Chapter 26 Théo
Sabrina had completed two out of three steps in Operation GUST before she left Chicago.
She had cried at the curbside, tears streaming down her face as she pulled me into a bone crushing hug.
Avery stared at a spot above her head while he unloaded her suitcase from the Jeep and gave her an awkward pat on the back goodbye.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek so my own tears wouldn’t fall.
“Call me. Text me. FaceTime me,” she said fiercely, gripping my shoulders. “Every day. I mean it.”
“I will.”
“I’m one plane ride away. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need me.”
“I know. I love you.”
“Love you too, babe.” She kissed my cheek, grabbed her suitcase, and disappeared into the terminal without looking back. Avery clapped me on the shoulder and climbed back into the Jeep, giving me a minute to collect myself. I watched her go until she was swallowed by the crowd.
Now that she was gone, Operation GUST felt like it would fall apart with one burst of wind.
◆◆◆
On Monday, I didn’t go back to the Frost practice facility. Instead, I went to Coach Miller’s rink.
We set up a schedule—three days a week to start, with room to adjust. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask what I’d been doing during my hiatus or where I was struggling. He just handed me a cup of terrible coffee from the ancient machine in his office and asked what I wanted to get out of skating.
I didn’t have an answer. He said that was fine.
The first session was mostly assessment. He watched me run through basics—edges, turns, spins—making occasional notes in a little notebook. When I moved into jumps, he stopped me after a shaky triple loop.
“You’re muscling it,” he said. “Your body remembers what to do. Stop fighting it.”
Easy for him to say. Harder to do when every jump felt like a negotiation with a version of myself I wasn’t sure still existed.
He had me slow everything down. Walkthroughs. Half-rotations. The kind of remedial work that would have made Renaud roll his eyes but Miller just sipped his terrible coffee and nodded like we had all the time in the world.
Afterward, I stared at my phone for two train stops before I finally gathered enough courage to text Derek.
Can I come over tonight?
He replied around lunch.
Derek: I’ll be home around 6. Let yourself in whenever. Aspen’s always happy to see you.
That gave me a few hours to mentally prepare.
And freak out.
I did like him. As more than a friend.
He was good looking—all solid muscle and all American good looks, the kind of face you’d see on a cereal box or on a billboard in a pair of Calvins.
And you would think the Saint Sully act would be grating.
It would be, if it was an act. But there was nothing performative about Derek Sullivan.
He was just a steady, solid presence. Patient in a way that made me want to test his limits and hide behind his steadiness in equal measure.
And I didn’t have many friends. People I could actually count on.
But despite all that, I had decided to ruin the friendship.
Maybe breaking the cycle wasn’t about avoiding a relationship—it was about not repeating the mistakes of my past ones. I would try to be more honest. More open. Focus on what I could actually change and control.
I got to his place early because my days were wide open in the worst way. I took Aspen for a walk so Derek wouldn’t have to when he got home, then settled on the couch and put on Game of Thrones. The opening credits rolled—that familiar theme, the map unfurling across the screen.
I wasn’t thinking about the fact that he’d invited me to watch it with him.
I wasn’t thinking about what it would mean if I was still here when he got back.
My leg bounced with nervous energy. Aspen put his chin on my knee, unbothered. On screen, someone was plotting a betrayal, which felt appropriate.
A little after 6 p.m., I heard his key in the door.
He walked in with his gym bag over one shoulder and a paper bag with the Walsh & Wilde logo stamped on the front. He wore track pants and a Chicago Frost t-shirt that was tight across his pecs and showed off his veined forearms.
Saint Sully looking sinfully good.
“Hey,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I picked up dinner. They’ve got this new—”
Maybe it was the hours of dissecting our every interaction with Sabrina. The fact that I hadn’t seen him in days but it felt like ages. The unbearable weight in my chest that loosened the moment he walked through the door.
I don’t know what possessed me.
I crossed the room before I could talk myself out of it and walked straight into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My arms wrapped around his waist, my face pressed to his chest. He was warm and solid and real, and I was shaking—actually shaking—though I hadn’t noticed until I stopped moving.
He smelled like clean sweat and bergamot and something underneath that was just him.
He hesitated—surprised, probably. Maybe confused. Then his arms came around me, warm and grounding. One hand settled on the back of my neck, thumb brushing my hair. The other splayed across my lower back, pulling me closer.
He didn’t ask what was wrong. Just held me.
“I missed you, snowdrop,” he breathed.
That stupid nickname again. It cracked something open in my chest.
I pulled back without quite meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry about the other night. I have a lot of… unresolved shit from Toronto.”
“If you’re not ready to—”
“I want to.” My voice went thin around the words. “I need to. If we’re going to… whatever this is, you should know what you’re getting into.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
I moved to the couch and he followed, sitting beside me but leaving space. Aspen jumped up and wedged himself between us, which was honestly a relief—something to touch while I figured out how to say anything.
“I went to see Coach Miller while you were away,” I started. “Sabrina basically forced me. But I’m glad she did. We set up a training schedule. Today was my first day.”
“When you weren’t at the rink this morning, I thought you were avoiding me.” A pause. “I’m glad you’re working with a coach, Théo.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I should have told you.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m working on the open communication thing. It’s… a process. She also made me interview therapists,” I added. “I found one I don’t completely hate. I start next week.”
“Thank you for telling me.” He reached out, his hand settling briefly on my shoulder. “I’m here for you. However you need me to be.”
I scratched behind Aspen’s ears, keeping my eyes on his fur because it was easier than focusing on Derek’s face. Now that the easy part was over with, I didn’t know where to begin.
“The reason I left Toronto…” I swallowed. “It wasn’t one thing. It was everything. Every crack I’d been papering over for years finally gave way at the same time.”
The room felt very still.
“I ended up in treatment for 90 days,” I said. Flat. Clinical.
Derek didn’t speak. His hand found mine on Aspen’s back, fingers threading through mine.
“I was starving myself,” I went on. “Not eating enough, training too much. Taking too much Adderall to keep my energy up and kill my appetite. I wanted to be lighter. Faster. Better.” A laugh scraped out of me, humourless.
“I passed out after a competition. In the locker room. In front of everyone. They took me to the hospital and my levels were… bad. Really bad.”
Derek’s grip tightened, grounding and reassuring.
“Coach Renaud wanted to keep it quiet,” I said. “Protect the program’s reputation. My mom wanted me to get help.” I swallowed hard. “I ended up in a treatment facility in Montréal."
I forced myself to keep going.
“And somewhere in the middle of all that, I broke up with Nico. He came to visit and I told him I couldn’t do it anymore. That I was too fucked up to be with anyone. That he deserved better.”
“Théo…”
“He’s my coach’s nephew,” I said. “Did I mention that part? Renaud’s golden boy. We’d been on and off for almost three years. And I dumped him from a rehab facility and then left the country.”
I finally looked at Derek. He was watching me with those steady dark eyes, no judgment in them. Just concern. Just care.
“So that’s what you’re getting into,” I said. “That’s the mess I come with. Eating disorder. Addiction. Self-harm. A trail of broken relationships.” My voice shook, which annoyed me. “I’m a disaster, Derek. I keep telling you that and you don’t seem to hear me.”
“I hear you,” he said quietly. “I just don’t agree with your conclusion.”
“Which part?”
“The part where you think any of that makes you unworthy of…” He paused, searching. “Of connection. Of care. Of someone wanting to be with you anyway.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” He squeezed my hand. “I know you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. I know you love your brother even though you’re very different people. I know you’re softer than you let people see.” His mouth twitched. “And I know Aspen adores you and he’s an excellent judge of character.”
A laugh escaped me, unwilling.
“And I know you came here tonight to tell me the worst things about yourself,” he said, catching my eyes, “probably hoping I’d run.”
He tilted his head.
“I’m not running, snowdrop.”
“You should.”
“Maybe.” His smile was soft and crooked. “But I’ve never been very good at doing what I should.”
I wasn’t sure of much at the moment but I was sure I wanted him. I reached for his hand and pulled him up.
“Come on,” I said, voice quiet. “Bedroom.”