Page 70 of Twisted Shot
She freezes, caught off guard.
He straightens slowly and turns to her, his hazel eyes fierce, like a storm rolling in across still water.
“You don’t have to pretend it’s fine,” he says. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“You do.” The words snap out, sharp and fast. “Everyone does. It’s fine when I’m blocking shots or smashing someone into the boards. But the second I can’t talk like everyone else, it-it-it’s?—”
His voice cracks, and he doesn’t fight it.
“—It’s different.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “People look at me like I’m broken.”
Her heart twists as he stumbles over the words, fighting to get them out.
“Theo…” It comes out too soft, too helpless. She doesn’t know how to touch this without breaking it further. And God, she wants to—wants to reach in and pull him back from the darkness, to embrace him and tell him everything will be okay.
“No one thinks you’re broken,” she says firmly, each syllable deliberate, carrying more certainty than she has ever felt. “Least of all me.”
“I do,” he says thickly. “I think it every time I open my mouth and someone stares. Every time I try to say something and it won’t come out. It was stupid of me to think I c-could?—”
He cuts off, jaw clenched so hard she can see the muscle twitching in his cheek. “That I am anything more than the guy who plays hard and shuts up.”
“You’re not stupid,” she says, stepping closer. “And I’m sorry. I included you in the shoot because you’re one of the best players on the team. Because fans love you. Because you matter.”
He doesn’t answer.
“And because I...” Her voice wavers. “I wanted to keep seeing you. I wanted a reason to be around you.”
That gets him. His eyes snap to hers, sharp with surprise. For a split second, the tension in his jaw falters, and a flicker of vulnerability slips through, unguarded and aching, like he’s been caught without armor. It cuts through the frustration etched into his brow, softening the hard lines of his face.
But then it’s gone.
His gaze cools. The wall slams back into place, like he never let her see through it at all.
“You shouldn’t do that.”
Her throat tightens. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t be who you need,” he says. “I c—c—c?—”
He winces. His face twists—not in embarrassment, but frustration. He squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s trying to push the whole moment out of existence.
“I’m not that guy. The one who charms the room and says the right things. I’ll never be smooth. I’ll never be easy. I can’t be that for you. And I can’t be that for them.”
Something shifts in her chest. That last word feels like a key turning in a locked door.
“For who?” she whispers.
He lets out a laugh, but it’s bitter, hollow. “My family.”
His hand scrapes down his face. When he speaks again, the words spill out as if he’s been holding them back for years.
“My mom runs foundations and chairs boards. My brothers run venture capitalist funds and consult on TED talks or whatever the hell they’re doing this week. One of them’s on the cover of a business magazine this month. I can’t even remember which one. And my father—” He breaks off. “I don’t talk about my father.”
Mila stays silent. The air feels brittle between them, like anything louder than a breath might shatter it.
“They all treat me like a fluke,” he says. “Like I should be grateful they still remember my name. I’m the family hobby. The dumb one who bleeds for league minimum instead of networking over golf.”
