Page 4 of Twisted Shot
“Exactly,” Natalie says. “And you still haven’t met Gordie Howl.”
The corners of her mouth tug upward for the first time all night. “I am not calling your dog Gordie Howl.”
“Why not? That’s his name.”
“Was his name your idea or Jake’s?”
“A little bit of both,” she says, clearly proud. “The writer in me can never resist a pun, and Jake finally fulfilled his life’s ambition of scoring a Gordie Howe hat trick last season. It felt...destined.”
“Poor puppy never stood a chance.”
Mila sighs dramatically, but her heart’s already halfway to her best friend. “I can’t just drop everything and leave, you know.”
Natalie doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ve got nothing to drop. Your ex is trash, your job is half remote, and your cat hates you.”
“First of all,” Mila says, indignant, “Wednesday does not hate me. She’s just discerning. Like a moody art critic who only shows affection twice a year, and only if you’ve earned it.”
“You’re the same person.”
Mila smirks. “Exactly. That’s why we get along.”
Natalie’s not wrong. She rarely is. They’ve been inseparable since they were six, ever since Natalie accidentally nailed Mila in the face with a dodgeball during gym class then cried harder than Mila did. Back then, Natalie was all elbows and wild pigtails, and Mila was all sass and scraped knees. Mila practically grew up in the Mitchell house, eating their food, hogging their couch, and getting scolded by Natalie’s mom like she was another one of her kids.
When Natalie’s parents died six years ago, she felt like she lost a piece of her own family.
“But are you sure Jake is okay with me crashing?” Mila asks,flicking on her turn signal. “Isn’t this a big deal for him? His first game behind the bench instead of sitting on it…”
“Totally,” she says. “Jake will be too busy to care. And Jesse will be thrilled.”
Mila is quiet for a moment, considering.
“Alright, I give. I’ll drive down tomorrow.”
“Perfect! I’ll have the guest room ready for you,” Natalie says. “I’m glad you’re coming. It wouldn’t be a proper Whalers game without you yelling deeply inappropriate things at the players.”
Mila laughs again, and it’s like she’s shaking off a hundred and eighty pounds of Richard-shaped disappointment.
“Text me when you get home, troublemaker,” Natalie says.
She hangs up, still smiling, the dark country roads stretching out ahead of her full of promise.
CHAPTER 2
MILA
There’s something about a packed arena at a home opener that hits like a shot of espresso to the soul. The lights go down, the crowd rises up, and the bass drops to nightclub-level throbbing. Smoke machines hiss from the entrance to the player’s tunnel and the announcer’s voice rumbles through the arena as if he’s about to introduce royalty.
It’s so melodramatic, and Mila adores every second of it.
“I love this part,” she shouts over the thumping music.
Natalie grins beside her, radiant in one of Jake’s old jerseys with the sleeves rolled up. “It’s opening night. Go big or go home.”
She takes a swig of her beer as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. “Introducing this year’s Hartford Whalers.”
The crowd cheers as the players begin skating out one by one—no helmets, faces lit by the spotlight.
“At right wing, introducing number nineteen, Jesse Mitchell!”
