Chapter 10 Théo
I don’t know why I offered.
It was out of character. I was aware of that even as the words were coming out of my mouth in the hallway—I could watch Aspen—like some part of me had made the decision before consulting the rest. I liked dogs well enough, the same as anyone, but volunteering to housesit and dogsit for a man I had spoken to a handful of times was not something the version of me from four months ago would have recognized.
Maybe it was avoidance. Avery was consumed by hockey—practices, team outings, the first road trip of the season—and I was left rattling around his apartment with too much time and not enough structure. The walls were starting to feel closer every day.
I was still skating almost every morning.
Still grinding through workouts in the depressing basement gym.
But the hours between were the problem. Empty stretches where my brain circled all the things I was trying not to think about.
Coach Miller’s number sat in my phone, burning a hole in my pocket.
Taking care of Aspen would fill the gaps. A reason to get out of the apartment. Something to focus on that wasn’t my own mess.
That and Derek’s face when he’d read that text. Pure panic. The kind you get when the logistics you’ve built your life around suddenly collapse. He hadn’t even tried to hide it because hiding things didn’t seem to occur to him.
Something in me had responded before I could stop myself.
Avery talked about him like he hung the moon.
It was mildly irritating. No one was that consistently good natured, that reliably decent.
I had been watching him at the facility for a while now and I had yet to catch him in a single unguarded moment of frustration or selfishness or ordinary human pettiness.
He brought the security guard donuts. He remembered everyone’s names. He smiled at strangers.
There had to be something. A dirty secret, a hidden defect, something human and flawed underneath all that easy warmth. Maybe I would find it in his apartment.
Like what, Théo? A shrine to himself in the bathroom? A secret collection of haunted porcelain dolls? A neon beer sign?
I was being ridiculous. I knew I was being ridiculous. But there was something deeply unsettling about a person who seemed exactly as good as advertised. In my experience, people like that were either hiding something or waiting for the right moment to disappoint you.
Derek Sullivan was going to disappoint me eventually.
Everyone did.
I found his building without difficulty—two stops on the Blue Line and a ten minute walk.
I had always navigated Toronto on foot and by transit and I had been quietly pleased to discover that Chicago was the same way.
I would have died a little bit if I had to borrow Avery’s ghastly Jeep with the teal trim.
The building was nicer than Avery’s. Significantly nicer, which shouldn’t have surprised me—Derek was a superstar, I knew vaguely, which meant a different financial reality than Avery’s rookie deal.
There was a Walsh & Wilde across the street, their distinctive oxblood awning visible through the lobby glass.
The specialty grocery store that was famous, among other things, for $20 strawberries and the kind of olive oil that came with tasting notes.
Still. I had expected a penthouse. Or at least something higher than the second floor.
I found the intercom panel and pressed his unit number. It rang twice before connecting.
“Hello?”
“It’s Théo.”
The door buzzed open and I found my way to his apartment door.
I heard them before he answered the door—an enthusiastic scrabbling of claws and a high, excited yipping, followed by a lower sound, a good natured rumble that suggested the dog was being physically restrained from launching himself into the hallway.
Derek opened the door with one hand wrapped around a brown leather collar.
His hair was wet. Dark and dripping onto the collar of a white t-shirt, small damp patches spreading at the shoulders.
He was in light grey sweats, barefoot, and had clearly just showered.
He had not been very thorough at drying himself and his shirt was a little sheer in places.
I kept my eyes at an appropriate level and was largely successful.
“Come in before this rascal escapes—” He stepped back, holding the door only partially open, and I squeezed through the gap.
The manoeuvre put me closer to him than I’d anticipated. My front brushed against his chest—broad, warm even through the damp cotton—and I felt goosebumps break out along my arms with a speed that was frankly embarrassing. He smelled like bergamot, bright as a summer day.
I stepped into the apartment and focused immediately on the dog.
He was beautiful. An Australian Shepherd mix with blue eyes, merle coat, and boundless quivering energy. He shoved his nose into my hands the moment I offered them, tail moving his entire back half.
“This is Aspen,” Derek said, shutting the door. I noticed a rope with bells attached to the handle as he turned away from it. “He’s excited. He’ll calm down in approximately—” a pause “—never, actually. He doesn’t really calm down.”
“Hello, Aspen.” I let him sniff thoroughly and then scratched behind his ears. His eyes went half-closed with the ecstasy of it.
The apartment was nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall letting in the last of the evening light, tasteful furniture in warm neutrals, definitely more lived in than Avery’s. The shades were pulled down but I was pretty sure his neighbours could look directly into his apartment.
“Let me give you the quick tour,” Derek said, gesturing down a short hallway. “Bedroom’s at the end—you’re welcome to crash there. Bathroom’s on the right.”
I glanced into the bedroom as we passed. King sized bed, neatly made. Navy duvet. A book on the nightstand, spine cracked. The bathroom was simple—white tile, clean counters, a single toothbrush in a cup by the sink.
He pushed open the door on the left. “And this is... well, it was supposed to be a guest room.”
It was a trophy room slash home gym. One wall housed built in shelves filled with plaques, trophies, medals—arranged with surprising care. Everything dusted. Everything aligned. A framed Frost jersey hung nearby. A framed Team USA jersey on the opposite wall.
In the corner sat a rowing machine. Resistance bands hung from a row of hooks. A foam roller and a yoga mat sat underneath.
Everything was tidy. Organized. The kind of order that suggested either a cleaning service or a man who processed his feelings through tidiness. Given what I knew about Derek Sullivan, I suspected the latter.
“Kinda turned into my recovery room,” he said, a little sheepish.
We headed back to the living room.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He retrieved a water bottle from a refrigerator that was, I noted, sparse—a professional athlete’s refrigerator, protein and drinks and condiments and very little else—and folded himself onto the couch.
He gestured for me to sit. I sat across from him on a leather armchair and Aspen immediately put his chin on my knee.
He picked up a printed list from the coffee table and handed it to me.
Walk schedule. Food measurements—down to the half cup.
Two treats max per day. Regular vet, emergency vet, a note about which park he preferred.
It was the kind of list a person made when they genuinely loved another living creature and were terrified of leaving him with a stranger.
“As you already know, I train in the mornings,” I said, setting the page back on the table. “Will he be okay alone while I’m at the facility? Is he crate trained?”
“He is,” Derek said. “Usually I give him a long walk before I leave—at least 30 minutes—and that tires him out enough to sleep most of the day. There’s a pee pad in the bathroom just in case but he rarely uses it.
” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel bad leaving him alone so much, honestly. He gets a little... squirrely if he doesn’t get enough exercise. ”
“That’s fine. I’ll be back by lunchtime so he won’t be alone as long.”
Something in Derek’s expression eased. “That would be great, actually. He’ll probably love having the company.”
I looked down at Aspen, who was gazing up at me with those pale blue eyes with an expression of complete and devoted trust that animals extended to strangers before they had any reasonable basis for doing so.
“The bells on the doorknob. Rings it himself when he needs to go out. He figured it out in about two weeks.” There was a particular pride in his voice when he said it. “He’s a good boy.”
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” I said, scratching under his chin. “You’ll be good for me while daddy’s away?”
I felt it before I registered what I’d said. The air in the room changed.
Derek blinked. Swallowed. Looked at the list on the coffee table like it had just become extremely fascinating.
“He will,” he said. His voice was carefully even.
I looked back down at Aspen.
The goosebumps had not entirely gone away.
“Walk me through his routine,” I said.