“You’re thinking of sulky.”
“Same energy.” He considered me with more seriousness than the question warranted. “You don’t seem sulky. Or sullen. So… Derek it is.”
The way he said it—deliberate, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth—made my stomach flip. Too much beer on an empty stomach. I really should eat something.
“I’m good with that,” I said.
He nodded once and took another sip of his drink.
I don’t know what made me say it. Maybe the alcohol. Or the way he said my name—like I was a person, not just a jersey number. Or maybe it was the way he talked about being judged for something he couldn’t quite name. I knew that feeling.
“I thought about quitting hockey,” I said. “Last year.”
He looked up. “Really? Mr. Team USA.”
“There’s a cost,” I said. “To this kind of life. And last year I wasn’t sure it was worth it anymore.”
Théo stayed quiet—no prying, no encouragement. Somehow that made it easier to keep going, like the silence was a place to put the truth.
“My fiancée,” I said, then stalled. Started again. “Mackenzie. We’d been together since we were 16. She moved to Chicago when I got drafted. We were—” I turned my beer glass on the table. “I got sick during weight training. Left early and Ubered back. She was supposed to be at work.”
Théo didn’t move. His eyes stayed on my face.
“She wasn’t at work,” I said. My breath came out sharp through my nose. “She was with my best friend. I caught them in our bed.”
The bar carried on around us, indifferent—Petrov laughing at something across the table, bass thumping from the speakers.
“I ran,” I said. “Tried to get out without—” I made a small, useless gesture. “My dog was on the stairs. I didn’t see him until it was too late. I hit the stairs wrong trying not to kick him and went down hard.” A humorless smile. “Tore my ACL. Concussion. So that was my year. Bum knee, no fiancée, no best friend.”
Théo’s face softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said the words like he actually meant them.
“I haven’t told anyone that,” I admitted. “Not even my mom.” I stared at my beer. “She thinks I had a freak accident on the stairs. That the schedule took its toll on our relationship. I was too embarrassed to tell her the truth.” My throat tightened. “I don’t know why I’m telling you.”
He held my gaze. Not pity—something quieter. Recognition, maybe. The look of someone who’d also had the ground shift beneath him and was still learning how to stand.
“Because I told you I was having an existential crisis and you didn’t want me to feel like the only disaster at the table.” He shrugged. “It’s only polite.”
I cracked a smile despite myself. “Maybe.”
I watched him for a long moment. He was young—seven years younger than me which felt vast in your twenties—but there was a weariness in his eyes. The kind that came from learning early how to keep things tucked away. Twenty-one year old Derek had been full of dumb confidence and the unshakable belief that nothing could touch him. Théo didn’t have that. Whatever grace period youth was supposed to provide, he’d cashed his in early.
Across the room, Avery had abandoned Hana’s choreography entirely and was doing something freestyle and inexplicable that made her laugh loud enough to cut through the music. Théo watched them and for a few seconds, his expression went unguarded—open, aching, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Then he felt me looking and the wall slid back into place.
“You should come to the home opener,” I said. “See what Avery actually does with those skates.”
“I’m not really a hockey person.”
“You grew up with Avery.”
“Exactly.” He raised a brow like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve seen enough hockey to last a lifetime.”
8. Théo
I had been in Chicago nearly two weeks and I still hadn’t called Coach Miller.
