“Bradley, this is Théo Beaubien. Avery’s younger brother. Théo, Bradley Walsh.” Hana was already unpacking the grocery bags, completely unfazed. “Please ignore everything he says.”
Avery’s younger brother.I fought the urge to wince. It was accurate—technically—but I’d spent my whole life being introduced in relation to someone else. Avery’s brother. Renaud’s student. Never just Théo.
But then Bradley’s expression shifted, recognition flickering in those green eyes.
“Théo Beaubien.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “The figure skater. Oh my God, your short at Junior Worlds? With that Lana Del Rey song? I literally wept.”
I blinked. “You know who I am?”
“Darling, before Kenzo dragged me into this barbaric sport where men slam each other into walls for fun, figure skating was the only ice related entertainment I followed.” He gestured with the knife still in his hand, nearly taking out a hanging copper pot. “I’ve seen you compete. You were magnificent at Worlds two years ago. That free skate? Transcendent. Actual tears. I can’t believe you’re related to Avery.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. Being recognized by a grocery empire heir in a penthouse kitchen was not on my bingo card for the evening.
“I—thank you.”
“Oh and I have to ask.” Bradley leaned forward conspiratorially. “Nicolas Fontaine. Is he really as sweet as he seems? He always looks so wholesome in interviews.”
The name landed like a punch to the sternum.
“Bradley,” Hana said sharply. She didn’t know the details but she could clearly read my face.
“What? I’m genuinely curious. The internet was convinced he and that other skater—what was his name, the dark hairedone with the cheekbones—were an item. There were whole Tumblr accounts dedicated to them.”
The dark haired one with the cheekbones. That would be me. The Tumblr accounts had been dedicated tous.
“Nico is...” I forced my voice to stay even. “He’s exactly what he seems. Genuinely kind. A good person.”
Too good for me, I didn’t add.I broke him and fled the country.
Something in my tone must have registered because Bradley’s expression shifted, the theatrical enthusiasm dimming into something more perceptive. “Ah,” he said softly. “Foot in mouth. My specialty. I apologize.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not and I’m sorry.” He was sincere now, the performance dropped entirely. “Let me make it up to you with an excellent glass of wine and a promise to only ask inappropriate questions about hockey players from now on.”
“Bradley—” Hana started.
“What? Hockey players are fair game. My boyfriend is one. I’m contractually obligated to gossip about them.” He was already heading toward the built-in wine fridge, giving me space to recover. “Beer, wine? I’ve got a gorgeous Barolo breathing if you want something red. Or sparkling water if you’re not drinking.”
“Red’s great, thanks.”
He poured me a generous glass and the moment passed, smoothed over by his easy charm and Hana’s grateful look.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Bradley said, gesturing toward the living area. “The pre-game coverage should be starting soon. I’ve got the projector all set up.”
“Projector?”
“Eighty-five inches wasn’t cutting it.” He shrugged like this was a normal sentence. “As you know, size matters.” He winked.
I choked on my sip of wine and looked over at Hana. She just smiled and shook her head.
“Told you,” she said. “Totally normal.”
???
I was eating my creamy lemon tagliatelle as carefully as possible. If I spilled sauce on Bradley’s expensive couch, I probably wouldn’t be invited back. The pasta was perfect—silky noodles coated in a bright, velvety sauce that Hana had somehow pulled together in under an hour. Culinary school was clearly paying off.
Bradley and Hana didn’t seem to share my concerns about the upholstery. They took turns gesturing wildly at the screen, shouting at the refs in a mix of English and what sounded like Russian.
