way to speak without words. A way to belong. I wasn’t the kid who stammered—I was the kid who could skate backwards faster than people could run.”
He lets that sit. It’s not bragging. It’s truth.
“I loved it. Still do. The rink is the first place I felt like I belonged, where it didn’t matter if I tripped over my words. And if someone gave me crap, I could always crush them into the boards. Which was…deeply therapeutic.”
Laughter again—louder this time. Jim Pearce chuckles beside her.
Mila’s hands tighten around her glass. She’s so proud she could scream.
He keeps going.
“And that’s why tonight matters. Because the money raised tonight will help kids like me to grow up stronger, louder, and more themselves because of what this hospital gives them. And maybe—if they’re lucky—they’ll find a hockey team too.”
He looks up and offers a small smile. Nervous, but real.
“That’s why I’m proud to play for this team. And why I’m proud to stand here tonight. Not because it’s easy—but because it matters.”
The applause begins as a quiet ripple, a polite murmur of hands meeting, but it grows quickly, gathering weight and warmth until it rolls through the space like a wave breaking against the shore.
Theo lowers the mic a little, his eyes scanning the crowd, blinking slowly like he can’t quite believe it’s for him.
And Mila…
She’s frozen in place, heart caught somewhere between her ribs andher throat, a smile tugging at her mouth even as her eyes sting with tears. The emotion rises fast and hot, like a rush of sun after too long in the cold.
He didn’t just hold the room.
He cracked it open—and let them see him.
