Page 56 of Twisted Shot
They reach the tunnel before warm-ups. The players filter in, already in gear, pads creaking, skates clacking against the rubber flooring.
“Who wants a goal tonight?” Jesse booms, arms wide.
Every tiny hand shoots into the air.
“I’ll get one for each of you!” he declares, grinning like a kid himself. “Okay, wait—how many of you are there? Ten? Eleven? Okay, maybe a few of you are sharing, but still. I got you.”
Carter ambles over, giving each kid a fist bump. “Let’s get it! I want to hear you cheering all the way down on the ice.”
Pavel lets a toddler try on his helmet. Laughter bubbles up everywhere.
Tall turns the corner, a hulking presence in full goalie gear, blocking half the tunnel like a sentient refrigerator.
“Barely fits in the tunnel,” Naomi mutters. “I swear he’s blocking out the sun.”
One of the kids stares up at Tall, slack-jawed. “Is he a robot?”
Tall bends down and fist bumps him with exaggerated care. “Yes.”
Naomi snorts. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Tall glances at her, eyes crinkling behind his mask. “Careful, Short Stack. From down there, everything probably looks impressive.”
Mila doesn’t catch Naomi’s comeback. She’s already looking past them at Theo, hanging back near the wall, helmet off, hair still damp from pre-skate.
She watches as he crouches balancing on his haunches to greet the boy in the wheelchair. The same one from the hospital.
“Hey, man,” he says softly. “You made it.”
The boy beams as Theo bumps his fist.
“You ready to see us win?”
The boy nods so hard his glasses slip. Theo adjusts them gently.
Mila’s chest aches in that quiet, complicated way it always doesaround Theo. The way he’s so gentle when no one’s watching. The way he feels everything and hides it like it’s dangerous to let it show.
The kids cheer as the players file out toward the ice, the music swelling to its usual pulsing intro.
Theo glances back, right at her.
His gaze lingers. Long enough to make her pulse skip. There’s something taut in his eyes. For a split second, Mila wonders if it’s the adrenaline of the game coursing through him…or something else entirely.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the tunnel, his broad frame disappearing into the roar of the game.
Mila stays rooted for a second longer than she should, hand in her pocket, thumb brushing over the text she didn’t reply to.
The arena is a beast. Not just loud—alive, snarling, and hungry. Its pulse pounds in time with thousands of stomping feet and clapping hands, its roar swelling and breaking with the crowd’s frenzy.
An air horn shrieks nearby, sharp enough to make Richard flinch, Naomi nearly snorting her wine laughing.
The Whalers are up against the Syracuse Storm, and it’s been brutal from the opening whistle. There’s a hum of old rivalry in the air, crackling louder than the speakers. Every hit against the boards gets a cheer. Every miss has the crowd groaning in unison. Mila doesn’t need to understand line changes or zone entries to know one thing: this game is war.
And the kids? They’re eating it up.
A little girl in pigtails stands on her chair, shrieking every time Jesse touches the puck. One of the older boys is yelling “Rip it!” at the top of his lungs while swinging his foam finger like a sword.
Mila sits with Naomi at the back of the bank of seats, eyes scanning the ice for Theo.
