Chapter 23
MILA
The camera crew is doing their thing, and Mila is doing hers. Managing. Smiling. Nodding at the right people. Skimming the shot list and confirming the player pairings with one hand while holding her phone in the other, answering curt texts from Richard.
The guys are in rare form.
Jesse’s bouncing from mark to mark like he’s born for the spotlight, hamming it up for every take.
Carter has turned his two lines into a comedic monologue and is now trying to convince the director to let him rap one of them.
Tall delivered his line in complete deadpan, claiming it was his “enigmatic goalie persona.”
It’s working.
The crew loves them. The team’s social media coordinator is grinning like she’s already imagining the edit.
But Mila can’t stop watching Theo.
He stands off to the side, hands gripping the hem of his sweater like it’s holding him together.
His expression is unreadable, but his body is all tension.
Shoulders tight. Jaw set. He’s been quiet all morning, quieter than usual, and she’d assumed it was just the cameras.
Some people don’t love being on display.
But now it’s his turn.
Except it isn’t. When the camera swings toward Theo’s spot, Jesse steps in instead.
“Got it,” Jesse says with a flourish, already hitting Theo’s mark. “We’re swapping. I’ll read Theo’s, too. Just...more Jesse sparkle. Trust me.”
The crew laughs. It’s smooth, well-delivered, convincing.
Too convincing.
Mila watches Jesse say Theo’s lines and her stomach dips.
Naomi slides beside her, holding an extra coffee she somehow scored from catering services. “Didn’t you write that one for Theo?”
Mila doesn’t answer.
Because realization is blooming in her chest.
This isn’t nerves, not the kind you push through with a few deep breaths and a “you got this” pat on the back. This is something else. Something bigger. Something older.
And suddenly, the quiet moments make more sense. The way Theo always chooses corners. The way he tenses when attention lands on him for too long. The way his voice catches sometimes, and everyone pretends not to notice.
He couldn’t say the lines.
Mila presses her lips together, guilt curling low in her belly. She should have seen this. She knows better than to assume extroversion is the default. She’s spent so long around men like Jesse and Carter—loud, always performing—that she forgot.
Theo’s not like them.
That’s what drew her to him.
And what makes this feel like she missed something important.
After the shoot wraps and the crew breaks down their gear, Mila finds him in the hallway near the changing rooms, hunched over, hands braced on the edge of a folding table like he needs it to hold him up. His head is down, broad shoulders tight.
She walks toward him slowly, heels softened by the rubber matting, as if getting too close too quickly might spook him.
“Theo?”
He doesn’t lift his head.
“Hey,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I should’ve asked—”
“You don’t have to do that.”
His voice cuts through the air. It’s rough and flat, not like him.
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.”
His voice sharpens. “They never came to my games as a kid. Hockey’s too blue-collar for them, too beneath them.”
He lets out a tight breath. “The week I got my scholarship to Boston College, they gave me brochures for Princeton.”
He glances at her, something almost rueful in his expression. “That’s a Division I program at a New Ivy. I thought they’d be proud.”
A beat.
“I should’ve known better.”
Mila stays quiet, the lump in her throat throbbing. This is the most she’s ever heard him speak—really speak. And she doesn’t want him to stop. She wants to wrap her arms around every word, hold them somewhere safe.
“I chose this. A life where I prove I belong every day. In the locker room. In front of cameras. And now,” his voice cracks slightly, “with you.”
Mila flinches. Just slightly.
His face twists with regret.
“I didn’t mean that like it’s your fault,” he says, quieter now. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not taking up space. And that makes it worse.”
“Why?” she breathes.
“Because I want you so bad it scares me. And the second I start to think I could be worthy of you...I remember who I am. What I sound like. What I can’t do. And I don’t think I could survive watching you look at me like they do.”
God help her, she wants to tell him he’s wrong. That she doesn’t need him to be smooth. She doesn’t need him to be perfect. She needs him to be himself.
“Theo, I don’t want easy,” she says gently. “I want real.”
His eyes flash, but then dull again.
“You deserve better,” he says simply. “I’m a mess. I can’t be what you need.”
He turns and walks away, shoulders squared but weighed down, like he’s carrying the burden of every word he didn’t say.
And Mila doesn’t follow.
Because for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t know how.