Chapter 18
THEO
Theo’s phone buzzes as he crosses the driveway toward his truck, gear bag slung over one shoulder, his freshly starched dress shirt itching his neck with every step.
Game day. His body thrums with contained energy as he breathes the way his trainers drilled into him—not to chase calm, but to sharpen focus.
His mind is at the rink already, as he mentally replays the tape from the Syracuse Storm’s last two games.
They’re a good team. Top of their division.
He can still see their top line cutting hard through the neutral zone, their captain’s wrist shot snapping off the rush like a whip.
Theo catalogued the angles, pressure points, the way the winger favors his backhand when he’s trying to get cute in front of the net.
Stick low. Close the gap. No space.
His thoughts are interrupted when the buzz comes again.
He glances at the notification, jaw tight. Shit.
He swipes it away and stares at the blank screen like it might give him an excuse. Any excuse. Flat tire. Sprained wrist. Sudden amnesia.
No such luck.
Because it’s Wednesday. And on Wednesdays, Theo calls his mother.
Not because she asks him to.
Not because it’s a warm ritual they both enjoy.
But he told himself a long time ago that if he didn’t call, she never would.
And for some reason, he can’t bring himself to be okay with that.
He climbs into the truck, tosses his gear bag into the passenger seat, and pulls out of his driveway before hitting the call button.
A smooth and polished voice answers, clipped and efficient, as if she’s already halfway done with the call. “Theodore.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Hi, Mom.”
“I thought you’d forgotten.”
“Practice ran long,” he mutters, though it didn’t.
“Of course it did.”
Theo swallows a sigh. “How are you?”
“Oh, busy as always. The library fundraiser is this week, and I have three separate galas coming up, which is absurd. I don’t know how I’ll manage.
And the venue is insisting on chicken again.
As if I haven’t instructed them repeatedly that their chicken is inedible.
Your father called it rubber on a plate last year. ”
Theo nods as if she can see it. “That sounds...horrifying.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, darling. It doesn’t suit you.”
He clenches his jaw, lets that one go.
A few beats of silence stretch between them—long enough for his nerves to buzz under his skin. Then she adds, almost absently, “I saw the photos from your little hospital visit yesterday.”
He blinks. “You know about that?”
“I’m on the hospital board, Theodore. Do try to keep up.” She pauses. “You looked...involved. Which is quite sweet. The children seemed to enjoy it.”
Theo presses his lips together. Her tone isn’t unkind, but it isn’t warm, either. It’s the way someone might describe a well-executed appetizer at a Michelin-star restaurant.
“They’re good kids,” he says. “Reminded me a little of—”
“I know,” she cuts in before he can finish. “You were there once too. We haven’t forgotten. Some of the staff still remember you. You were...spirited.”
Theo exhales slowly through his nose. Spirited. That’s one way to describe being ten years old and stuck in an endless loop of appointments with specialists while his mother floated in and out like a visiting dignitary and his father never showed at all.
He doesn’t reply.
She fills the space, as she always does. “Your brother Quentin recently returned from Vienna. He was presenting at an international finance summit. You remember, I told you about it. Apparently, he was quite the star.”
“That’s great.”
“And Conrad closed a deal with some firm in Singapore. They flew him out on a private jet. He says the food on board was better than at his wedding, which I find hard to believe since we held it at the St. Regis...”
Theo hums half-heartedly at the mention of his oldest brother, shutting his brain off as his mother carries on.
Conrad. The Tilbury family’s heir. Their golden boy.
Theo loathes him—deeply, viscerally, like an infection he can’t shake.
Conrad doesn’t overshadow him; he suffocates him.
Everything Theo does, Conrad has already done—louder, faster, better, according to their parents.
And God help him, the man never lets him forget it.
“And you?” she asks finally, but it doesn’t sound like curiosity. More like a checkpoint. “Still playing hockey?”
His chest tightens. “Yeah. Still playing.”
He swallows the words he wants to say to her. That he loves hockey. That it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.
“You’re keeping up with your treatment?” she asks briskly. But it’s not a question, it’s a statement. A condition of his staying in Hartford.
“Yes, mom,” he replies dutifully. “I meet with her once a week.”
“Well, I should let you go,” she says. “I have a charity dinner to change for. And you probably have...training. Or weights. Or whatever it is you do to stay enormous.”
He forces a chuckle. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Until next week, Theodore.”
Just like that, the line goes dead.
Theo lingers in the parked truck, fingers still locked around the steering wheel, watching the low gray sky press down over a stretch of oaks and maples.
Their leaves, burnt orange, deep red, brilliant gold, clutter the lawns and curl along the edges of cracked sidewalks, the whole street looking like it’s bracing for winter.
His brothers fly private and get written about in Forbes.
He signs pucks and plays dress-up for sick kids.
And yet, when that boy looked at him yesterday—like Theo was someone cool, someone worth looking up to—it made the rest of it fade.
He presses his forehead to the steering wheel and lets himself breathe, long and slow.
He reaches for his phone again.
And without letting himself think too hard, he types a message to the only person who doesn’t make him feel like he’s a disappointment.