Chapter 22
THEO
Theo’s grip on the passenger-side door handle tightens as Jesse takes another corner like they’re late for a playoff game. Which they are not. Not even close.
They’re headed to the rink for a promo shoot, which means there’s no gear, no adrenaline, no game-day tunnel vision to hide behind.
Just cameras. And Mila.
Heat twists in his gut, winding tighter with every breath.
The ride to the rink with Jesse hasn’t helped. Jesse’s energy is on full tilt, singing along to the radio while double-fisting an energy drink and a banana muffin.
“Today’s gonna be sick,” Jesse says between bites. “Promo shoot means early release. We film, we bounce, maybe hit Moe’s for tacos. Easy.”
Theo stares out the window, barely hearing him. The city rolls past in a blur of dreary gray. His knee bounces once, twice, before he pins it down with a palm. His fingers are still twitching.
Mila will be there today.
And after last night…
He can’t stop seeing her.
The image is carved into his soul—Mila, in her hotel room, laid out on the bed like a fucking dream. Her hair wild, her skin flushed.
He watched her unravel for him, hips rolling, thighs trembling, mouth falling open in the most beautiful fucking sounds he’s ever heard. Every moan. Every breathless please.
And he hadn’t even touched her. He’d kept the mask on. Kept the mystery. And she let him watch her fall apart anyway.
His cock stirs remembering it. He shifts in his seat, adjusting himself discreetly.
He should feel shame. Or guilt. Or something. But all he feels is hungry. Possessive.
Did she suspect? Did she recognize him from the way he spoke, from the shape of his hands, from something he didn’t even realize he was giving away?
The uncertainty presses against his chest like a bruise.
He wants to tell her—needs to. The guilt is a steady gnaw, hollowing him out.
But he’s in too deep, drowning in it, and the thought of pulling her into the truth feels like it would shatter everything—her, him, the fragile thing sparking between them.
So he swallows it down, carrying the secret like it’s carved into his ribs, bleeding him out from the inside.
“You know,” Jesse says suddenly, still chewing, “I was fully prepared to throw you a one-man celly last night. Like, with balloons. Confetti. Maybe buy you a pony.”
Theo stares out the window, heat creeping up his neck. “Unnecessary.”
“I’m just saying—OT winner? Bro. That’s, like, Big Boy Hockey Energy,” Jesse says, glancing over. “You’re a stay-at-home defenseman. You barely get past the blue line most games. I was ready to build a statue.”
Theo smiles faintly, but it doesn’t last. The goal last night was epic.
But it’s not what he’s thinking about now. He barely remembers the puck hitting the back of the net. All he remembers is the way Mila cried out for him—even if she didn’t know it.
Jesse turns the music down. “Seriously though. Why’d you ghost so fast after the game? Everyone went to Huck’s. You didn’t even shower, you absolute menace.”
Theo shrugs, eyes on the road. “Was tired.”
He doesn’t add, “Actually, I needed to get to the privacy of my own home to see if the woman I’m obsessed with got the sex toy I sent her.”
Obviously.
Jesse looks skeptical. “You score the game-winner and bail? That’s serial killer behavior.”
Theo forces a smile. “Just wanted to be home.”
Jesse squints at him. “Did you at least, like…order a pizza? Celebrate solo?”
“Something like that.”
Jesse turns up the music again, letting it drop.
“You’re a weirdo,” he says cheerfully, “but I love you.”
Theo rolls his eyes, but the words stick. Not in a bad way.
They pull into the player lot a few minutes later. Theo exhales and grabs his bag out of habit, even though he won’t need it. His body knows this ritual, even if today is a different type of battle than game day.
Mila’s leaning against the railing outside the heavy double doors, talking to some AV guy with a coil of cable slung over one shoulder.
She’s wearing a simple white top with a blazer over it and jeans that hug her perfect ass.
Her hair’s in some kind of messy twist, with loose pieces falling around her face, and those glasses…
God, those fucking glasses.
Theo’s heart lurches, stupid and loud in his chest.
It’s not just that she’s beautiful. She makes him feel like maybe—just maybe—he’s not invisible. Like there’s something about him she sees, even if she hasn’t figured out what it is yet.
“Hey, guys!” she calls. “Thanks for coming early. Go ahead and change into your home jerseys. No skates yet.”
Jesse salutes with two fingers and breezes past her like this is nothing, like she didn’t completely rearrange Theo’s nervous system by existing.
He passes Tall and Naomi, who are gesturing angrily over camera equipment before Naomi storms inside muttering curses under her breath, but Theo barely registers it.
He’s watching Mila, and Mila’s watching him.
She shifts her weight against the railing, tilts her head, and the corners of her mouth curl like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Hey, superstar.”
He swallows and tries to act like a normal human being. A normal, non-horny, non-secret-identity-having human being.
“You were incredible last night,” she says, and for a split second, Theo forgets how to breathe.
She’s fucking with him. Has to be. Her tone’s too casual, her smile too pointed, and all he can think about is the way she whimpered when he told her to come.
She knows.
Then she adds, smiling, “Overtime game-winner? Half those kids want Tilbury jerseys now.”
Oh. Right. The game.
His mouth twitches. “Thanks.”
She tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “What did you get up to last night after the game?”
Theo’s pulse kicks.
He should play it off. Say he crashed early. That he needed rest.
But something reckless stirs within him.
He meets her gaze, lets the silence stretch a second too long. Her eyes narrow, not missing it.
“I kept to myself,” he says slowly, voice low. “Didn’t trust myself not to do something…ill-advised.”
Mila’s breath hitches—a flicker—but he sees it. Watches her guard slide half a notch higher.
“Like what?” she asks, smile easy, but there’s a sharp edge tucked beneath it now.
Theo shrugs, gaze dropping to her mouth, then back up.
“Let’s just say I didn’t feel like sleeping.”
The air crackles between them—hot, taut.
Her lips part, barely. She’s studying him now. Her eyes travel down his face to his neck, skimming over his arms and hands.
Before she can press, Naomi sweeps in like a perfectly timed hurricane, holding a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other.
“There you are,” she says, flashing Mila a grin before turning it on Theo—slow, sharp, and much too knowing. “You ready for your close up? I’ve got your lines right here.”
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 fists around 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 right now, 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.
“Bro, you good?” Jesse’s voice cuts in, closer now. Theo glances up to find him standing next to his stall.
Jesse leans over, peering at the card. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Or throw up. Or both.”
“I’m fine,” Theo mutters, but the words come out tight.
Jesse squints. “Dude. I know you’re stressed. You get all twitchy when you’re stressed.”
Theo doesn’t answer.
He reads the first line again, mouthing the words. Then again. His lips don’t form the right rhythm. His brain hits a snag mid-sentence.
Jesse watches him. Concern replaces the teasing.
Theo tries again. “The Whalers h-have always b-been—”
His voice catches mid-sentence. Dies in his throat.
Goddamn it.
Shame creeps in, hot and heavy, curling around his neck like a noose. He stares down at the floor, vision blurring at the edges, jaw clenched so tight it feels like bone grinding against bone.
Jesse drops onto the bench beside him. Quiet now.
After a moment, Theo speaks low enough he hopes only Jesse hears it. “I don’t w-w—” He stops. Rephrases like his therapist taught him. “She can’t see me like this.”
Jesse doesn’t ask who she is. He doesn’t need to.
Theo’s throat works. “I can’t do this.”
Jesse’s voice softens. “It’s only some lines, man. You can—”
“No,” Theo cuts in, too sharp. Then again, as he breathes to control his panic, voice tight. “No, I c-can’t. Not with everyone watching.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, like that could block it out—the room, the pressure, the blood roaring in his ears.
He’s fourteen again, stuck at the front of the class, words crumbling in his mouth while twenty pairs of eyes stare through him like he’s broken.
He’s twelve again, grinning wide at the dinner table, recounting every second of his first shootout goal when Conrad cuts in mimicking him with cruel precision, drawing out the words until they’re mangled beyond recognition. Their father chuckles. Their mother says nothing.
“Can you read mine? Please.”
Jesse is quiet. For a beat, all Theo hears is the murmur of other guys talking, the dull buzz of a speaker warming up down the hall.
“Yeah. I got you.”
Theo lifts his gaze. Jesse’s smile is small, with no teasing in it.
“For real?” Theo asks.
“Dude,” Jesse says, standing. “You think I’m not gonna step in for my best guy? You’ve carried me off the ice this season. The least I can do is carry you through a video.”
Theo lets out a shaky breath. Doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. He nods.
Jesse claps a hand on his shoulder. “You owe me tacos. Like, a lot of tacos.”