Chapter 24 Théo
The team was staying at a hotel by O’Hare for their early flight, so after the bar I brought Sabrina back to Derek’s place.
We had fallen asleep facing each other on Derek’s bed, still half-dressed and talking ourselves into exhaustion. Aspen was wedged between us, snoring softly, his paws twitching in some dream.
I had the pillow Derek must have used. It smelled like him—bergamot and something warmer underneath. I’d pressed my face into it without thinking when we had chosen spots on the bed and Sabrina had given me a look I pretended not to see.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.
His blackout shades were drawn so I had no idea how late it was. I fumbled under the pillow for my phone.
9:47 a.m.
I’d missed my skate time. Not that I’d planned to go with Sabrina visiting but the guilt still flickered in my chest anyway—that familiar voice reminding me I was falling behind, getting soft, wasting time.
Two unread messages.
Avery: Take Sabrina to that cinnamon roll shop on Armitage. She’ll def reconsider moving after one bite.
The other was from Derek.
Derek: Have fun with Sabrina. Try not to cause too much trouble, snowdrop. Give Aspen a belly rub for me.
Snowdrop.
I could’ve handled babe or sweetheart—generic names you could toss around without meaning them too much. Those were safe. Interchangeable.
Snowdrop wasn’t interchangeable. It fit me too well. That was the problem.
“What’s that face?”
I looked up. Sabrina was awake, her red hair a tangled mess against the pillow, watching me through half-lidded eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” She stretched, dislodging Aspen, who grumbled and resettled at the foot of the bed. “Is that him?”
I didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“What did he say?”
I turned the phone toward her. She read it, then looked back at me, expression unreadable for a beat. “Snowdrop? That’s nauseatingly cute. What’s it mean?”
“It’s a flower,” I said. “Blooms in the snow apparently.”
She blinked. “Blooms in the snow. That’s romantic as fuck.”
“I know.”
She watched me for a moment, then asked—careful and too casual, like she was trying not to spook me. “So what exactly happened between you two? You said things were complicated but you didn’t finish the story.”
I stared at the ceiling. Aspen’s tail thumped lazily against the mattress.
“We hooked up,” I said finally. “I showed him my scars.” My throat tightened and my eyes felt prickly. Probably allergies. “He said they didn’t make me less beautiful. That they just made me real.”
Sabrina was quiet, waiting.
“And then I sucked his dick and ran away.”
She went perfectly still.
“In this bed?” she said, horrorstruck. “Gross.”
I shot her a look. “You’ve been to my apartment in Toronto. Much grosser things have happened there.”
“Not helping.” She shoved my shoulder. “Ugh. Can you leave me one decent man? Just one?”
“It’s not like that,” I said quickly. “He’s not—we’re not—”
“He called you snowdrop, Théo.” She sat up, fixing me with a hard stare. “He told you your scars make you real.” Her voice and her expression softened. “That man is gone for you, period, end of discussion.”
I looked away. Aspen had rolled onto his back, paws in the air, completely oblivious to my existential crisis.
Fuck. Derek was decent and kind and I was going to ruin him like I ruined everything.
“Stop that,” Sabrina said, as if she’d heard the thought. “Stop spiralling. Hasn’t therapy taught you that you’re not the villain in your own story?”
“It’s hard to rewire my brain,” I muttered.
“I know.”
I swung my legs off the bed and Aspen hopped off eagerly. “I have to take him out. You shower first.” I paused. “Avery says I have to take you to this cinnamon roll place. He’s obsessed with it. And I need a litre of coffee.”
When I got back, Sabrina had her damp hair twisted into a knot and was changed into a cropped black T-shirt and bike shorts.
She was texting so I fed Aspen and slipped into the shower.
A late start always made me feel untethered—like I’d forgotten something important.
We didn’t really have anywhere to be and I had borrowed Avery’s Jeep since he was out of town.
It would be easier to get around the city with Sabrina and easier to get back to Aspen between stops.
I wiped steam off the mirror. I didn’t look well rested but I looked better rested than usual. My hair was getting too long, curling around my ears and neck. Maybe I could convince Sabrina to trim it. She’d given me a mohawk once when I was 14. My mom had absolutely freaked out about it.
When I came out dressed in a long sleeved grey t-shirt and baggy green cargo pants, Sabrina tucked her phone away. I sat on the couch beside her and she leaned her head on my shoulder.
“So,” she said. “I mapped it. That cinnamon roll place is ten minutes from Coach Miller’s rink.”
I snorted. “Is that why Avery’s always trying to get me to go?”
“Well,” she said innocently, “he does have a huge sweet tooth.”
“Two things I want to avoid,” I said. “Sugar and skating.”
“You don’t want to avoid skating,” she said. “You’ve been going almost every day.”
“I didn’t go today.”
“The day is still young…”
The way she said it made me straighten, which forced her to sit up. “What did you do?”
She had the decency to look guilty. “I texted Coach Miller last week.”
“Sabrina.”
“Mathéo.”
“What the fuck? I’m an adult. I can make my own bad life choices.”
“And I’m your best friend,” she said simply. “So I can’t let you.”
“You’ve let me make plenty of bad choices.”
“Fine.” She tilted her head. “I won’t continue to let you self-implode.” Then, softer: “I get it. The noise. The pressure. But the self-flagellation has to stop.”
“Easy for you to say. I didn’t wreck your life.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nico’s doing just fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about Nico. I was talking about me.” My voice went tight. “I took a sledgehammer to… everything. It’s not that easy to put back together.”
“One step at a time,” she said. “You’re not alone.” She squeezed my hand. “I will move here if you need me to.”
“Do you promise?”
“It’s a fucking threat.” Her expression softened. “But first, we’re seeing Coach Miller. You’ve been saying you feel disconnected from your body. Having an outside perspective might help.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise,” she said, standing and grabbing her bag. “You’ve just been too busy being a trainwreck to appreciate it.”
She pointed toward the door. “Now come on. We’re going to be late.”
◆◆◆
Coach Miller’s rink was smaller than the one where I’d been training—more intimate, with wood paneled walls and banners from decades of regional competitions. I don’t know if it was the nerves or the hangover but I felt like shit.
The vodka Red Bulls had seemed like a good idea at the time but now my head was pounding, a dull throb behind my eyes that spiked every time I turned too fast. My stomach was unsettled and the cold air that usually felt like relief just made my skin prickle unpleasantly.
I took a sip of water and willed my body to cooperate.
I was here. I was doing this. I could fall apart later.
The man himself was waiting for us by the boards. He was in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed close and a neatly kept beard. He wore a fleece pullover with the rink’s logo embroidered on the chest and held a travel mug that steamed gently in the cold air.
“Théo Beaubien!” He extended a hand, his grip warm and firm. “Steven Miller, nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Coach Miller.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Interesting things.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “And this must be Sabrina. Thank you for reaching out.”
She shook his hand. “Thank you for making time on short notice.”
“For a talented skater like Théo? Always.” He gestured toward the ice. “I thought we could just talk today. No pressure. I’m not here to recruit you or fix you or any of that nonsense.”
I blinked. That was... not what I was expecting. Coach Renaud had never just talked. Every interaction was an evaluation. Every conversation circled back to what I was doing wrong, what I needed to improve, how far I still had to go.
“I’ve been following your career for years,” Coach Miller continued, leading us to a bench near the boards. “You’re technically brilliant. The jumps, the spins—textbook. Renaud’s influence is obvious.”
I tensed at the name.
“But I noticed something.” He sat down, cradling his mug. “You skate like you’re at war with yourself. Like every movement is a punishment instead of an expression.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest. I wanted to argue—to tell him he didn’t know me, didn’t know what I’d been through—but nothing came out.
“Renaud produces champions,” he said, not unkindly. “His methods work, for a certain kind of skater. But not every skater thrives under that pressure. And from what Sabrina’s told me—” He glanced at her. “—and from what I can see with my own eyes, you’re burning out.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“You’re not.” He said it gently, without judgment. “And that’s okay. Burning out doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human.”
Sabrina’s hand found mine on the bench. I didn’t pull away.
“I used to love it,” I said quietly, surprising myself. “Skating. When I was a kid, it was the only place I felt like myself. Before the competitions and the rankings and—” I stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t remember when it stopped being fun.”
Miller nodded like he’d heard this before.
“I’ve only taken a handful of skaters to the Olympics,” he said. “I’m not Renaud. I don’t have dozens of medals credited to my name. But I’d like to think my skaters did it for love of the sport. Not out of obligation.”
He let that sit for a moment.