Chapter 34 Théo
The Frost beat Colorado, lost to Utah, and were now in Winnipeg. Derek and I had been texting constantly—trivial things mostly but sometimes the messages turned softer late at night when neither of us could sleep.
Hana had invited me to have dinner and watch the Chicago versus Winnipeg game. I double checked the address she had texted me, then stepped back, looking up at the gleaming art deco-inspired steel skyscraper.
There was an escalator that took me up to the lobby, which had marble floors and a bank of elevators flanked by abstract art that probably cost more than my mom’s house. A massive floral arrangement sat on a circular table in the center, fresh peonies and eucalyptus that perfumed the air.
I was suddenly very glad I had stolen another hoodie from Derek’s collection. At least we matched in our team gear.
She beamed when she saw me and waved me over. “John, this is my friend Théo! Thanks for keeping me company. I’m going to head upstairs now.”
“Nice to meet you, Théo.” John tipped his hat. “Have a good evening and go Frost!”
I smiled and pumped my first in what I hoped was an enthusiastic gesture. “Nice meeting you, John.”
Hana had two canvas bags full of groceries—Walsh & Wilde branded, naturally—and I carried both.
She led the way past the main elevator bank to a private one at the end of the hall, pressing a fob on her keychain to the keypad.
The doors slid open immediately, revealing a car paneled in dark wood with brushed brass doors.
There were only two buttons: P and L. Penthouse and Lobby.
“Wow.” I blinked at the panel. “Your brother is making bank.”
“It’s his boyfriend’s place.” She pressed P and the elevator began its silent ascent.
“Kenzo and I used to rent the unit across the hall, actually. Then he and Bradley started dating and now they live together and I’m renting in the South Loop with some culinary school friends. Have you met him yet? Bradley Walsh?”
“Wait.” I stared at her. “Bradley Walsh as in Walsh & Wilde’s Bradley Walsh?”
“The one and only.”
“Holy shit.” I looked down at my borrowed hoodie and joggers. “I’m underdressed.”
“You’re fine.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Bradley is totally normal. For a billionaire.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
“He’s dating my brother. Trust me, his standards aren’t that high.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.” The elevator glided upward without a sound. “Anyway, I’m making pasta, not serving a ten course tasting menu. You don’t need a suit.”
“I thought we were going to have, like, pizza and beer. Watch the game on a normal TV like normal people.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I have enough pizza and beer with Avery.”
“My brother’s palate is not exactly refined,” I agreed. “I’ve seen him pound pre-workout dry like it’s Pixy Stix. Truly horrifying.”
“The things I’ve witnessed in that apartment...” She shuddered dramatically. “I’m in culinary school. It’s my civic duty to expose you to actual food.”
“And Bradley’s just... letting you take over his kitchen?” I asked, eyeing the Walsh & Wilde logo stamped on the bags. “Doesn’t he have, I don’t know, a private chef? Someone who would be offended?”
“Bradley loves when people cook for him. He says it’s more personal than going out.” She smiled. “Also, his kitchen is nicer than the one at school. I’d be stupid not to use it.”
“So there’s an ulterior motive.”
“I prefer to call it a mutually beneficial arrangement.” She bumped her shoulder against mine. “I get a dream kitchen. You get fed. Bradley gets leftovers. Everyone wins.”
The elevator opened into a shared hallway between two penthouse units. Hana fished a set of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door on the right.
“Home sweet borrowed home,” she said, pushing it open.
I stepped inside and stopped in my tracks.
It was old money elegance—the kind of space that whispered wealth rather than shouted it.
Rich hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting and crown molding framed the high ceilings.
Antique furniture mixed seamlessly with more modern pieces, everything arranged with the kind of effortless sophistication that probably required an interior designer and a trust fund.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. The last light of sunset painted the clouds in shades of pink and gold, the city glittering beneath.
But the kitchen—the kitchen looked like it belonged in a magazine. A massive marble island dominated the space, surrounded by professional grade appliances that gleamed under pendant lighting. Two ovens, a six burner range, a pot filler over the stove. It was a chef’s fantasy.
And standing at the island, slicing what looked like fresh mozzarella, was Bradley Walsh.
I recognized him immediately—anyone who’d spent five minutes online would’ve.
The Walsh & Wilde heir had been a fixture in tabloids and society pages for years, the kind of casually famous that came from old money and zero fucks given.
Tall and lean, artfully tousled blond hair, sharp green eyes that lit up when he saw us.
He was wearing dark jeans and a black and teal Frost jersey, an apron tied around his waist that said KISS THE COOK in aggressive pink letters.
Even dressed down, he looked like he’d stepped out of a photoshoot. Some people just had that quality—the camera loved them and they knew it.
“There she is!” He set down the knife and spread his arms wide. “My favourite chef and—oh.” His eyes landed on me, sweeping from head to toe with unabashed interest. “And who is this gorgeous creature you’ve brought me?”
“Bradley, this is Théo Beaubien. Avery’s younger brother. Théo, Bradley Walsh.” Hana was already unpacking the grocery bags, completely unfazed. “Please ignore everything he says.”
Avery’s younger brother. I fought the urge to wince. It was accurate—technically—but I’d spent my whole life being introduced in relation to someone else. Avery’s brother. Renaud’s student. Never just Théo.
But then Bradley’s expression shifted, recognition flickering in those green eyes.
“Théo Beaubien.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “The figure skater. Oh my God, your short at Junior Worlds? With that Lana Del Rey song? I literally wept.”
I blinked. “You know who I am?”
“Darling, before Kenzo dragged me into this barbaric sport where men slam each other into walls for fun, figure skating was the only ice related entertainment I followed.” He gestured with the knife still in his hand, nearly taking out a hanging copper pot.
“I’ve seen you compete. You were magnificent at Worlds two years ago.
That free skate? Transcendent. Actual tears.
I can’t believe you’re related to Avery. ”
I didn’t know what to do with that. Being recognized by a grocery empire heir in a penthouse kitchen was not on my bingo card for the evening.
“I—thank you.”
“Oh and I have to ask.” Bradley leaned forward conspiratorially. “Nicolas Fontaine. Is he really as sweet as he seems? He always looks so wholesome in interviews.”
The name landed like a punch to the sternum.
“Bradley,” Hana said sharply. She didn’t know the details but she could clearly read my face.
“What? I’m genuinely curious. The internet was convinced he and that other skater—what was his name, the dark haired one with the cheekbones—were an item. There were whole Tumblr accounts dedicated to them.”
The dark haired one with the cheekbones. That would be me. The Tumblr accounts had been dedicated to us.
“Nico is...” I forced my voice to stay even. “He’s exactly what he seems. Genuinely kind. A good person.”
Too good for me, I didn’t add. I broke him and fled the country.
Something in my tone must have registered because Bradley’s expression shifted, the theatrical enthusiasm dimming into something more perceptive. “Ah,” he said softly. “Foot in mouth. My specialty. I apologize.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not and I’m sorry.” He was sincere now, the performance dropped entirely. “Let me make it up to you with an excellent glass of wine and a promise to only ask inappropriate questions about hockey players from now on.”
“Bradley—” Hana started.
“What? Hockey players are fair game. My boyfriend is one. I’m contractually obligated to gossip about them.
” He was already heading toward the built-in wine fridge, giving me space to recover.
“Beer, wine? I’ve got a gorgeous Barolo breathing if you want something red.
Or sparkling water if you’re not drinking. ”
“Red’s great, thanks.”
He poured me a generous glass and the moment passed, smoothed over by his easy charm and Hana’s grateful look.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Bradley said, gesturing toward the living area. “The pre-game coverage should be starting soon. I’ve got the projector all set up.”
“Projector?”
“Eighty-five inches wasn’t cutting it.” He shrugged like this was a normal sentence. “As you know, size matters.” He winked.
I choked on my sip of wine and looked over at Hana. She just smiled and shook her head.
“Told you,” she said. “Totally normal.”
◆◆◆
I was eating my creamy lemon tagliatelle as carefully as possible.
If I spilled sauce on Bradley’s expensive couch, I probably wouldn’t be invited back.
The pasta was perfect—silky noodles coated in a bright, velvety sauce that Hana had somehow pulled together in under an hour. Culinary school was clearly paying off.
Bradley and Hana didn’t seem to share my concerns about the upholstery. They took turns gesturing wildly at the screen, shouting at the refs in a mix of English and what sounded like Russian.
“Blyat!” Bradley yelled as a Winnipeg player checked Kenzo into the boards. “That was interference! Are you blind?”
“Are you part Russian too?” I asked, eyeing his blond hair and green eyes. Maybe his mother was Russian. The swearing was impressively fluent.