“Mechanically—”
“Mechanically,” I said, “you are using maybe thirty percent of what the blade can do.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it, considering this with apparent sincerity. Not offended. Just... thinking about it. “Okay. That’s fair.” A pause. “Is that condescending or is that just true?”
“Both.”
He laughed. Short and genuine, surprised out of him. Aspen looked up from his water bowl at the sound of it.
Something shifted in the kitchen. Some ambient tension I hadn’t realized was present loosening slightly, like a joint popping. The defensiveness I’d walked into this conversation with felt suddenly excessive. Misplaced.
“It’s nice that they’re letting you use the rink. Are you also getting ice time somewhere else?”
“Uhm, no.” I picked up my coffee. Set it down. “I’m not officially training. I don’t know if I’m—it’s not—” I stopped.
This was ridiculous. I never explained myself to anyone. Sabrina knew better than to ask. Avery had tried once and I’d shut him down so efficiently he hadn’t brought it up since. Strangers, journalists, casual acquaintances—they got nothing. A shrug. A redirect. A look that made it clear the topic was closed.
But Derek was sitting there with his coffee and his patient expression and his genuine, unhurried curiosity, and suddenly I was flustered.
I was never flustered.
“That was nosy of me,” he said simply. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
No pressure. No follow up questions. Just an easy out, offered without judgment. It made me want to explain, which was possibly the most irritating thing he’d done yet.
What was this guy’s deal?
I had very limited experience with people who didn’t require anything back. In skating, everyone required something—coaches required performance, judges required a narrative, the audience required spectacle. Even Sabrina, who loved me without conditions, required that I occasionally tell the truth about how I was doing.
Derek Sullivan apparently just required... my vague responses. And maybe not even that.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
“You should get ready,” I said, quieter now. “I don’t want to make you late.”
He nodded and crumpled his wax paper and stood. He was hanging up his hat when I said, without entirely planning to, “Triple axel. That’s what was giving me trouble.”
He looked up.
“Three and a half rotations,” I said. “Forward outside edge takeoff. You were right about that part.”
He had the decency not to make it weird. Which, frankly, was more restraint than most people showed.
“You’ll get it back,” he said.
I picked up my coffee and didn’t answer. But I didn’t disagree either.
15. Derek
Was this really happening?
Théo Beaubien was sitting in the passenger seat of my GX, looking out the window at Chicago sliding past, his all black skating outfit completely inappropriate for the early morning heat that was still plaguing the city. Sambas on his feet instead of skates. He had pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands the moment he got in and I reached over without comment and turned the air conditioning down two notches.
He didn’t acknowledge it. But he also let go of his sleeves which I decided counted. We talked a little. I asked what he thought of the city, whether he’d found his way around my neighborhood okay, whether Avery had taken him anywhere beyond the West Loop and IKEA.
He answered my questions in that economical way he had—it’s fine, yes, no—offering just enough to sustain conversation without giving anything away. He was good at it. The responses were technically complete sentences, technically responsive, and revealed almost nothing.
I found myself curious about why he was really here. Not the surface version Avery had offered—he needed a change of scenery—but the actual version. The thing that had put those dark circles under his eyes and that careful guardedness in every interaction.
