Chapter 11
THEO
Theo stands near the edge of the living room, half-hidden by a fake cobweb, filled with an overwhelming sense of regret.
People are everywhere. Loud, drunk, glitter-covered people. There’s music thumping through the floorboards, the smell of pumpkin beer and cheap body spray in the air, and raucous cheers as someone—probably Carter—tries to do a keg stand in his kitchen.
Jesse is in his element, wearing the shortest red overalls Theo’s ever seen. A fake mustache is glued crookedly to his upper lip, and a red cap tilts sideways on his head. A printed “M” is duct-taped to the front. His shirt is long gone, and so is most of his shame.
“Let’s-a gooo!” Jesse shouts, fist-pumping as he air-humps to the beat.
Theo, unfortunately, is standing beside him. In green. Also shirtless. Also wearing too-tight overalls.
Sexy Luigi.
It had been Jesse’s idea. Obviously.
Theo had said no.
Then Mila got mentioned.
And somehow it turned into yes.
Now, as someone spills jungle juice on the antique side table that his mother carefully selected, he’s wondering if Mila is worth it.
(She is, his brain says immediately.)
“Yo, Tall, you look like a goddamn chandelier!” Jesse yells toward the corner.
Theo follows his gaze.
Tall is decked out in a full-body LED suit that pulses in sync with the music, casting electric blue light across the walls. On his six-foot-six frame, the effect is less “costume” and more “sentient skyscraper.”
“I’m a cyberpunk ghost,” Tall says flatly, sipping vodka through a straw.
Pavel strolls by in a full Dracula ensemble—cape sweeping the floor, fake fangs glinting, and red contact lenses that make him look genuinely unhinged.
“Am I the only one who dress scary?” he asks, thick Slovakian accent curling around the words. “I thought Halloween is scary.”
“Bro,” Flea says, ducking under a dangling bat decoration, “you’re not gonna wheel any chicks with those fangs.”
He’s dressed as a shirtless cowboy—tight jeans, hat tilted just so, and twin plastic revolvers holstered at his hips. He pauses, cocks an eyebrow at Pavel’s costume, and reconsiders. “Actually, you might. Want to trade?”
“No,” Pavel replies flatly, baring his teeth.
Right on cue, Carter stumbles in from the kitchen dressed—unbelievably—as Jesus. But not just Jesus. Party Jesus. White robes open at the chest, long wig, gold sunglasses, a beer holster, and glittery sandals.
“I’m here to bless the water into wine, baby,” he shouts, raising a Solo cup high like it’s holy.
Laughter explodes across the room. Jesse howls, nearly doubling over. Pavel lifts his wineglass with a smirk. Even Tall gives an approving nod from under his glowing cyberpunk helmet.
Theo edges toward the kitchen under the excuse of refilling the snack bowls. Every step feels like wading through wet fog and someone else’s poor life decisions
He hates parties. Always has. The noise, the people, the constant effort to look like he’s enjoying himself. It’s not that he dislikes his teammates—not exactly. But this isn’t him. It’s Jesse. Jesse thrives on attention and borderline nudity.
Theo thrives on silence and having his shirt on.
He pours more chips into a bowl and mentally calculates how long he has to stay before disappearing upstairs wouldn’t be considered a full retreat. He surveys the room, heartbeat ticking in time with the beat, waiting—hoping—for the only person he actually wants to see tonight.
“Hey,” Jesse calls across the room, weaving toward him with a Solo cup in each hand. “You good?”
Theo just gives him a look.
Jesse laughs. “C’mon, we’re a hit. I’ve been hearing ‘Luigi can get it’ all night.”
Theo groans. “What does that even mean?”
“It means people are into you, bruh. Just hang in there,” Jesse says, slapping him on the back. “You’re doing great. Party’s lit. You’ve got popcorn in your teeth, but you’re doing great.”
Theo wipes his mouth, muttering, “What the hell am I doing?”
Jesse spins away toward the sound system just as someone cranks the volume. Flea is in the middle of the room, cowboy hat long forgotten, slow-dancing with a rubber skeleton like it’s prom night, completely unbothered. Carter’s in the corner, trying to charm a brunette dressed as a sexy devil.
Near the drinks table, the rookie Belanger is awkwardly adjusting the collar of a yellow-and-blue jumpsuit—Wolverine, technically. He almost pulls it off, but the baby face and lack of beard make him look less like Hugh Jackman and more like Wolverine’s enthusiastic little cousin.
The front door swings open, and Theo’s eyes are drawn gratefully to the new arrivals.
Natalie enters first in a champagne-colored flapper-style dress, waving a long cigarette holder like she’s stepped right out of the prohibition era.
Behind her is a figure cloaked in black robes and a full skeleton mask carrying an enormous scythe.
Theo doesn’t need to see his face to recognize the posture.
That’s Jake dressed as the Grim Reaper. No doubt hiding behind the mask to avoid being cornered by his own players.
But then there’s Mila.
She steps into the room and Theo forgets how to breathe.
Her blonde hair is styled in the illusion of a 1920s bob, tucked and pinned into soft waves, gleaming under the low light like spun gold.
She’s wearing a jet-black flapper dress that clings in all the right places, the beaded fringe swishing with every sway of her hips.
A thin, glittering headband rests across her forehead, artfully askew.
Elbow-length black gloves hug her arms, and long strands of pearls drape down her chest, disappearing into the curve of her generous cleavage.
Theo stares, heat spreading across his chest, which happens to be naked under his overalls. She looks elegant. Confident. Dangerous.
And so goddamn sexy it makes his knees feel untrustworthy.
Theo, on the other hand, is dressed in shorts so ridiculously small they would fit an eight-year-old and a fake mustache. He curses Jesse silently for convincing him this costume would be a hit.
He grabs a drink off the nearest table and takes a long, unnecessary sip—just to stop himself from doing something stupid, like walking straight over and tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her upstairs. Party’s over, friends. Get the hell out of my house.
Natalie spots Theo and grabs Mila’s hand, pulling her towards him.
“Theo!” Natalie shouts happily, throwing her arms around him in an enthusiastic, if unprecedented, hug. Natalie smells nice, like vanilla and cinnamon.
“Hey,” he says surprised. His voice comes out embarrassingly and uncharacteristically squeaky.
Mila gazes up at through her lashes, her smile slow and devastating. “Hi, Luigi.”
His brain short-circuits. There’s too much happening. The glint of her dress, the curve of her lips, the pearls, the gloves, the bob. He hears the words in his head—You look beautiful. I’m glad you came. I missed you—but none of them make it to his mouth.
Jake, still hidden behind the skull mask of his grim reaper costume, leans in and claps Theo on the back.
“He’s malfunctioning,” he says. “System error. Pretty girl detected.”
Theo shoots him a look, but Jake just shrugs and steps back.
Mila arches an eyebrow. “How did Jesse convince you to throw a party?”
As if summoned by his name, Jesse bursts into view, sliding across the hardwood like he’s doing a dramatic entrance on stage. His red hat is backwards, his mustache is hanging off one cheek, and he’s carrying what appears to be a ladle full of punch.
“It’s a-me, Mario!” he shouts, throwing his arm around Natalie exuberantly, spilling punch on the floor. “What’s up, sis? Who are you this year?”
Natalie grimaces, taking the ladle from him before further disaster strikes. “We’re characters from the Great Gatsby. I’m Jordan Baker and Mila is Daisy Buchanan.”
“Noice, noice,” Jesse nods appreciatively, though Theo can tell he’s lost interest.
“Jesse, no pictures, remember? You need to be on your best behavior.”
Jesse salutes her with a flourish. “No phones. No regrets. No pants!” He strikes a pose that lifts his overalls a little too high on one side.
He spins toward Mila, beaming. “Yo, how’d it go today? I bet you crushed it. Big boss energy, for realsies.”
“We’re supposed to hear by the end of next week,” Mila says, the words coming out crisp and business-like, but Theo catches the tension behind them. The tight hold she has on her wine glass. “Jim said they’d vote internally Monday. Legal would follow up.”
“Bro. If you get this gig? So iconic. Think of how awesome it would be if you’re running our marketing. I’m thinking theme nights. Matching game day outfits.”
Theo watches her carefully as she offers a tight smile. “I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
But he does.
He keeps that to himself, obviously. But the thought’s been echoing in his chest ever since the pitch meeting. He wants her around. Not just for Jesse, not for the team.
For him.
Even if he doesn’t know what to do with that want.
“Manifesting,” Jesse says, waving a hand in the air like he’s summoning magic. “Positive vibes. Big wins. We’ll get you a locker next to mine. You can hang your fancy blazers and stuff.”
Before she can answer, he swivels to Theo and slings an arm across his shoulders, hanging off of him like he’s a human jungle gym. Theo huffs but doesn’t resist.
Jesse’s beer-soaked breath and fake mustache tickle Theo’s cheek. His voice is low, like he’s trying to whisper but failing spectacularly. “And you, my guy—when are you gonna shoot your shot?”
Theo stiffens slightly, his eyes flicking to Mila before he can stop them.
Jesse grins like the devil. “Bro, say less. She’s a literal ten, and you stare at her, like, all the time.”
Theo mutters something under his breath and gently shrugs Jesse off.
But his heart’s still hammering.
“Doesn’t this guy look good,” Jesse hoots, turning to Mila and Natalie. “Luigi’s gonna lay some pipe tonight, for sure.”
Theo grimaces as Mila giggles, covering her mouth with one gloved hand. Her eyes travel, slow and unhurried, down the length of his green overalls, then up his bare chest, lingering on the tattoos swirling on his shoulders and chest.
Theo’s ears burn. His face burns. Everything burns.
Jake leans in again and says for only Theo to hear, “You’re doing fine, man. Just breathe.”
Theo nods, grateful and humiliated in equal measure.
He chances another glance at Mila, who’s chatting with Natalie and Jesse, laughing at something Jesse’s pantomiming. She’s relaxed, glass in hand, head tilted back as she laughs. She belongs here.
The music fades into something with a slower beat and people shift around them, drifting off to refill drinks or yell to the new arrivals. Theo’s still standing near the front, hands awkwardly tucked into his too-shallow pockets when Mila turns back toward him.
She’s holding a fresh drink, glass stem twirling between her gloved fingers.
“So,” she says, eyes warm with mischief, “how’d Jesse convince you to go full Luigi?”
“Blackmail,” he says automatically.
She grins. “Knew it.”
He smiles too—relieved. Okay. That landed.
“I’ve gotta say,” she adds, reaching over and running a finger over the strap of his overalls.
For a split second she grazes his chest, brushing over the nautical star and waves inked over his heart.
A tribute to his hometown on the Gold Coast and his childhood love of sailing with his grandfather.
“I kind of love it. The suspenders are really working for you.”
Theo’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t know where to look. Her eyes? Her mouth? Definitely not her mouth. That dress is already testing the limits of his focus. And now she’s flirting. He might be socially awkward and cringe, but he knows when a woman is flirting with him. Most of the time.
He tries to respond, something dry or smooth, but the words stick in his throat.
He feels it happen the way a storm builds—quietly, at first. Just a hitch in his breath, a slight catch in his throat.
“I—” he starts. “I d-didn’t think y-you—”
God.
No.
His chest tightens. The words catch on his tongue, and suddenly he’s seven years old again, in a classroom where eyes turned fast and sharp the minute he stumbled over a word.
Theo’s skin flushes hot. His jaw locks. He’s trained his voice like he’s trained the rest of his body—disciplined, always under control.
Except now.
With her.
“I—I’ve gotta—uh—I just need t-to—” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. Or maybe the hallway. It doesn’t matter. Anywhere but here.
Mila takes a step toward him. “Theo, it’s okay—”
But he’s already moving. Head down. Shoulders slumped. He ducks into the hallway and disappears into the darkness of the back staircase, heart pounding, jaw clenched.
Behind him, Mila watches him go, glass still in hand, expression pinched.
It’s not okay. Nothing is okay.
She looks disappointed.
And that, somehow, is worse than anything else.