Chapter 7 Derek #2
“Is that what you believe? Or just what they told you?”
He looked like he was going to brush me off. Instead, he exhaled—small, controlled. “There’s always some it factor,” he said, frowning at the glass in front of him. “My coach thought I lacked maturity. Emotional depth.” He glanced at me, then away. “At 21.”
“So that’s it? You’re not skating anymore?”
“I haven’t decided.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll retire at the ripe old age of 21.”
I watched him for a moment. There was something coiled in the way he talked about it—not bitterness exactly, more like deflation.
Like he had taken something painful and compressed it into the smallest possible shape so it would take up less room.
I recognized the architecture of it. I had built similar structures myself.
“But the Olympics,” I said. “Milan. Is that still—” I caught myself, hearing how it sounded. Prying into something that wasn’t any of my business. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
He looked at me, tilting his head like he was deciding whether he could trust me with the answer.
“It’s been the goal since I was nine,” he said finally. “Whether it still is possible depends on a lot of things.”
“Your hiatus?”
“Among other things.”
I nodded but didn’t push. “I played for Team USA three years ago. Bronze. Avery’s got his eye on Team Canada.”
Something flickered across his face. “He’s mentioned it.”
“That’d be something—going to the same Games as your brother.”
“Maybe for other siblings.” He paused, choosing his words with care.
“Growing up, I was always Mathéo, Avery’s little brother.
That’s how people introduced me—like I was an appendix to him, not a person in my own right.
” His eyes flicked up, then away. “Théo was supposed to be my escape hatch. New sport, new name, new me.” A brief, humorless laugh.
“Turns out it’s hard to outrun your own family. ”
He took a sip of his drink.
“Besides, the Olympics loves a heartwarming story. Two Beaubien brothers, same Games, different sports? They’d eat that up. Package us into some narrative about family and perseverance that has nothing to do with reality.” His mouth twisted. “I’ve had enough of performing for cameras.”
I tried to lighten the mood. “I bet you’re a better skater.”
He looked at me with those dark, serious eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to deflect.
“By a significant margin,” he said.
I laughed. “Would you say that to his face?”
“Sure.” A beat. “When he comes back, I’ll tell him.”
A comfortable enough silence settled between us. Théo lifted his drink, sleeve still pulled over his hand like a habit he didn’t notice anymore.
“Hey—” he said. “What should I call you? Sullivan. Sully. Derek?”
“Take your pick,” I said. “What suits me?”
“I can’t get away with Sullivan, too sporty. Sully makes you sound sad.”
“You’re thinking of sulky.”
“Same energy.” He considered me with more seriousness than the question warranted. “You don’t seem sulky. Or sullen. So… Derek it is.”
The way he said it—deliberate, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth—made my stomach flip. Too much beer on an empty stomach. I really should eat something.
“I’m good with that,” I said.
He nodded once and took another sip of his drink.
I don’t know what made me say it. Maybe the alcohol. Or the way he said my name—like I was a person, not just a jersey number. Or maybe it was the way he talked about being judged for something he couldn’t quite name. I knew that feeling.
“I thought about quitting hockey,” I said. “Last year.”
He looked up. “Really? Mr. Team USA.”
“There’s a cost,” I said. “To this kind of life. And last year I wasn’t sure it was worth it anymore.”
Théo stayed quiet—no prying, no encouragement. Somehow that made it easier to keep going, like the silence was a place to put the truth.
“My fiancée,” I said, then stalled. Started again. “Mackenzie. We’d been together since we were 16. She moved to Chicago when I got drafted. We were—” I turned my beer glass on the table. “I got sick during weight training. Left early and Ubered back. She was supposed to be at work.”
Théo didn’t move. His eyes stayed on my face.
“She wasn’t at work,” I said. My breath came out sharp through my nose. “She was with my best friend. I caught them in our bed.”
The bar carried on around us, indifferent—Petrov laughing at something across the table, bass thumping from the speakers.
“I ran,” I said. “Tried to get out without—” I made a small, useless gesture.
“My dog was on the stairs. I didn’t see him until it was too late.
I hit the stairs wrong trying not to kick him and went down hard.
” A humorless smile. “Tore my ACL. Concussion. So that was my year. Bum knee, no fiancée, no best friend.”
Théo’s face softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said the words like he actually meant them.
“I haven’t told anyone that,” I admitted. “Not even my mom.” I stared at my beer. “She thinks I had a freak accident on the stairs. That the schedule took its toll on our relationship. I was too embarrassed to tell her the truth.” My throat tightened. “I don’t know why I’m telling you.”
He held my gaze. Not pity—something quieter. Recognition, maybe. The look of someone who’d also had the ground shift beneath him and was still learning how to stand.
“Because I told you I was having an existential crisis and you didn’t want me to feel like the only disaster at the table.” He shrugged. “It’s only polite.”
I cracked a smile despite myself. “Maybe.”
I watched him for a long moment. He was young—seven years younger than me which felt vast in your twenties—but there was a weariness in his eyes.
The kind that came from learning early how to keep things tucked away.
Twenty-one year old Derek had been full of dumb confidence and the unshakable belief that nothing could touch him.
Théo didn’t have that. Whatever grace period youth was supposed to provide, he’d cashed his in early.
Across the room, Avery had abandoned Hana’s choreography entirely and was doing something freestyle and inexplicable that made her laugh loud enough to cut through the music. Théo watched them and for a few seconds, his expression went unguarded—open, aching, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Then he felt me looking and the wall slid back into place.
“You should come to the home opener,” I said. “See what Avery actually does with those skates.”
“I’m not really a hockey person.”
“You grew up with Avery.”
“Exactly.” He raised a brow like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve seen enough hockey to last a lifetime.”