Chapter 15 Derek
Was this really happening?
Théo Beaubien was sitting in the passenger seat of my GX, looking out the window at Chicago sliding past, his all black skating outfit completely inappropriate for the early morning heat that was still plaguing the city.
Sambas on his feet instead of skates. He had pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands the moment he got in and I reached over without comment and turned the air conditioning down two notches.
He didn’t acknowledge it. But he also let go of his sleeves which I decided counted. We talked a little. I asked what he thought of the city, whether he’d found his way around my neighborhood okay, whether Avery had taken him anywhere beyond the West Loop and IKEA.
He answered my questions in that economical way he had—it’s fine, yes, no—offering just enough to sustain conversation without giving anything away. He was good at it. The responses were technically complete sentences, technically responsive, and revealed almost nothing.
I found myself curious about why he was really here. Not the surface version Avery had offered—he needed a change of scenery—but the actual version. The thing that had put those dark circles under his eyes and that careful guardedness in every interaction.
His profile caught the light when we passed the river—sharp jaw, long lashes, that faintly unimpressed mouth—and my brain supplied, I wonder if his lips are as soft as they look.
Couldn’t blame the lack of sleep or a dodgy airport sandwich on that wayward thought. I tightened my grip on the wheel and kept my eyes on the road.
“There’s a café I stop at every morning,” I offered, filling a lull. “Maple Street Café, around the corner from the facility. Old school, been there forever.”
“Every morning?”
“Creature of habit.”
He nodded, like this confirmed something about me. I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.
I glanced at him. “Do you want something? Iced coffee?”
“Sure.”
I swung through the drive-thru and ordered—two black iced coffees and an old fashioned donut that I’d drop at the security desk for Stanley. Théo accepted his coffee with a quiet thanks and went back to looking out the window.
I pulled into my spot in the team parking garage.
“Thanks for the ride,” Théo said, already halfway out of the car. “And the coffee. I’ll—” He paused, like he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. “See you around.”
He was gone before I could respond.
“See you around,” I echoed.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t let this go. He was my teammate’s younger brother. His stay in Chicago was temporary at best. He was prickly and guarded and had given me exactly zero indication that he wanted anything to do with me beyond polite tolerance.
So why did I keep watching those YouTube videos like an obsessive fanboy? Why did I wonder if he was warm enough? Whether his lips were as soft as they looked?
It didn’t make sense. I had a comeback season to focus on—proving the knee would hold, proving the A on my jersey still meant something. I had enough on my plate without adding whatever this was.
And yet.
I shook it off and finally opened my door to get out of the car.
◆◆◆
Stanley had opinions about the Detroit pre-season game, most of them unprintable, and I stayed at his desk for five minutes hearing all of them. He was not wrong about the officiating. I collected my iced coffee and left him to his convictions.
Then like every morning, I found myself walking back into the rink instead of the weight room.
I told myself it was because I had time before Thomas started the session—which was bullshit. Volsky showed up early to stretch and warm up almost everyday. This was his comeback season too, and if I was serious about mine, I should be right there next to him, putting in the extra work.
But I told myself the ice was calming. That I liked the cold before practice. That it was purely incidental that Théo happened to be on it.
More bullshit.
I sat in the back row and watched.
He was working spins.
I had watched game tape for fifteen years. I understood athletic movement, had an educated eye for technique and power and efficiency of motion. I thought I understood what skating was.
I had not understood what figure skating was.
He moved into a combination spin and the world seemed to reorganize itself around him—the centrifugal pull of it, the absolute command of his body in rotation, arms drawing in to accelerate until he was a single dark blur at the center of the ice.
The control required to enter and exit those positions, to change from one spin variation to the next without interrupting the flow, was extraordinary and looked like nothing at all when he did it. Like breathing.
Then he moved into his jump setup and I forgot about the spin entirely.
I don’t know why I kept coming here. That was the honest answer. I just couldn’t stay away and he hadn’t told me to fuck off yet, which I was treating as implicit permission.
My alarm vibrated. I needed to be in the weight room in five minutes. I stood and watched from the doorway for one more minute, unable to help myself, and then turned and went to find the rest of my team.
◆◆◆
Thomas was in a mood, which meant we all suffered equally and with full accountability.
He ran us through a conditioning circuit that had Petrov questioning his life choices out loud in three languages before the first rotation was finished.
Morrison moved through it with the grim efficiency of a man who had made peace with suffering, which was either admirable or alarming depending on the day.
Volsky’s shoulder was visibly better—fuller range of motion, no compensation pattern on the overhead movements—and I caught Thomas clocking it with the satisfied expression of a man watching his work pay off.
Avery worked hard. He always worked hard, that was never the question with him.
The question with Avery was channeling it—he had the engine of someone twice his experience level and occasionally the judgment of someone half it, which was exactly what a 22 year old looked like.
I got on him about his footwork during the skating drills and he took the correction and applied it immediately, which was the thing about him that made the investment worthwhile.
“Better,” I said.
“I know,” Avery replied with a grin.
Morrison snorted from six feet away. “He knows,” he confirmed to no one in particular.
Petrov glided past on the outside edge and added, deadpan, “He’ll take it from you. Not from me.”
We ran the power play unit twice in the afternoon session and it clicked the way it only did when everyone was reading the same ice.
Morrison distributing from the half wall, Volsky crashing the near post, me finding the seam at the right circle.
Avery in the bumper learning to be useful without the puck.
The second rep ended with Avery pouncing on a rebound in the bumper—his first power play goal in practice—and Thiessen took his blocker off and stared at it like it had personally offended him.
“Sorry, Thiessen,” Avery called, not sounding sorry.
“No you’re not,” Thiessen said.
“No,” Avery agreed pleasantly.
◆◆◆
We had a home game—a win against St. Louis—and then a few days at home before heading to Buffalo.
Every morning, I was at the rink early, coffee in hand, taking a seat in the last row.
Théo was always already there. He had his own rhythm now, a structured progression I’d started to recognize—edges and footwork first, then spins, then jump work.
He was meticulous about the warm up in a way that suggested it was non-negotiable, a ritual that had to be observed in full before anything else was permitted.
The triple axel was coming back. Slowly, reluctantly, like something he had to earn back rather than simply retrieve.
I watched him fall on it twice in one session and get up both times with the same expression—not frustration exactly, more like he was having a private conversation with his body that hadn’t reached a resolution yet.
On our day off, I came in to use the treadmill. Maybe I’d get a massage from the physical therapist afterwards. I told myself that was the reason since my building had a gym that would be emptying out by now.
The massage was more torture than relaxation—twenty minutes of Mason digging his fingers into the scar tissue around my knee while I stared at the ceiling and tried not to swear.
He worked the muscles of my quad and calf with the kind of pressure that made my eyes water, finding every knot, every adhesion, every spot where my body had tried to overcompensate.
The row of treadmills had a little window that overlooked the rink.
I’d spent a lot of time staring at that view over the past year—first from a stationary bike when running was still off the table, then from an elliptical when they finally cleared me for low impact cardio, then finally from the treadmill itself.
Four months before I could run again. Six months of watching my teammates skate while I was stuck up here and tried not to lose my mind.
Now running felt like a gift I’d never take for granted.
I slipped on my headphones and set the pace to something that would hurt just enough to quiet my brain. I ran six miles and watched Théo through the glass.
He was doing drill after drill—edges, turns, rockers and counters up and down the length of the ice—the blade work so intricate and precise it barely looked like work from the outside. Relentless. Determined in the specific way of someone who had something to prove.
I knew that feeling. I was living it. Every morning in the weight room, every session on the bike, every drill I pushed through even when my knee screamed at me to stop—it was all the same thing. Proving I still belonged. Proving the setback hadn’t broken me.
Watching him, I recognized something I hadn’t expected. Kinship.
I tried to figure out what it was about a 21 year old figure skater that I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I didn’t come up with an answer.
But I kept coming back.
◆◆◆
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.