His profile caught the light when we passed the river—sharp jaw, long lashes, that faintly unimpressed mouth—and my brain supplied,I wonder if his lips are as soft as they look.
Couldn’t blame the lack of sleep or a dodgy airport sandwich on that wayward thought. I tightened my grip on the wheel and kept my eyes on the road.
“There’s a café I stop at every morning,” I offered, filling a lull. “Maple Street Café, around the corner from the facility. Old school, been there forever.”
“Every morning?”
“Creature of habit.”
He nodded, like this confirmed something about me. I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.
I glanced at him. “Do you want something? Iced coffee?”
“Sure.”
I swung through the drive-thru and ordered—two black iced coffees and an old fashioned donut that I’d drop at the security desk for Stanley. Théo accepted his coffee with a quiet thanks and went back to looking out the window.
I pulled into my spot in the team parking garage.
“Thanks for the ride,” Théo said, already halfway out of the car. “And the coffee. I’ll—” He paused, like he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. “See you around.”
He was gone before I could respond.
“See you around,” I echoed.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t let this go. He was my teammate’s younger brother. His stay in Chicago was temporary at best. He was prickly and guarded and had given me exactly zero indication that he wanted anything to do with me beyond polite tolerance.
So why did I keep watching those YouTube videos like an obsessive fanboy? Why did I wonder if he was warm enough? Whether his lips were as soft as they looked?
It didn’t make sense. I had a comeback season to focus on—proving the knee would hold, proving the A on my jersey still meant something. I had enough on my plate without adding whatever this was.
And yet.
I shook it off and finally opened my door to get out of the car.
???
Stanley had opinions about the Detroit pre-season game, most of them unprintable, and I stayed at his desk for five minutes hearing all of them. He was not wrong about the officiating. I collected my iced coffee and left him to his convictions.
Then like every morning, I found myself walking back into the rink instead of the weight room.
I told myself it was because I had time before Thomas started the session—which was bullshit. Volsky showed up early to stretch and warm up almost everyday. This was his comeback season too, and if I was serious about mine, I should be right there next to him, putting in the extra work.
But I told myself the ice was calming. That I liked the cold before practice. That it was purely incidental that Théo happened to be on it.
More bullshit.
I sat in the back row and watched.
He was working spins.
I had watched game tape for fifteen years. I understood athletic movement, had an educated eye for technique and power and efficiency of motion. I thought I understood what skating was.
I had not understood what figure skating was.
He moved into a combination spin and the world seemed to reorganize itself around him—the centrifugal pull of it, the absolute command of his body in rotation, arms drawing in to accelerate until he was a single dark blur at the center of the ice. The control required to enter and exit those positions, to change from one spin variation to the next without interrupting the flow, was extraordinary and looked like nothing at all when he did it. Like breathing.
Then he moved into his jump setup and I forgot about the spin entirely.
