Chapter 19
MILA
The suite in the Whalers’ arena shines like a dreamscape of hockey joy.
Twinkle lights drip from the windows, streamers and balloons in Whalers green and navy hang from the ceiling, and a banquet table once meant for executives now overflows with chicken fingers, mac and cheese, mini sandwiches, and ice cream bars. It’s not fancy, but it’s perfect.
Mila moves through the space like she’s hosting a wedding. She checks the food, adjusts the name tags, smiles at the parents, the nurses, the volunteers. All of them glowing under the soft, warm lights. It’s the evening she’d hoped to create when she pitched the campaign.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket like a secret.
Man in Black
I miss you. Say something reckless.
Mila bites her lip.
His words feel like warm fingers tracing the inside of her thigh. She shouldn’t be texting him. Not here. Not while she’s working. It’s unprofessional. Reckless. And somehow...completely impossible to resist.
Because his messages make her feel wanted in a way that’s both filthy and weirdly tender. Like she’s someone to be devoured and adored at the same time.
She slips to the far side of the suite, bracing against the railing, tucked away from the kids and chaos where so no one can see her blush. Her fingers fly over her phone as she types back, heart fluttering.
I’ve been thinking about your mouth all day. But not for talking.
That so? Tell me where you want my mouth, Daisy.
I want it on my neck. Slow at first. Then lower. Much lower.
Fuck. Are you trying to kill me?
I’m making sure you’re motivated.
I’m one wrong thought away from finding you right now and reminding you what happens when I get you alone in the dark.
I remember everything. Especially the part where you walked away.
There’s a long pause before his reply appears.
I won’t next time. Say the word and I’m yours.
Before she can respond, the suite door opens and in walks Jim Pearce, flanked by Roger and other team executives, dressed in a navy blazer with a Whalers pin on the lapel. When he sees Mila, his weathered face lights up.
“Mila,” Jim says, striding forward. “This is...incredible.”
Yesterday’s hospital event had been a massive success—donor pledges up, media coverage glowing, and social media ablaze with clips of players goofing around with the kids.
Today had been all logistics. Mila and Naomi had set up the suite for the children and their families, ensuring every gift bag was perfect, every photo op seamless.
Mila is exhausted but thrilled as she shakes Jim’s hand warmly. “Thank you. I’m so glad you made it. The kids are having a blast, and the hospital staff has already sent glowing feedback.”
Richard inches forward. “Jim, wonderful to see you. I trust you’ve noticed the media presence? We coordinated with three local outlets—”
Jim waves him off with a polite nod, his focus still on Mila.
“Mila, you’ve outdone yourself. My wife would’ve loved this.”
Mila softens. “You mentioned she was a pediatric nurse.”
Jim nods. “She passed a few years ago. But nights like this? Community. Joy. You brought it to life. She’d have liked you. You’ve got heart.”
Mila’s cheeks warm, but she keeps her tone professional. “Thank you, Jim. We’ve got more coming, too. Game-day school visits, community nights, and the gala’s shaping up to be a major event.”
Jim’s eyes twinkle. “And you’ve even made Richard look useful. That’s no small feat.”
Naomi chokes beside her.
Richard wears his most practiced smile, twitching slightly at the corners. “Well, teamwork, of course,” he says.
But Jim isn’t listening. He’s already turned to greet a parent, bending to shake a boy’s hand and compliment his painted face.
Mila steps back beside Naomi, who leans in and whispers, “That was better than wine.”
It was. Mila would love nothing more than to savor Richard’s humiliation like a fine vintage—but time’s ticking, and she’s got a room full of sugared-up kids to wrangle.
She claps her hands. “Okay, crew! Who’s ready to meet the team?”
The kids erupt with excitement. Even the shy ones suddenly sit taller. A handful of them grip foam fingers or wear freshly purchased jerseys, eyes shining with anticipation.
They head down as a group—kids, parents, staff, a few volunteers, and Naomi trailing behind in platform heels she absolutely must be regretting.
They reach the tunnel before warm-ups. The players filter in, already in gear, pads creaking, skates clacking against the rubber flooring.
“Who wants a goal tonight?” Jesse booms, arms wide.
Every tiny hand shoots into the air.
“I’ll get one for each of you!” he declares, grinning like a kid himself. “Okay, wait—how many of you are there? Ten? Eleven? Okay, maybe a few of you are sharing, but still. I got you.”
Carter ambles over, giving each kid a fist bump. “Let’s get it! I want to hear you cheering all the way down on the ice.”
Pavel lets a toddler try on his helmet. Laughter bubbles up everywhere.
Tall turns the corner, a hulking presence in full goalie gear, blocking half the tunnel like a sentient refrigerator.
“Barely fits in the tunnel,” Naomi mutters. “I swear he’s blocking out the sun.”
One of the kids stares up at Tall, slack-jawed. “Is he a robot?”
Tall bends down and fist bumps him with exaggerated care. “Yes.”
Naomi snorts. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Tall glances at her, eyes crinkling behind his mask. “Careful, Short Stack. From down there, everything probably looks impressive.”
Mila doesn’t catch Naomi’s comeback. She’s already looking past them at Theo, hanging back near the wall, helmet off, hair still damp from pre-skate.
She watches as he crouches balancing on his haunches to greet the boy in the wheelchair. The same one from the hospital.
“Hey, man,” he says softly. “You made it.”
The boy beams as Theo bumps his fist.
“You ready to see us win?”
The boy nods so hard his glasses slip. Theo adjusts them gently.
Mila’s chest aches in that quiet, complicated way it always does around Theo. The way he’s so gentle when no one’s watching. The way he feels everything and hides it like it’s dangerous to let it show.
The kids cheer as the players file out toward the ice, the music swelling to its usual pulsing intro.
Theo glances back, right at her.
His gaze lingers. Long enough to make her pulse skip. There’s something taut in his eyes. For a split second, Mila wonders if it’s the adrenaline of the game coursing through him…or something else entirely.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the tunnel, his broad frame disappearing into the roar of the game.
Mila stays rooted for a second longer than she should, hand in her pocket, thumb brushing over the text she didn’t reply to.
The arena is a beast. Not just loud—alive, snarling, and hungry. Its pulse pounds in time with thousands of stomping feet and clapping hands, its roar swelling and breaking with the crowd’s frenzy.
An air horn shrieks nearby, sharp enough to make Richard flinch, Naomi nearly snorting her wine laughing.
The Whalers are up against the Syracuse Storm, and it’s been brutal from the opening whistle.
There’s a hum of old rivalry in the air, crackling louder than the speakers.
Every hit against the boards gets a cheer.
Every miss has the crowd groaning in unison.
Mila doesn’t need to understand line changes or zone entries to know one thing: this game is war.
And the kids? They’re eating it up.
A little girl in pigtails stands on her chair, shrieking every time Jesse touches the puck. One of the older boys is yelling “Rip it!” at the top of his lungs while swinging his foam finger like a sword.
Mila sits with Naomi at the back of the bank of seats, eyes scanning the ice for Theo.
He’s a wall tonight, playing with laser focus, shutting down passes before they happen, stripping pucks with quiet precision, and skating backward like he was born to do it.
He doesn’t chirp. Doesn’t showboat.
Every time the Storm try to break through center ice, Theo’s there—silent, surgical, clean. When he drops to one knee to block a slap shot late in the second, the entire suite gasps.
Naomi nudges her, voice dry as she sips from a generous pour of red wine. “Babe, you’re staring.”
Mila scoffs. “I’m watching the game.”
“You’re mentally undressing the guy wearing number fourteen. There’s a difference.”
She bites her lip. Busted.
Naomi narrows her eyes. “You still don’t know if it’s him, do you? Your masked man?”
Mila hesitates. She can’t explain it, but she still suspects Theo, despite his general allergy to talking.
“Girl. You’re not exploiting the most obvious plot hole in your entire slow-burn love story.”
Mila crosses her arms. “Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”
“Text him,” Naomi says, grinning like a Disney villain. “Right now. While Theo’s on the ice. If he texts back, it’s not him. If he doesn’t? Game over.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“It feels efficient,” Naomi counters, eyes sparkling. “This isn’t Jane Austen. It’s 2025 and you’re holding the truth in your literal hand. Use it.”
Mila sighs and starts to type.
You look good tonight.
Her thumb hovers over send like she’s about to detonate a bomb. Which, let’s be honest, she kind of is.
Naomi leans over, practically draping herself across Mila’s armrest. “Do it. Before you wimp out.”
Mila groans. “Why am I listening to you?”
“Because I’m right.” Naomi takes another sip of wine, utterly unbothered.
Mila hits send before she can stop herself, heart leaping into her throat. The little bubble disappears, and suddenly she feels lightheaded. Like she’s waiting for the universe to call her bluff.
Nothing.
No dots. No reply. Just silence.
Her pulse pounds as she stares at the ice, transfixed. Theo is skating hard, and when he delivers a clean hit along the boards, the impact reverberates through her ribs.
Naomi, of course, is already bouncing in her seat like a kid at a magic show. “Oh my God. This is it. This is our smoking gun.”
“Or,” Mila mutters, clutching her phone like it might spontaneously explode, “he’s just…busy.”
Naomi waves a dismissive hand. “Details. Babe, he’s not texting back because he can’t. Which means your masked admirer is absolutely Theo.”
Mila chews her lip, a giddy nervousness fizzing in her chest. Half of her wants to believe it—wants to believe the shy, stoic man on the ice is the same one who writes to her like she’s the center of the universe.
The other half? Terrified she’s about to end up the sad heroine in a bad rom-com, the kind who mistakes eye contact for destiny and then has to move to Bali to find herself.
“Naomi,” she whispers, “if I’m wrong—”
“Then I’ll buy you three margaritas and a plate of nachos the size of your face. But if I’m right?” Naomi smirks, wicked and triumphant. “You’re basically living in a fanfic, babe. Enjoy it.”
She can’t stop the smile tugging at her lips, hope and nerves tangling until she doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins.
But then the question sneaks in, sharp and unwelcome—if it is him, why is he hiding?
What’s stopping him from saying it out loud, from reaching for her in the open?
The thought gnaws at her, a whisper she can’t quiet.
Maybe he doesn’t want her the same way she wants him.
Maybe this is as close as he’ll ever let her get.