41. Derek
We were in Pittsburgh, followed by Detroit, and then Toronto before heading back to Chicago. We’d had a brutal loss against Pittsburgh, 1-4, so after a commiseration drink, most of the guys went to their hotel rooms to sulk before we flew out to Detroit in the morning. I had showered at the stadium so I just changed out of my suit when I got back to my room.
I pulled up the familiar text thread and my thumb hovered over the video icon.
I was feeling uneasy. Unmoored. After his visit to Toronto, something had shifted with Théo. He was quieter. More withdrawn. The texts came slower, the jokes landed softer. I could feel him pulling inward, retreating to that place I couldn’t reach.
When we were apart, I liked to watch his old YouTube clips. Past competitions, interviews, that one viral video of him landing a quad at 16 with a smile so bright it hurt to look at. But no amount of YouTube kept me sane. I felt like I was crawling out of my skin and I didn’t know what to do with that. I’d never been this person before. The guy who counted days. Who checked his phone too often. Who felt the absence of someone like a physical ache.
It was late. We’d had a brutal game that went into overtime. He was probably asleep.
Fuck it.I hit call.
He answered on the second ring. The screen filled with him—curled up in my bed, wearing one of my shirts, looking sleepy and soft and so beautiful it knocked the breath out of me. The riotous thing in my chest settled into something warm and possessive.
Mine.
But then I looked closer. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual. His face was thinner. The kind of thin that made my stomach clench with worry.
“Sorry, were you sleeping?”
“No, I was still up.” His voice was low and a little rough. He shifted against the pillows—my pillows—and I caught a glimpse of collarbone where the shirt had slipped. Too much collarbone.
“Were you waiting for me to call?” I teased, trying to keep my voice light when everything in me wanted to sayI miss youandI hate thisandare you eating enough?
“Maybe.” A small smile. “I had a long call with Sabrina earlier.”
“Oh yeah? How’s she doing?”
“She’s good. Worried about Nico. Worried about me.” He said it matter-of-factly, like these were just items on a list. “Worried that I’m going to relapse. I upped my therapy appointments to weekly.”
“That’s good.” The words felt inadequate. A thousand miles of highway and hotel rooms between us and all I could do was saythat’s goodlike it was enough. I wished I could reach through the phone. Pull him close. Make sure he knew he wasn’t doing this alone.
“Yeah.” But his voice was flat. Distant.
I leaned back against the headboard, letting myself just look at him for a moment. The low light from his bedside lamp. The way he’d pulled the covers up around himself like a cocoon. Theway he was wearing my shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“How are you doing?” I asked carefully.
Something shifted in his expression—subtle but I’d gotten good at reading him. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his gaze dropped for half a second before he met mine again.
“The Maple Leaf Classic is next month,” he said, neatly sidestepping my question. “Coach Miller brought it up. And Sabrina’s been… gently nudging.”
“Nudging?”
“She knows not to push.” A ghost of a smile. “She just keeps mentioning it. Casually. Like I don’t know exactly what she’s doing.” The smile faded. “They both know what the Olympics mean to me. It’s been my dream since I was a kid—since I was nine and watched the coverage with my mom and told her that was going to be me one day.” He exhaled. “Sabrina’s not pushing. Not with… everything. But she won’t let me bury it, either. She keeps it where I can see it. Like she’s saying, you don’t have to choose it today—but don’t pretend you never wanted it.”
My heart stuttered with worry. “That’s a big step. Are you coming out of hiatus?”
I wanted to ask if he was okay. If this was too much, too fast. If he was running toward something or just running away from the wreckage behind him. But I’d learned that pushing Théo only made him retreat further.
So I waited.
“More like… dipping my toe?” He said it like a question, like he wasn’t sure of the answer himself. “It’s in Toronto. Which feels like either the worst idea or some kind of cosmic test.”
“Is it something you want to do?”
A pause. His fingers twisted in the sleeves of my shirt—one of the nervous habits I’d noticed.
