Chapter 8
THEO
The puck snaps off the boards and careens toward center ice. Theo pivots hard, blades biting into the rough surface of the practice rink. His lungs burn, but it’s a good burn—the kind that reminds him he’s doing something, not sitting still in his head.
“Back up, back up! Stick out!” Jake’s voice barks from the bench.
Theo locks eyes with the forward streaking toward him—it’s Flea—reads his shoulder angle, and drops back. He doesn’t go for the puck. That’s not the job. The job is simple.
Cover this guy. Don’t let him score.
Flea tries to cut across the slot, searching for an opening, but Theo stays with him like a shadow at his hip. The pass comes, but Theo’s there first, intercepting it cleanly with a sharp tap and a pivot that sends the puck sliding harmlessly into the corner.
And for a second—a flicker—Theo feels perfect.
The whistle blows. Jake shouts for a line change, and Theo skates back to the blue line, ready to do it again. He doesn’t need to score goals or be flashy. He just needs to stop things from happening. That’s his role. That’s where he lives best.
Jake skates past, slapping Theo’s shin pad with the blade of his stick. “What, you waiting for an invitation to bury him?”
Theo grins, a quick, private smile. “Figured I’d let him think he had a chance. Keeps morale up.”
Jake snorts and keeps moving, not looking back. They’re careful like that. No eye contact, no familiarity. Not out here. Jake’s the assistant coach now. Theo’s just another guy trying to hold his place on the roster.
Still...it feels good. The joke. The moment of ease.
He wonders, not for the first time, is Jake his friend?
He’s not sure. Theo’s never had many. Not real ones. Not the kind who check in or remember his birthday or text him randomly. He has teammates, sure. People who nod and pass the puck and say good shift, man. But that’s not the same.
His older brothers used to rough him up and call it bonding. They’d laugh when he missed a hit or fumbled a pass in youth league. The sensitive one, his oldest brother called him. Among other, nastier things.
Jake doesn’t do that. Jake tells him when he screws up but doesn’t twist the knife. Sometimes he just listens. Sometimes he gives advice that isn’t about hockey.
Practice winds down with a punishing circuit of bag skates—three laps, no pucks, only lungs and legs. Theo finishes middle of the pack, dripping sweat. His thighs scream. His heart pounds. He feels incredible.
He’s tugging off his gloves and stepping into the tunnel when he sees her.
Mila’s standing near the main office doors, wearing a fitted skirt that hugs her hips and a silky blouse. Her hair’s swept up into one of those elegant buns she wears when she’s in work mode, with a few blonde strands escaping to frame her face.
But it’s the glasses that stop him cold.
Big tortoiseshell frames sliding a little down her nose. He didn’t know she wore glasses. Now he can’t imagine her without them. They make her look sharper, more dangerous. And sexy. She’s impossibly sexy.
And she’s right there.
She hasn’t seen him yet. She’s checking something on her phone, thumb gliding across the screen, glasses sliding further down her nose. Theo knows he should move—say something, do something—but his feet aren’t cooperating. His brain isn’t either.
She looks up.
“Hey!” she says, her whole face lighting up when she spots him. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
Theo’s heart slams against his ribs. Her voice does something to him—warms him and ties him in knots at the same time.
He clears his throat. “You’re in Hartford.”
Wow. Brilliant opener.
She grins, stepping closer. “Guilty. We had a pitch meeting with Jim this morning. I’m heading out now.”
He tries to nod casually, but it’s not casual. His face is flushed. Sweat drips down his forehead. He’s hyper-aware of how disgusting he must smell in his post-practice gear—sweaty pads, damp hair, jersey clinging to him. He wants to apologize for existing.
He blurts out, “You look really good.”
Mila’s eyebrows lift, surprised. But she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she smiles a little deeper.
“Thank you,” she says, with a playful glint in her eye. “So do you. Well—” her gaze drifts over his sweat-soaked gear, “—for someone who looks like he just climbed out of a sauna in full gear.”
Theo laughs, a rough, awkward sound. “Yeah, it’s my best look.”
They fall silent for a beat. Theo wants to say something else—something easy, maybe even clever—but his mind is nothing but static.
He’s not bold. Not usually. But before he can second-guess it, he steps forward and draws a breath.
“Want to grab a—”
Before he can finish, another voice cuts in behind her, sharp and oily.
“Well, this is adorable. Didn’t realize they let players punch above their weight.”
Theo’s eyes snap to the man as he steps into view.
Richard.
He knows it’s him before Mila even opens her mouth. Everything about him screams smug: the manicured stubble, the tailored navy suit, the loafers polished within an inch of their life. He wears the slight smirk of a man who thinks everyone else in the room works for him.
Theo hates him immediately.
Beside him, Mila stiffens. She doesn’t look at Richard, instead letting out a slow, controlled breath through her nose, like she’s biting down on something hard.
“Don’t start,” she murmurs, voice tight.
But Theo’s already moving, stepping forward before logic can catch up with fury.
“You have a problem?”
Richard turns, sizing him up. His eyes are cold and flat, like glass over ice.
“Not at all,” he says smoothly. “Mila’s always been generous with her...attention. Just surprised she’s entertaining charity cases. Then again, she always did like a project.”
Theo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. His jaw tightens, shoulders rolling back as he straightens to his full height, every muscle locked and humming.
He’s already got a few inches on Richard, and in his skates he towers over him.
He’s taller, broader, and meaner when he wants to be—and right now, he wants to be.
“You don’t talk to her like that.”
Richard lifts an eyebrow, bemused. “Excuse me?”
Theo doesn’t move. “I said, you don’t talk to her like that.”
It’s quiet, but it lands like a body check.
Richard’s eyes flick over him again, smugness faltering at the edges. He clearly isn’t used to being challenged, especially not by someone with a sweaty jersey and bruised knuckles.
Mila steps between them, one hand brushing Theo’s arm. “Theo, it’s fine.”
But he doesn’t look at her. Not yet. His eyes lock on Richard like he’s measuring the man’s worth and finding nothing there.
Richard snorts and adjusts his cuffs. “Touching. Really.”
He turns to Mila. “You ready, or are you planning to flirt with the benchwarmers all afternoon?”
Mila’s jaw tightens. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
Richard shrugs and saunters off. Theo watches him go, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches.
When they’re alone again, the silence hangs thick.
Mila breathes out. “Thank you. You didn’t have to—”
“He shouldn’t talk to you like that,” Theo cuts in, softer now. “Nobody should.”
She offers him a small smile—grateful, tired. “You’re sweet.”
“No, I’m really not,” he says, shaking his head.
That makes her laugh, and his heart flips in his chest.
“I really do have a flight,” she says, stepping back a little. “But...next time I’m here?”
He nods. Too fast. Too eager.
“Next time,” she says again, more gently.
Then she’s gone.
Theo stands alone in the corridor, sweat cooling on his skin, knuckles still buzzing with the urge to punch something.