Chapter 19 Derek
We were in the weight room, mid-set on the bench. I was supposed to be spotting. Instead I was staring at the wall across the room, replaying the same three seconds on a loop.
Théo’s eyes—dark, furious, something wild flickering underneath. The way he’d hauled himself up on the boards and pressed his mouth to mine. Brief but firm. His lips cold from the ice, his breath warm against my skin. The surprised inhale I hadn’t been able to stop.
And then he’d pulled back and everything in his face had shuttered closed. Walls slamming into place so fast I could almost hear them.
The bar dipped.
Petrov made a strangled sound. I snapped back into reality and caught it before it could cave his sternum in.
“What the fuck, Sully?” He racked the weight with a clang and sat up, glaring at me, accent thick with irritation. “You trying to kill me before Thomas can, yes?”
“Sorry.” I shook my head like I could physically dislodge the thoughts. “That’s on me. I spaced out. I’m here.”
“Well thank fuck.” He slid off the bench and jerked his chin at it. “Your turn. Maybe I will also be distracted. See how you like.”
He wasn’t.
But I was.
Between sets, the questions wouldn’t stop circling. What did it mean? What did he want it to mean? What did I want it to mean?
“Season starts next week,” Petrov said, arms crossed, watching me with narrowed eyes. “Whatever is going on with you—figure it out.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” He shook his head. “You been spacing out all morning.” He gestured at my face like it offended him. “Almost dropped the barbell on my chest. You wear the A, Sully. You are supposed to be leader. Right now, you’re liability.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Probably because they were true.
“I don’t care if it’s woman, money, family, whatever,” he continued. “Get your head right. We need you locked in, not… this.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good.” He tossed me a water bottle. “Because I don’t want to die under the barbell before I get revenge on Thomas for those fucking Bulgarian split squats. I die, I come back and haunt you.”
I took a long drink and tried not to laugh, because he wasn’t wrong about that either.
In the shower, I asked myself again—what did I want it to mean?
The answer was almost too easy. I wanted it to mean something to him too.
I wanted to kiss him again, longer this time, without the boards between us.
I wanted to see what it took to turn that guarded expression into something unguarded.
But what I wanted wasn’t the point.
Théo kissed me and then ran. That told me enough—he was spooked. Confused. Maybe already regretting it.
So tonight wasn’t about me.
When he came over—if he came over—I’d make it simple. No pressure. No expectations. No cornering him the second he walked in.
If he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, I’d let him. If he wanted to talk, I’d listen. If he wanted to leave, I’d walk him to the door like it didn’t cost me anything.
Whatever he needed.
That was the only way this worked.
◆◆◆
Théo had a key but he still knocked, which sent an excitable Aspen scrambling to the door, nails clicking against the hardwood. I took a breath before opening it.
His hair was still damp, humidity curling it around his ears and the nape of his neck.
Long sleeved t-shirt, track pants, hands buried in the pockets, drawstrings hanging low.
He looked like he belonged somewhere infinitely cooler than my doorway—a warehouse party, a rooftop in Brooklyn, anywhere with exposed brick and a curated playlist.
“Hey,” I said, stepping aside.
He didn’t answer—just dropped to one knee to greet Aspen. His hands moved through the fur like he knew exactly what he was doing, scratching behind the ears, rubbing the chest. Aspen practically melted. When he’d had his fill, he hopped back onto the couch, satisfied.
“Want something to drink?” I asked, heading for the kitchen. “I restocked. Lemonade, raspberry sparkling water, beer.”
“Sparkling water,” he said.
I handed him the can and grabbed a beer for myself. Liquid courage.
He sat on a barstool at the counter, posture too straight, both hands around the can like it was an anchor. I leaned on the opposite counter. The island sat between us like neutral territory.
He took a sip. Set the can down carefully.
“So… about this morning.” His voice went flat in that way that meant he was trying to keep it contained. “I was a bitch. I had a call with my best friend last night about my—” he paused, jaw tightening “—situation. It’s been stewing. I took it out on you.”
I blinked. “You’re apologizing.”
“Kinda. I guess.” He stared at the can. “You didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry.”
I let that sit for a beat. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I forgive you.”
His eyes flicked up, then away, like he couldn’t bear to meet my eyes for too long.
“But I thought you were coming over to talk about the other thing,” I added.
“It was impulsive. A moment of passion.”
My chest went hollow. “So you didn’t mean it.”
He looked at me then—expression smooth, rehearsed. “Isn’t your curiosity satisfied? There’s nothing more to me. What you see is what you get. I’m pretty fucking shallow.”
He slid off the stool as he said it, like he was preparing to leave. But he didn’t move toward the door. We stood in my kitchen, close enough that I could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Neither of us said anything for what felt like a full minute.
“I don’t do this,” he said finally. “Whatever this is. I don’t—” He stopped, eyes flicking to the floor.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Stop saying that.” A flash of frustration. “Stop being so fucking understanding. It’s unnerving.”
“Would you prefer I yell at you?”
“I’d prefer you to react like a normal person.” He took a step forward. “I kissed you. Out of nowhere. Doesn’t that freak you out?”
“No.”
“So what—one kiss and now you’re not straight anymore?”
Because I’d been thinking about it for weeks.
Because I’d watched him skate every morning and built playlists of his old competitions and wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked.
Because when his mouth had pressed against mine—brief but life altering—something had clicked into place that I hadn’t even known was missing.
“I’m 28.” I shrugged. “There are probably a lot of things I don’t know about myself yet.” I met his eyes. “What I do know is I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”
He went very still.
“You don’t know me, Derek.” His voice had lost some of its edge, replaced by something more uncertain. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’m not a project. I’m not some—” His hands lifted like he didn’t know where to put them. “I’m not something you can fix.”
“I don’t want to fix you.” I kept my voice steady. “I just want you. The real you.”
Something raw flickered across his face—hopeless, almost—and I moved before I could think better of it.
And I kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed me. I couldn’t tell who moved first—only that one moment we were arguing and the next his mouth was on mine, hot and angry and nothing like the soft brush from this morning.
His hands fisted in my shirt, yanking me closer, and I grabbed his hips and lifted him onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He made a sound against my mouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and wrapped his legs around me.
This kiss was a fight. His teeth caught my lower lip and I groaned, pressing him back against the cabinets.
He tasted like raspberries and fury. His fingers raked up the back of my neck, into my hair, pulling hard enough to sting.
I slid my hands under his loose shirt and found warm skin, the ridge of his spine, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he gasped against my mouth.
“Shut up,” I said and kissed him harder.