Chapter 33 Derek
I slipped on the faded grey Frost hoodie over my compression shirt and joggers.
It was the one Théo had borrowed the other day and it still smelled like him.
I had never felt this level of obsession with another person.
I had to fight the urge to call him the moment I woke up.
The hoodie helped. That fresh winter scent filling my nose as I pulled the fabric over my head.
I headed down to the hotel breakfast, grabbing a black coffee and piling my plate with scrambled eggs, a few pieces of bacon, and some hashbrowns. Volsky was already seated at one of the tables, inhaling a giant egg white omelet and a square of dry toast. He made me feel like a slacker.
“Morning,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.
He nodded, chewing methodically. Volsky wasn’t much for small talk before noon—or after noon, really. He was the kind of guy who said exactly what needed to be said and nothing more. I appreciated that about him. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
Then Petrov stumbled in. He looked like death warmed over—sunglasses on indoors, hoodie pulled up, hair sticking out in every direction.
He moved with the careful, offended posture of a man whose body had filed a formal complaint against last night.
Without speaking to anyone, he beelined for the coffee station, poured two cups with grim purpose, and shuffled to the far end of the room before dropping into a chair facing the wall.
A minute later, Avery appeared, only slightly more alive.
He scanned the buffet with the focused intensity he usually reserved for faceoffs, then loaded a plate with every greasy thing available—cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, hashbrowns, something that might have been a breakfast burrito. Then he grabbed an apple. For balance.
He dropped into the seat next to Petrov. The hangover table.
“Lightweights,” I muttered.
Kenzo’s mouth twitched—the closest he got to a laugh before his second cup of coffee.
I found myself smiling for no reason, replaying last night’s call in my head. The way Théo had looked in my hoodie. The way he’d said missed you like the words had escaped against his will. The soft, genuine laugh when I’d called him a blanket gremlin.
“You’re in a good mood.”
I looked up. Volsky was watching me with that quiet, observant gaze of his. Not prying—Volsky never pried—just noting.
“Am I?”
“Did you leave early last night?” He gestured toward the zombie contingent at the far table. “I’m surprised you’re not as hungover as them.”
I had, actually. Slipped out after the third round when Petrov started teaching everyone Russian drinking games. But I wasn’t about to admit I’d rushed back to my hotel room to FaceTime Avery’s brother.
“Half Irish,” I said. “Built different.”
“Mm.” He didn’t push, just returned to his omelet. But I caught him glancing at me again a moment later, something thoughtful in his expression.
I wondered what he saw. What anyone saw, lately.
A few weeks ago, Petrov had cornered me after I’d nearly crushed him with a barbell, demanding to know what the hell was going on with me. I’d been distracted then—tangled up in the uncertainty of whatever was happening with Théo. The tension. The wanting. The uncertainty.
This was waking up and reaching for my phone before my eyes were fully open. This was smiling at nothing. This was wearing a hoodie that smelled like someone else and feeling like I’d gotten away with something.
“You know,” he said, still focused on his omelet, “when I first got together with Bradley, Morrison told me something.”
I blinked at the sudden shift. Volsky wasn’t exactly known for volunteering personal information. In fact, this might have been the longest stretch of non-hockey conversation we’d ever had.
“He said the guys who last in this league aren’t the ones who give everything to hockey. They’re the ones who have something worth coming home to.” He took a sip of coffee, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window. “Took me a while to understand what he meant.”
I thought about my years with Mackenzie.
I’d thought she was my something worth coming home to.
Turned out I’d just been filling a role—stable, dependable Derek who paid the mortgage and never complained.
I’d given so much to hockey and the rest to her, and in the end, I’d had nothing left for myself.
“There needs to be balance,” he continued. “If it’s all sacrifice, you burn out. Or you wake up one day and realize you don’t know who you are outside of the game.” He set his coffee down. “I’ve seen it happen. Guys who retire and fall apart because they never built a life beyond the rink.”
“Is that what Bradley is for you?” I asked. “Balance?”
“Bradley is...” he paused, searching for the right word.
“Bradley is the reason I remember there’s more to life than winning a game.
He makes me laugh. He makes me think about the future in a way that isn’t just contracts and stats.
” A rare softness crossed his face. “He makes me want to be better. Not just as a player.”
I nodded slowly, something clicking into place.
“I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy.”
He met my eyes. “We all deserve that, Sully.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. I thought about Théo—prickly, guarded Théo who was slowly letting me past his walls. Who wore my hoodies and slept on my pillow and said missed you like it surprised him.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’m starting to believe that.”