Page 74 of These Wicked Hearts

It took us nearly twenty minutes to get here through the winding roads edged with dirty snowbanks.

The basement smells faintly of cedar, beer, and something spicy from the amount of body wash and cologne floating through the small space. There are jerseys framed along the walls.

I find Theo across the room, watching his friends play. Out of his gear, he’s somehow even more intimidating. He’s handsome, in a severe sort of way, nearing forty and carrying the confidence of someone who knows exactly who he is. He should be close to retirement, but there are zero rumors of him slowing down anytime soon.

He’s a handsome guy, with a face that’s shaped from years of playing this game, and his rich brown skin is smooth save for a few scattered scars. One on his chin and one just beneath his eye socket from a stray puck years ago that sidelined him for weeks. His nose has a slight crook from a break that never healed quite right.

His eyes stay sharp and intense while he watches the game. Beer bottles hang loose from most of the guys’ fingers, but the second someone fucks up a shot, his whole face softens with amusement. “You guys are terrible at this.” His full lips split into a grin as he rubs one hand over his shaved head.

I was nervous to come tonight, but somewhere between the arguing and terrible pool-playing skills, I’ve started to relax. A little. I glance around the room again. Hockey sticks are mounted carefully along the side walls beside the framed jerseys and old photographs. Some look decades old.

I take in all the jerseys he has mounted, and one catches my eye.

“What’s that jersey from?”

Theo follows my gaze upward toward a black and red jersey hanging near the corner of the room. Something unreadable flashes across his face before he schools the expression. “It’s uh, from before I went pro,” he says.

I squint at the name across the back.

Carrillo?

“That’s not your last name.”

“Very good, Atlas.” Theo looks at me for a moment before the side of his mouth pulls upward. “It’s also not your business.” He winks.

Okay then. Noted.

Before I can embarrass myself further, I hear Knox yell at the pool table. “You scratch that again and you’re paying my next in-game penalty.”

“Can you imagine how much Kuli pays in fines.” Layton snorts, talking about my friend Oli, or as the league calls him, Kuli.

“Doesn’t matter now. Andre signed a ninety-two-million-dollar contract for eight years. They’re doing just fine,” Kenton, a defenseman on the Miners, says.

“He really hasn’t been fined that often,” Theo says carefully before taking another drink. “He’s brutal, but he’s careful. He doesn’t take things too far.”

“Unless you touch Andre,” Knox mutters. “Good fucking luck.”

Layton snorts. “That shit is insane to think about.”

We all look at him.

Layton drops his stick to his side. “Not like that, okay. Jesus Christ. I just mean, it’s crazy to think about. It’s awesome. That’s all I meant by it. You know I have zero issue with it. I love the LGBTQ and all the pluses.”

Knox snorts loudly while Theo laughs into his beer.

“How’s it been for you?” Knox asks Theo after a second.

Theo leans against the wall. “Most of the time I can ignore the noise. I’m used to ignorant dumbasses with nothing better to do than bother other people.”

Then his dark eyes slide to mine.

“So how are you doing on the Vipers? We couldn’t believe you left Oregon.”

Every head turns toward me. My stomach twists. I am not good in the spotlight. “Um . . .” I rub the back of my neck. “It’s been good.”

“Don’t lie,” Knox says immediately. “He’s slowly discovering we have the worst coach in the league.”

Layton huffs a laugh, lining up his shot. “Grady needs to get fired.”