Page 115 of Twisted Shot
“Janet,” Mila says smoothly, pulling out the chair across from her. “Thanks for waiting.”
Janet offers a small, restrained smile. “Punctuality is a virtue. I don’t mind being early.”
Mila nods and settles in. The air between them is warm from the café heater, but maintains a chilly edge. She orders a coffee when the server swings by, just to have something to hold on to.
Janet’s gaze sweeps over her like a quiet evaluation. “You look well,” she says after a pause.
Mila almost snorts but bites it back. “Thank you.”
They exchange a few more pleasantries. Janet asks how Mila’s enjoying Hartford, how she enjoys working for Jaryd Hollis, how she spends her time. She compliments the way Mila handled the gala—“exquisite attention to detail,” “a touch of levity without sacrificing elegance”—praise that feels less like warmth and more like a line from a recommendation letter. Mila accepts it with a careful smile, hands curled around her cup.
But eventually, the script wears thin.
Mila sets her coffee down. “Why did you want to meet?”
Janet doesn’t flinch. She dabs the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin even though she hasn’t taken a sip of her tea. “I thought you’d be aware,” she says calmly, “that I pulled a few strings for you.”
Mila’s pulse jumps. “I am,” she says, careful and cool. “And I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Janet says, not unkindly. “I did it for Theodore.”
Her eyes sparkle as she adds, “To be honest, the board required little to no convincing. Your event was wonderful.”
Mila studies her from across the table, trying to reconcile this poised, elegant woman with whatever image she had built in her mind of Theo’s mother. Janet sits like a statue, every part of her pristine, but beneath the careful composure, something trembles. It’s there in the way her fingers lace too tightly in her lap, in the barely perceptible flicker behind her cool, assessing gaze when it finally rises to meet Mila’s.
“I miss him,” she says, quieter now. “He doesn’t visit. He never comes to family events. Hasn’t in years. He calls once a week, but it’s perfunctory. Obligatory.”
Mila doesn’t speak right away. Her first instinct is wariness—because where was this version of Janet when Theo was a teenager, desperate to be seen? When he was clawing his way through junior leagues, off the family’s radar?
“I know he keeps his distance,” Janet continues. “I imagine you know more about why than I do. I’ve made…mistakes. I could’ve been softer with him. But Theodore’s father?—”
She cuts off, shakes her head as if that might erase the memory.
“He’s a difficult man,” she says. “Always had high expectations for his sons. I deferred to him too often, I think. Now I regret that. I regret a lot of things. His speech at the gala made me realize how much we’d failed him. How he turned to hockey when his family let him down.”
Janet doesn’t cry, but there’s a brittleness to her voice now.
“I thought,” she says slowly, eyes drifting toward the window, “that now that he has someone to accompany him, he might be more inclined to spend time with us.”
Mila’s chest tightens.
She sees what Janet’s doing instantly. Though Janet’s regret and her grief may be real, Mila sees the calculation behind her words. This is her leverage.
I helped you,her words say.Now, you help me.
The implication bristles under Mila’s skin like sandpaper.
“Theo doesn’t avoid his family because he lacks company,” Mila says. “He stays away because he’s treated like a problem no one wants to deal with. You’re aware that Conrad still torments him.”
Janet’s mouth tightens, but she nods once.
“I will handle Conrad.”
It’s said simply. As if that’s all it takes. A promise born too late.
“I was hoping you might come to our family’s Fourth of July gathering,” she continues. “We’ve hosted for years. Theodore used to love running wild with his cousins on the lawn.”
“I’m Canadian,” Mila says flatly.
