Page 51 of Twisted Shot
The kid giggles, and Tristan winks. “Don’t tell my trainer.”
Tall hovers awkwardly beside a little boy in aWhalers jersey, a feeding tube taped gently beneath his nose. He looks like he’s not sure where to put his giant limbs, looming like a tree next to the brood of small children. But then, slowly, he lowers himself to one knee, until he’s at eye level.
“Here,” he says, offering his goalie stick like it’s made of glass. “You hold it like this.” He curls his massive hands around the shaft, demonstrating. “But, you know…cooler. Meaner.”
The boy copies him, tiny fingers barely spanning the grip.
Tall nods, his mouth twitching into a rare, crooked smile. “Perfect. Now you’re ready to backstop the team.”
The boy beams. The stick is almost twice his size, but he holds it like he’s ready for the NHL.
Mila watches the exchange, warmth blooming in her chest—and she realizes she’s not the only one. Naomi stands a few feet away, unusually quiet, eyes fixed on Tall with a softness in her expression that Mila doesn’t often see on her usually stone-faced, unflappable colleague.
Before she can make a joke or nudge her, her gaze drifts and finds Theo.
He hasn’t joined the fray with Jesse and the others. He’s tucked into a quieter corner of the room, crouched beside a boy in a wheelchair.
She watches for a moment, then drifts closer, curious.
“I used to come here too, you know,” Theo says gently. “I grew up not far from here. Westport.”
The boy looks up at him, wide-eyed.
Theo leans in, giving him a small smile like they’re sharing a secret. “Does the cafeteria still have those giant chocolate chip cookies? The ones that make your fingers all greasy? Those were the best.”
The boy laughs softly and says something Mila can’t quite make out. But Theo nods.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a puck, then a Sharpie from somewhere beneath the collar of his jersey. He signs the puck carefully and hands it to the kid, who is beaming.
Mila’s heart folds in on itself.
And just like that, she forgets the agenda. Forgets the bullet points on her clipboard, the timeline, even Richard’s smug face andstupid peacoat.
All she can think about is Theo’s voice.
Theo’s hands.
As the visit winds down and the room shifts again, Theo straightens and steps away from the boy. Mila catches up with him in the hallway outside the pediatric wing.
“I didn’t know you grew up near here,” she says, walking in step beside him.
Theo looks mildly startled, like he didn’t expect anyone to notice. “Uh, yeah. Westport. Not too far.”
“Do you have family nearby?” she presses. “You should bring them to one of the games. Or one of the events.”
His hand goes to the back of his neck, eyes finding the floor tiles suddenly fascinating. "Maybe. They're not big on hockey."
Silence stretches. Not the easy kind, either—the kind that makes her want to fill it with literally anything just to make it stop. And in that awkward, suffocating quiet, it hits her like a brick to the face.
Oh shit. Oh no.
That wasn't disinterest in his voice. It was the careful, practiced tone of someone who's learned exactly how to deflect without lying. She knows that tone. She'susedthat tone. When people ask about family and you'd rather talk about literally anything else because the truth is too messy, too complicated, too fucking painful to unpack in casual conversation.
She shouldn't have pushed. Shouldn't have assumed. God, she of all people should know better.
Theo’s shoulders hunch slightly, pace quickening like he’s already pulling away.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, but the words scrape out half-formed. She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for—asking, not knowing, both.
