Page 54 of Twisted Shot
Conrad. The Tilbury family’s heir. Their golden boy.
Theo loathes him—deeply, viscerally, like an infection he can’t shake.
Conrad doesn’t overshadow him; he suffocates him.
Everything Theo does, Conrad has already done—louder, faster, better, according to their parents.
And God help him, the man never lets him forget it.
“And you?” she asks finally, but it doesn’t sound like curiosity. More like a checkpoint. “Still playing hockey?”
His chest tightens. “Yeah. Still playing.”
He swallows the words he wants to say to her. That he loves hockey. That it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.
“You’re keeping up with your treatment?” she asks briskly. But it’s not a question, it’s a statement. A condition of his staying in Hartford.
“Yes, mom,” he replies dutifully. “I meet with her once a week.”
“Well, I should let you go,” she says. “I have a charity dinner to change for. And you probably have...training. Or weights. Or whatever it is you do to stay enormous.”
He forces a chuckle. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Until next week, Theodore.”
Just like that, the line goes dead.
Theo lingers in the parked truck, fingers still locked around the steering wheel, watching the low gray sky press down over a stretch of oaks and maples. Their leaves, burnt orange, deep red, brilliant gold, clutter the lawns and curl along the edges of cracked sidewalks, the whole street looking like it’s bracing for winter.
His brothers fly private and get written about in Forbes.
He signs pucks and plays dress-up for sick kids.
And yet, when that boy looked at him yesterday—like Theo was someone cool, someone worth looking up to—it made the rest of it fade.
He presses his forehead to the steering wheel and lets himself breathe, long and slow.
He reaches for his phone again.
And without letting himself think too hard, he types a message to the only person who doesn’t make him feel like he’s a disappointment.
CHAPTER 19
MILA
The suite in the Whalers’ arena shines like a dreamscape of hockey joy. Twinkle lights drip from the windows, streamers and balloons in Whalers green and navy hang from the ceiling, and a banquet table once meant for executives now overflows with chicken fingers, mac and cheese, mini sandwiches, and ice cream bars. It’s not fancy, but it’s perfect.
Mila moves through the space like she’s hosting a wedding. She checks the food, adjusts the name tags, smiles at the parents, the nurses, the volunteers. All of them glowing under the soft, warm lights. It’s the evening she’d hoped to create when she pitched the campaign.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket like a secret.
Man in Black
I miss you. Say something reckless.
Mila bites her lip.
His words feel like warm fingers tracing the inside of her thigh. She shouldn’t be texting him. Not here. Not while she’sworking. It’s unprofessional. Reckless. And somehow...completely impossible to resist.
