“I don’t hog the blankets.”
“You absolutely hog the blankets. You’re a blanket gremlin.”
“I’m a figure skater. I’m perpetually cold.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“It’s science.”
He laughed and the sound settled warm in my ribcage. We were quiet for a moment, just looking at each other. It should have been awkward—post-orgasm small talk over a video call—but it wasn’t. It felt easy. Natural.
Dangerous, probably. But I was too tired to care.
“I should let you sleep,” I said finally. “Big game tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t look like he wanted to hang up. Neither did I. “Hey, Théo?”
“Mm?”
“I’m glad we got to talk. The other part was nice too.”
Something soft unfurled in my chest. “Me too.”
“Five more days,” he promised. “Then I’m not letting you out of that bed for a week.”
“I’m holding you to that, daddy.”
He groaned. “Goodnight, Théo.”
“Goodnight, Derek.”
I ended the call and lay there in the dark, his hoodie ruined and his pillow beneath my head, feeling something terrifyingly close to happiness.
33. Derek
I slipped on the faded grey Frost hoodie over my compression shirt and joggers. It was the one Théo had borrowed the other day and it still smelled like him. I had never felt this level of obsession with another person. I had to fight the urge to call him the moment I woke up. The hoodie helped. That fresh winter scent filling my nose as I pulled the fabric over my head.
I headed down to the hotel breakfast, grabbing a black coffee and piling my plate with scrambled eggs, a few pieces of bacon, and some hashbrowns. Volsky was already seated at one of the tables, inhaling a giant egg white omelet and a square of dry toast. He made me feel like a slacker.
“Morning,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.
He nodded, chewing methodically. Volsky wasn’t much for small talk before noon—or after noon, really. He was the kind of guy who said exactly what needed to be said and nothing more. I appreciated that about him. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
Then Petrov stumbled in. He looked like death warmed over—sunglasses on indoors, hoodie pulled up, hair sticking out in every direction. He moved with the careful, offended posture of a man whose body had filed a formal complaint against last night. Without speaking to anyone, he beelined for the coffee station, poured two cups with grim purpose, and shuffled to the far end of the room before dropping into a chair facing the wall.
A minute later, Avery appeared, only slightly more alive. He scanned the buffet with the focused intensity he usually reserved for faceoffs, then loaded a plate with every greasy thing available—cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, hashbrowns, something that might have been a breakfast burrito. Then he grabbed an apple. For balance.
He dropped into the seat next to Petrov. The hangover table.
“Lightweights,” I muttered.
Kenzo’s mouth twitched—the closest he got to a laugh before his second cup of coffee.
I found myself smiling for no reason, replaying last night’s call in my head. The way Théo had looked in my hoodie. The way he’d saidmissed youlike the words had escaped against his will. The soft, genuine laugh when I’d called him a blanket gremlin.
“You’re in a good mood.”
I looked up. Volsky was watching me with that quiet, observant gaze of his. Not prying—Volsky never pried—just noting.
