The day before our trip out East, we sat in the locker room in the comfortable silence of a team that had worked hard enough to earn quiet. Volsky was icing his shoulder. Morrison was texting, probably his wife. Avery had his earbuds in and his eyes closed.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, mentally playing back our last drill.
My phone buzzed.
I stared at the message for a second. I had texted Théo earlier:Still okay to watch Aspen when we head to Buffalo?
I’d forgotten about it during practice. Now there was a response.
Théo: Yes. I miss him.
Don’t spoil him too much. He already thinks he’s royalty.
Théo: He IS royalty. Prince Aspen of House Sullivan, First of His Name, Lord of the Morning Walk, Protector of the Apartment, Ruler of Men.
Théo: All your premium channels are an added perk of dogsitting.
Glad you’re enjoying my HBO subscription. I’m only on season 3 of GOT so don’t spoil anything.
Théo: Just started the first season. Avery only pays for the sports package.
Shocking. Maybe when you catch up, we can watch it together.
I stared at my phone. What the fuck, Sullivan? Why would he want to do that? I quickly changed the subject.
Thanks again for watching Aspen.
Théo: Anything for Prince Aspen.
He didn’t acknowledge the invitation. Of course he didn’t. But I wasn’t ready for the conversation to end.
Wait. Does that make me King Derek?
Théo: This may come as a shock to you…
Théo: He’s adopted.
I laughed at my phone. Brief and sharp.
Avery opened one eye. Looked at me. Closed it again without comment, which was somehow worse than if he’d said something.
16. Théo
I had been avoiding Derek Sullivan since the day he gave me a ride to the rink.
Not in an obvious way. I was just—busy. Ice time in the mornings, off-ice conditioning in the afternoons, avoiding all my problems in between. A very full schedule that happened, coincidentally, to involve minimal Derek Sullivan contact.
Healthy coping. Totally fine. Nothing to examine here.
Every time he asked me a question with those earnest eyes—how’s training, how are you settling in, did you sleep okay—like the answers actually mattered to him. The way he listened, really listened, his full attention on you like you were the only person in the room worth hearing. It was fucking unnerving. I didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. I didn’t trust it, or I didn’t trust myself with it, which amounted to the same problem.
And then there was the text exchange.
I had re-read it three times. Four. I had caught myself smiling at my phone like an idiot and then immediately wanted to throw the phone into Lake Michigan.
It was banter. Just banter. The kind of thing you did with friends. Derek was friendly with everyone—that was his whole thing. He probably had equally charming text exchanges with half the team.
He invited you to watch GOT together,my brain supplied unhelpfully.
