Page 50 of Twisted Shot
“Guilty,” Jesse says, unbothered, before turning his attention to Naomi. He angles his cheeky grin at her, the one Mila swears he probably practices in the mirror. “Just say the word and I’ll make you a giraffe.”
Naomi, elegant as always in a tailored coat and killer heels, lifts one perfect brow. “You think that’s going to impress me?”
“Is it working?” he asks, flashing a dimple.
And to Mila’s shock, she actually giggles. “Ask me again after the giraffe.”
Jesse pumps his fist like he’s scored a goal. “It’s on.”
He spins away, off to cause more trouble.
Before Mila can call after him, a dry voice cuts in from behind them.
“Well. Glad to see professionalism is alive and well on this project.”
She doesn’t need to turn around to know Richard is standing there with his arms crossed, lips pursed like he’s smelled something rotten. Which, to be fair, is his default expression these days. She wonders if Ashley stopped returning his late-night booty calls. Smart girl.
She turns slowly, leveling him with a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “You know, if you hate kids this much, you could’ve stayed in Toronto.”
“I wasn’t planning to come,” he replies coolly, adjusting the sleeves of his perfectly tailored coat. “But someone should represent the company with a little...decorum.”
Naomi snorts under her breath and mutters, “Ah yes. Nothing says decorum like showing up late and pouting in a peacoat.”
Richard doesn’t blink. “There’s a difference between connecting with the community and making fools of yourselves.”
Mila smiles sweetly. “And there’s a difference between showing up andshowing up, Richard. But I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference.”
His eyes narrow—just enoughto be satisfying—but he doesn’t take the bait. Maybe because Naomi and several other firm employees are standing beside nearby, within earshot of her dragging him.
He clears his throat, mutters something under it, and stalks off toward the entrance.
Mila watches him go, jaw tight, adrenaline fizzing in her chest.
“You want me to trip him?” Naomi asks, calm as anything.
Mila exhales slowly. “No. But the offer’s noted.”
The hospital coordinator emerges, waving them in, clipboard in hand and face beaming. The players file into the brightly lit pediatric ward, some goofier than others, but all of them game to play along.
Mila hangs back near the entrance, watching it all unfold.
The kids, some in wheelchairs, others propped up in beds with IV poles trailing behind them, light up at the sight of jerseys and ridiculous costumes. There’s laughter. Grins. A few tentative waves that turn into full-on beaming.
And then the team—this chaotic, lovable crew of grown men who spend their days crashing into each other on ice—goes soft.
Jesse is the first to impress, of course. He drops to his knees beside a little girl in a princess gown and a chemo cap, bows like she’s royalty, and offers her his foam sword.
“For Her Highness,” he declares solemnly. “May your reign be long and filled with cake.”
She giggles so hard she nearly falls off her pillow, and Jesse pretends to faint dramatically at her feet.
Carter is nearby, attempting to juggle apples from a snack tray and failing spectacularly. A nurse catches one mid-air and gives him a mock scowl. Carter puts his hands up in surrender, but the kids surrounding him cheer. One boy claps and shouts, “Do it again!”
Carter grins. “I only juggle when my contract’s up.”
Tristan has somehow commandeered a stethoscope and is letting a tiny kid listen to his heartbeat through his jersey.
“Sounds strong, right?” he says seriously. “That’s from all the chicken nuggets.”
