Page 67 of Twisted Shot
Theo chokes, almost inhaling his own tongue. “Lines? What lines?”
Naomi riffles through a stack of index cards and hands him two marked with his name. “These lines. Short and sweet.”
She pauses, and Theo feels her eyes rake over him, starting at his white sneakers. They climb—slowly—up his legs, linger far too long at his chest, and keep going. By the time she meets his eyes again, there’s a mischievous spark dancing there. “Though I can’t say the same about you.”
Theo’s ninety percent sure he just got appraised like produce at a grocery store, but there’s no room in his brain to dwell. He grips the cards, his heart pounding. The lust and elation from last night are extinguished, snuffed out like a bucket of sand on a campfire. A familiar, coiled pressure builds in his chest, wrapping around his ribs like iron bands. He hadn’t prepared for this. He would’ve practiced. Rehearsed. Quietly, alone, for hours.
He swallows hard, trying to play it cool, but his jaw locks tight, the muscle twitching beneath the skin.
And Mila notices.
Her smile falters the tiniest bit.
“You okay?” she asks gently. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just be yourself.”
That’s the problem.
He’s not sure he can do that, not when people are watching.
Not without screwing it up. Not without revealing every jagged edge he’s spent years hiding.
He nods too fast, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over her shoulder. “Yeah. Fine.”
The lie tastes metallic.
Before she can press—or worse, pity him—he turns. Fast. Shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His fingers curl into fistsaround the cue cards.
His breath comes quicker now, shallow. Each step toward the dressing room feels heavier, like he’s dragging his entire history behind him.
He hears Naomi’s voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. “Oh my word, the heat. The way he looks at you? Like he’s one wrong thought away from pinning you to the wall.”
Theo doesn’t catch Mila’s reply. He’s already spiraling, a low roar building in his head.
She saw him on camera last night. Naked, open, mask on but heart exposed. And still, it’s this. The unmet expectations. The pretending that he’s not poor, fucked up Theo.
Being the Man in Black is easy.
Being himself?
That’s the part that terrifies him.
Theo sits on the edge of the bench in front of his stall, jersey on, a cue card clenched between both hands. He’s read the two lines at least fifteen times. Out loud. Silently. With his mouth barely moving. Still, his pulse won’t slow.
Across the room, the energy is rising. Laughter bounces off the concrete and tile; the soft thunk of locker doors opening and closing fills the space like a heartbeat.
Carter walks in, all swagger and shit-eating grin, tossing his gear bag down with a dramatic thud.
Across the room, Tall lifts his tattooed knuckles for Carter to fist bump.
“Thank God,” he says. “I was worried the promo vid was gonna look like a catalog for a suburban prep school.”
Carter grins, casting his eyes around the room. “You mean Jesse? Or Prince Theo over there?”
“Hey!” Jesse shouts, scandalized. “I’m not suburban. I’m a country boy. Totally different vibe.”
Theo should laugh. Any other day, he probably would. But rightnow, sound distorts around him, warped and distant, like the world’s moving above the surface and he’s stuck underwater.
His hands are sweating. The cue card is smudged from where he’s gripped it too hard.
