Taking care of Aspen would fill the gaps. A reason to get out of the apartment. Something to focus on that wasn’t my own mess.
That and Derek’s face when he’d read that text. Pure panic. The kind you get when the logistics you’ve built your life around suddenly collapse. He hadn’t even tried to hide it because hiding things didn’t seem to occur to him.
Something in me had responded before I could stop myself.
Avery talked about him like he hung the moon. It was mildly irritating. No one was that consistently good natured, that reliably decent. I had been watching him at the facility for a while now and I had yet to catch him in a single unguarded moment of frustration or selfishness or ordinary human pettiness. He brought the security guard donuts. He remembered everyone’s names. He smiled at strangers.
There had to be something. A dirty secret, a hidden defect, something human and flawed underneath all that easy warmth. Maybe I would find it in his apartment.
Like what, Théo? A shrine to himself in the bathroom? A secret collection of haunted porcelain dolls? A neon beer sign?
I was being ridiculous. I knew I was being ridiculous. But there was something deeply unsettling about a person who seemed exactly as good as advertised. In my experience, people like that were either hiding something or waiting for the right moment to disappoint you.
Derek Sullivan was going to disappoint me eventually.
Everyone did.
I found his building without difficulty—two stops on the Blue Line and a ten minute walk. I had always navigated Toronto on foot and by transit and I had been quietly pleased to discover that Chicago was the same way. I would have died a little bit if I had to borrow Avery’s ghastly Jeep with the teal trim.
The building was nicer than Avery’s. Significantly nicer, which shouldn’t have surprised me—Derek was a superstar, I knew vaguely, which meant a different financial reality than Avery’s rookie deal. There was a Walsh & Wilde across the street, their distinctive oxblood awning visible through the lobby glass. The specialty grocery store that was famous, among other things, for $20 strawberries and the kind of olive oil that came with tasting notes.
Still. I had expected a penthouse. Or at least something higher than the second floor.
I found the intercom panel and pressed his unit number. It rang twice before connecting.
“Hello?”
“It’s Théo.”
The door buzzed open and I found my way to his apartment door.
I heard them before he answered the door—an enthusiastic scrabbling of claws and a high, excited yipping, followed by a lower sound, a good natured rumble that suggested the dog was being physically restrained from launching himself into the hallway.
Derek opened the door with one hand wrapped around a brown leather collar.
His hair was wet. Dark and dripping onto the collar of a white t-shirt, small damp patches spreading at the shoulders. He was in light grey sweats, barefoot, and had clearly just showered. He had not been very thorough at drying himself and his shirt was a little sheer in places. I kept my eyes at an appropriate level and was largely successful.
“Come in before this rascal escapes—” He stepped back, holding the door only partially open, and I squeezed through the gap.
The manoeuvreput me closer to him than I’d anticipated. My front brushed against his chest—broad, warm even through the damp cotton—and I felt goosebumps break out along my arms with a speed that was frankly embarrassing. He smelled like bergamot, bright as a summer day.
I stepped into the apartment and focused immediately on the dog.
He was beautiful. An Australian Shepherd mix with blue eyes, merle coat, and boundless quivering energy. He shoved hisnose into my hands the moment I offered them, tail moving his entire back half.
“This is Aspen,” Derek said, shutting the door. I noticed a rope with bells attached to the handle as he turned away from it. “He’s excited. He’ll calm down in approximately—” a pause “—never, actually. He doesn’t really calm down.”
“Hello, Aspen.” I let him sniff thoroughly and then scratched behind his ears. His eyes went half-closed with the ecstasy of it.
The apartment was nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall letting in the last of the evening light, tasteful furniture in warm neutrals, definitely more lived in than Avery’s. The shades were pulled down but I was pretty sure his neighbours could look directly into his apartment.
“Let me give you the quick tour,” Derek said, gesturing down a short hallway. “Bedroom’s at the end—you’re welcome to crash there. Bathroom’s on the right.”
I glanced into the bedroom as we passed. King sized bed, neatly made. Navy duvet. A book on the nightstand, spine cracked. The bathroom was simple—white tile, clean counters, a single toothbrush in a cup by the sink.
He pushed open the door on the left. “And this is... well, it was supposed to be a guest room.”
It was a trophy room slash home gym. One wall housed built in shelves filled with plaques, trophies, medals—arranged with surprising care. Everything dusted. Everything aligned. A framed Frost jersey hung nearby. A framed Team USA jersey on the opposite wall.
