Chapter 3
THEO
The best part of winning? The locker room after. Always.
A chaotic sprawl of gear, tape, and half-naked bodies steeped in sweat. Music thumps from someone’s speaker—probably Carter’s—too loud and way too heavy on the bass. Half the team is still in various states of undress, jerseys flying into the laundry bin for the trainers to collect.
Jesse stands triumphantly on the bench, holding up a hot pink bra like he’s hoisting the Stanley Cup.
“Tell me I imagined that,” Carter says, squinting at the lace dangling from Jesse’s fingers.
“Nope,” Jesse grins, spinning it on one finger. “Section 108. She launched it like a slingshot. Nearly took out Tilly.”
He gestures toward Theo, who ducks his head, heat creeping up his neck.
The guys erupt.
Flea, with a towel slung low on his hips, cackles. “It’s the curls, man. You’ve got slutty hair.”
“Definitely not the personality,” Pavel mutters, buttoning up his white dress shirt and ducking a wad of tape Jesse chucks his way.
“C’mon,” Jesse says, spreading his arms wide. “It’s the total package.”
Flea laughs. “Okay, but like—what kind of package we talking? Prime or padded envelope from Temu?”
The room loses it. Jesse flips him off laughing, and someone cranks the music even louder.
Theo leans against the cool cinderblock wall, still in his base layer, laces hanging half-untied. He doesn't say much—never does—but he lets the noise roll over him, all the chirping and chaos.
At twenty-six, having signed on straight out of college, he's one of the older guys here. His idiot teammates' shenanigans make him feel ancient some days, but it doesn't bother him. In this room, he doesn't have to put on an act, and that's rare enough that he's grateful every time he laces up.
“Yo, Tilbury!” Carter calls, snapping his fingers. “Earth to Prince Theo. You coming to Huck’s?”
Theo looks up. Carter’s grinning like he already knows the answer.
He hesitates. Huckleberry’s is the worst. It’s loud and crowded, forcing everyone to shout over the music to be heard, and to repeat themselves when they’re not.
He’d been planning to head home, shower properly, maybe crack a book.
He doesn’t fit into the post-game bar scene.
He prefers quieter places, fewer people. Fewer eyes.
“It’ll be chill,” Jesse adds, reading him like a textbook. “A couple beers. Natalie and Mila are going too.”
That derails him completely.
Theo schools his expression, but his heart does this dumb little kick.
Mila was at the game tonight, sitting beside Natalie in the stands. He’d seen her.
Okay, he watched her.
She’s hard not to notice. Even surrounded by screaming fans and flashing lights, she stands out—sparkling like a diamond someone dropped among the popcorn in the stands.
She clapped loudly when Jesse scored, leaned into Natalie when Jake was introduced, and when they showed her on the jumbotron for half a second, she didn’t flinch. Just smiled and raised her plastic cup.
It’s not like Theo knows her. Not really.
She’s Jesse’s not-actually-related big sister, sharp as hell, and fast with her comebacks.
She’s funny in a way that cuts and charms at the same time, confident in her skin, and so at ease in any crowd it makes him feel like she’s from another planet entirely.
She’s also completely out of his league, and he’s not dumb enough to think otherwise.
But that doesn’t stop him from thinking about her.
And God, he thinks about her—way more than he should.
She slips into his head when he’s supposed to be sleeping, when the lights are off and the city’s quiet and his bed feels too cold, too empty, too untouched.
He imagines her mouth, what it would sound like moaning his name; her legs, what they’d feel like wrapped around his waist; her voice, whispering something flirty and filthy as he pins her beneath him.
He wonders what she’d do if he ever found the courage to talk to her the way he does in his head, where he's charming and easy and never stumbles over his words, instead of the stiff, tongue-tied idiot he always turns into when she’s within ten feet.
There was that one time—late last season, after a win, everyone half in the bag and leaning too close—when she turned to him, eyes bright and teasing, and called him mystery man.
She grinned like she knew she was getting under his skin, flicked his arm and laughed at something he said. For a second, he thought he had a shot.
And then his brain betrayed him.
The words tangled, clumsy and slow, heat roared up his neck like he’d been set on fire, and whatever the fuck he tried to say came out as nonsense.
He caught the flicker of confusion in her eyes, the amused twist of her smile, and then she turned away again, laughing at something Jesse said.
The moment was gone before he could recover.
It’s been gnawing at him ever since, the way a bad game sticks in his teeth long after the horn.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I’ll come.”
Jesse claps him on the back, triumphant. “Hell yeah.”
Huckleberry’s is packed elbow-to-elbow with Whalers fans riding the high of a home win, the air humid with sweat and fryer grease.
Overhead speakers blare throwback rock with thunderous drums. His teammates have staked their claim on a corner booth, already loud enough to earn a couple of glances and one flat-out dirty look from the pink-haired server.
He spots her before she sees him.
Mila’s head tips back in a laugh, cider sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. Her unrestrained joy cuts through the hum of the bar. Her blonde hair catches the amber light above, all messy waves and warm gold.
He watches as her face folds into a smile, her eyes crinkled at the corners, one dimple cutting deep into her cheek.
Theo’s chest seizes like he’s just taken a puck straight to the sternum.
She turns. Sees him. Her smile brightens.
“There he is,” Mila calls, waving him over. “Theo, you antisocial nerd, get over here and save me before Jesse brags about his abs again.”
“I didn’t even bring them up this time,” Jesse says in mock offense as he shuffles over to make room.
Theo raises a hand in greeting, trying not to trip over his own feet as he approaches. He slips into the booth beside Flea, across from Mila, forcing himself to look anywhere but directly at her. He fails.
“About time, Tilly,” Jesse grins.
Theo shrugs, attempting casual. “Traffic,” he says, even though everyone knows the arena is six blocks away.
The table is a hurricane of noise—drinks clinking, voices overlapping, someone yelling about a blown call in the second period.
Mila leans in toward Jesse, eyes dancing.
“So, serious question,” she says. “How does it feel knowing you’ve officially replaced Jake as Whaler Nation’s favorite thirst trap?”
Jesse groans. “God, no. Don’t start.”
“Oh, I must.” She rests her chin in her hand like she’s settling in for a show. “Those screams when you stepped onto the ice tonight? Someone in the front row actually gasped.”
Theo focuses intently on peeling the label off his beer bottle, jaw working as he listens to Mila’s voice lilt as she teases Jesse.
A familiar knot tightens in his chest—that sharp pang of jealousy he's gotten too good at swallowing.
Jesse makes it look so effortless, the way words just flow between them, easy banter that Theo could never manage.
He envies how naturally Jesse draws people in, how conversations seem to spark to life around him without any effort at all.
Meanwhile, Theo can barely string together small talk without overthinking every syllable.
Flea nearly chokes on his beer. “It was like a boyband concert…except we all have minor concussions and missing teeth.”
Carter raises his glass. “Been here four years. Have not received a single bra. Not even a rogue scrunchie.”
“Grow man bun,” Pavel deadpans in his accented English, gesturing towards Jake at the other end of the booth. “Instant fanbase.”
Theo chuckles under his breath, the low hum of conversation washing over him like static. He’s half-listening to the chirping around the table, but Mila’s voice cuts through the noise.
“You were good tonight,” she says, turning to him. “Smart plays. Cool under pressure.”
Her words go down like a shot of bourbon, burning just enough to prove they’re real.
Theo knows he played well. But he’s not flashy.
He’s not the guy fans scream for, or even notice most of the time.
He doesn’t thread the puck between his legs or go bar-down in overtime.
That’s Jesse’s game. His job is different: hold the line, break up plays, pin guys to the boards without drawing blood or penalties.
He’s the one coaches tap with a minute left and a lead to protect.
He signed with the Whalers straight out of college, knowing it was a development team.
For most guys, it’s their stepping stone to the NHL.
For Theo, it’s something closer to a finish line.
He doesn’t need headlines or league buzz.
He just wants to keep lacing up, keep doing the thing he’s built his whole damn identity around.
He clears his throat, caught between gratitude and embarrassment. “Th-thanks,” he says, his traitorous voice cracking.
Fuck.
He swallows, shifts in his seat. Tries again. “Thanks.”
If anyone hears, they pretend they don’t.
A few people peel off after one round, Natalie and Jake among them. Jake looks vaguely uncomfortable, tugging at his collar.
“I coach half this table,” he mutters. “I’m breaking HR rules by being here.”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “You’re here to support family. That’s allowed.”
Jake kisses her temple and shoots Theo a subtle glance on his way out. “Keep them out of trouble, will you?”
Theo nods. “Trying.”