Chapter 18 Théo
I had bolted from Derek’s apartment before dawn like the coward I was.
The thought of waking up and making small talk—or worse, sharing a car ride to the arena—had been enough to get me out the door while it was still dark.
I’d barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
Watching me from the stands. Eyes dark and intense, following every line of my body across the ice like he couldn’t look away.
Now I was cranky, sleep deprived, and taking it out on the ice.
When I came up for air, Derek was sitting in the last row. He was always in the last row. Like sitting further back made it less obvious. Like I wouldn’t notice him up there in the shadows.
Normally, it didn’t bother me. Today, it made my skin itch.
The triple axel wasn’t landing. Twenty minutes of the same sick drift—my centre off by a fraction that I couldn’t correct no matter how clean the entry was. My body knew what to do and refused to do it. And I could feel him watching.
When I finally skated to the boards for water, my chest was heaving, my breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged in the cold air.
Sweat had soaked through my training shirt, plastering it to my back.
I grabbed my bottle with shaking hands—the particular tremor of muscles pushed past fatigue—and tried to steady myself.
He came down like he’d been waiting for the opening.
“You left without saying goodbye this morning,” he said.
“I had shit to do.” I unscrewed my bottle. Didn’t look at him. My lungs were still burning, each inhale a conscious effort.
“Everything okay?”
“Never better.”
A pause. Then, cautiously, “Your triple’s coming along.”
Something hot flared.
“It’s stalling,” I said flatly. “The landing edge is inconsistent.”
“It looked cleaner than last week.”
“You don’t know what you’re looking at.”
The words came out sharp. Sharper than they needed to be. I was tired of being watched. Tired of being seen.
He didn’t flinch. Just leaned his elbows on the boards, coffee in hand, patient like he always was.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
I took another drink, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Mm.”
“Why’d you leave Toronto?”
My stomach dropped. I hated how easily he got under my skin with one ordinary question. Toronto flashed behind my eyes—white lights, cold tile, the humiliation of being carried away.
I swallowed hard and kept my face blank. “I needed a change.”
“Okay.” A beat. “But you had structure there. Coach, rink, support. And you’re here working just as hard without any of it.” His head tilted. “Why do it alone?”
I put the cap back on my bottle. My hands were steady. The rest of me wasn’t.
He kept going. “Why not make it official? Call a coach. Get the structure back. You’re already doing the hours.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m just—” he stopped short.
“You’re just what?”
“Curious.”
I finally turned to face him fully. The heat in my chest had found oxygen and I let it roar into an inferno.
“Curious?” I repeated. “You’ve been sitting up there watching me every morning for weeks and now you’re curious?”
“Théo—”
“What’s your deal?” The words came out like blades. “I didn’t ask for your observations. I didn’t ask for your opinions. I didn’t ask for—” I gestured at him, at the boards, at the last row. “So why do you care?”
“I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“I don’t care what you meant.” I skated closer, close enough that the distance stopped being casual. “I asked why. Do. You. Care.”
The rink was very quiet. Refrigeration humming. A distant door shutting somewhere deeper in the building.
Derek set his coffee down on the bench and stepped closer to the boards.
He should’ve walked away. Anyone else would have.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said quietly. Not deflecting—genuinely working it out as he said it. “I like being around you. You’re difficult and prickly and you don’t make anything easy for anyone, including yourself.”
The corner of his mouth lifted briefly.
“I’ve spent my whole life doing the opposite.
Making things easy. Being what everyone needed me to be.
And I’m starting to realize that maybe I lost myself somewhere in all that smoothing.
” He looked at me—really looked. “You haven’t lost yourself.
You’re holding on with both hands, even when it hurts.
I admire that. I think I need to learn how to do that. ”
He paused. Swallowed. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a moment before coming back up to meet mine.
“And I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t fully understand it. But there it is.”
The fire sputtered. Like water thrown on a blaze—hissing, flickering, then collapsing in on itself. The anger went out and what was left was something rawer. Something I didn’t have a name for.
I stared at him.
“Why?” I asked. The combativeness had drained out of my voice, replaced by genuine bewilderment.
“You’re Derek Sullivan. No, you’re Saint fucking Sully.
Everyone likes you. The guys on the team worship you.
My brother included. I’ve heard guys on other teams talk about you—even the ones paid to hate you have nice things to say.
” I shook my head. “And I am, objectively, an asshole. So why would you waste your time on someone like me?”
He was quiet for a moment, like he was actually thinking about it.
“Being likeable didn’t stop my life from blowing up last year,” he said finally.
“I spent ten years being easy to love. Accommodating. Never rocking the boat.” He shrugged but there was something heavy underneath it.
“And it didn’t matter. She still—” He stopped.
Started again. “The person who was supposed to love me the most still stomped all over my heart.”
His ex-fiancée. I thought of what he’d told me at the bar. Walking in on her with his best friend. The injuries he sustained while trying to get away. The decade he’d handed to someone who left him broken emotionally and physically.
“With you, nothing is easy,” he said. “You don’t trust people easily. Everything with you feels…” He searched for the word. “Earned. Like if I ever actually got through to you, it would mean something. Because you don’t let people in for no reason.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“So what, you’re trying something different?” I asked. My voice had lost the rest of its edge without my deciding to let it. “Trading in safe and boring for volatile and complicated?”
“You’re not a reaction to my past.” His voice was steady. “You’re not a project. And I’m not trying to fix you.”
“So if you’re not playing the part of the martyr, then what is it?”
He held my gaze. “You get up,” he said simply. “That’s what I see. You fall and you get up. Over and over. And you do it alone.” He paused. “I don’t know what happened in Toronto. But whatever it was, you’re still here. Still fighting. That’s not volatile and complicated. That’s strength.”
My eyes stung and my throat felt tight and I had to look away.
“You snuck out this morning,” he said, quieter. “But I wanted you there when I woke up.”
“Derek,” I said. A warning.
“I know,” he said, like he understood exactly what he was risking. “I’m just answering your question.”
I wanted to stop overthinking everything. I gripped the top of the boards with both hands and pulled myself up, the barrier pressing into my waist as I leaned over to close the distance between us.
And then I kissed him.
Brief. Just the press of my mouth against his, there and then not, over before either of us had fully processed that it was happening. I felt him inhale—sharp, surprised—his breath catching against my lips.
When I pulled back, his eyes were closed.
They opened slowly. His pupils were blown wide, lips still parted, and he looked at me like he’d been waiting for that moment and didn’t know what to do now that it had passed.
Neither of us said anything for a few breaths.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” I started.
“Don’t,” he said. Not unkindly. “Don’t act like that meant nothing.”
I looked at him. My hands were still on top of the boards.
“I have to finish my session,” I said.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I have to get to weight training. Can we talk later? Maybe at my place?”
I just nodded and then pushed off from the boards, skating away and not looking back which took more effort than any jump I had ever attempted.
Later was the worst part. The kiss I could blame on heat and impulse—adrenaline, frustration, temporary insanity.
Later would be deliberate.
Later meant I’d spent the whole day thinking about it and still knocked on his door.
And I was absolutely going to knock on his door.
Fuck.