Page 118 of Twisted Shot
All he wants now is her.
He steps out into the hallway, bag slung over one shoulder, the low hum of celebration still echoing behind him.
Mila stands just beyond the ropes, next to Natalie, number fourteen stretched over her slender back like it belongs there. Because it does.
The second she sees him, she launches. He catches her mid-air, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Arms locked tight around her waist, her legs around his hips, her face buried in his neck.
Christ, he wants to keep her here forever.
She leans in, mouth brushing his ear. “Is this okay?”
She doesn’t need to say what she means. He already knows.
He glances past her, and sure enough—his mother and Quentin. Standing just behind Natalie like shadows misplaced in a dream. His mother’s in a long coat, hair flawless, expression hesitant. In a sea of Whalers merch, they look alien. But Theo doesn’t care. Not tonight.
He nods.
“It’s okay.”
She squeezes him tighter, breath warm against his skin. Then she slides down, feet hitting the floor again, and Theo turns to face them.
“Mom. Q.”
Janet gives a small smile. “You were…” Her voice catches for half a second. She clears her throat. “Very impressive.”
Quentin chuckles. “Honestly? You’re kind of terrifying.”
Theo smirks. “Good.”
“I’m serious,” Quentin adds, grinning now. “I think a puck screamed and moved out of your way once.”
Before Theo can reply, a voice pipes up from somewhere to the left.
“Hey! Hey, Tilbury!”
He turns to see a group of kids pushing forward, markers and hats and programs in their hands. Their faces are paintedgreen and blue, and they're barely containing themselves—all fidgety energy and wide grins like they might combust from sheer excitement.
“Can we get your autograph? That block in the second was sick!”
Theo blinks. “Yeah. Sure.”
He kneels, signs his name with quick, practiced flicks. Takes photos. Knocks knuckles with one of the boys who’s practically shaking. One of the girls tells him she wants to be a defenseman “just like you,” and it punches him straight in the gut, all soft and brutal and unexpected.
When he stands, his mother is watching him.
And her eyes—always so sharp, so distant—are glassy. Rimmed red.
“I’m glad she invited me,” she says softly. “Mila.”
Theo’s throat tightens. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The words jam up somewhere behind his ribs.
“I’m proud of you, Theodore,” she adds.
Then she presses a gloved hand to his arm, light as snow, and steps back into the crowd.
Theo finds Mila again—waiting just a step behind, steady as ever. She raises an eyebrow as he reaches for her hand. “So,” she says, mouth tilted in that sideways grin that undoes him, “what now, number fourteen?”
He squeezes her fingers, pulling her closer. “You tell me.”
