Chapter 38 Théo
Mom went back home and the Frost went back on the road. I was alone again—just Aspen and, occasionally, Hana to keep me company.
I’d changed my number when I moved to Chicago, so seeing that area code made my stomach dip. I normally ignored unknown calls. Telemarketer, scam, wrong number.
But something made me swipe anyway.
“Hello?”
“Théo.” The voice was unmistakable. “It’s Coach Renaud.”
The air left my lungs.
I sat back against the headboard as the room tilted a fraction. I hadn’t heard from him since rehab. No call. No message. Not even the thin performance of concern.
My mom had fired him as my coach once she found out everything—the pressure, the impossible standards, the way he’d turned a blind eye to what was happening between me and Nico while simultaneously making it impossible for us to exist openly.
It wasn’t entirely his fault, what had happened to me.
But hearing his voice still made my spine go rigid.
“Coach Renaud,” I said, forcing neutrality. “What a surprise.”
“I assure you, this isn’t a call I wanted to make.” Cold. Perfunctory. “But the nature of this call is deeply personal and I trust you can be discreet.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
A pause—just long enough to let dread bloom.
“It’s about Nicolas,” he said. “He’s in hospital.”
The word hit like a punch. “What—why? Is he okay?”
“No.” Renaud’s voice stayed clinical, the way he spoke to skaters who hadn’t made the cut. “He attempted to harm himself. Pills.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second. “Fuck. Is he—did they—”
“He survived. He’s stable. Physically.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because Nicolas asked.” Renaud’s tone shifted, almost reluctant—as if this part inconvenienced him. “He wants to see you.”
I swallowed. “When?”
“Visitors are restricted,” he said. “Technically family only. But I can make arrangements for you to see him. I’ll text you the address.”
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth. “I need to book a flight but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“And Théo,” he added, voice mild in a way that set off every alarm in my body, “this is not about you.”
I went still.
“You and Nicolas have… history,” he continued, the word edged with disdain he tried—and failed—to hide. “Whatever your interpretation of it, he is fragile right now. The last thing he needs is emotional volatility.”
“I never meant to hurt him,” I said. My voice sounded small.
“Intentions don’t change outcomes,” Renaud said, as if he were delivering a training note. “His mother—my sister—blames you, in part. The way you ended things. The way you left.”
The way I left to survive, I thought. The way I ran because staying would have killed me.
I shut my eyes. Breathed deeply the way I had learned in rehab. In. Out.
“You called because Nico asked to see me,” I said carefully. “Not to pick apart my life choices.”
A beat. Then, smooth as a blade sliding into place.
“I’m glad you’re seeking help,” he said. “Truly. But understand this, a situation like this attracts attention. Sponsors. Federations. Press. People ask questions.” His tone sharpened by a millimetre. “And they do not like mess.”
There it was. Reputation. Control. Image.
“Though I hear you’ve relocated to Chicago. Training with Miller, of all people. A step down, certainly, but perhaps more... suited to your current capabilities.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“It’s an observation,” he said. “Let me know when you’ve scheduled your flight. I will make arrangements with the hospital. Please put his mental health first. Don’t make it worse.”
I swallowed the anger and the shame and the grief all at once. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
The line went dead.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone in my hand. My whole body was shaking. Not from fear—from rage. From the old, familiar shame that Renaud had always known exactly how to trigger.
You crumbled. You collapsed. You couldn’t handle it. You’re not good enough. You never were.
The whispers in my head sounded exactly like his voice.
I got up. I didn’t know where I was going until I was already in Derek’s bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet, then the drawers, then the cupboard under the sink.
I wasn’t looking for anything specific. I was just looking.
My hands moved on autopilot, searching, until my fingers closed around a pack of disposable razors.
I sat down on the edge of the tub.
The plastic was cheap, flimsy. It would be easy to break apart. To get to the blade inside. I’d done it before—more times than I could count. The relief it brought was temporary, I knew that. A pressure valve. A way to make the noise stop, just for a moment.
My hands were shaking.
You promised, a voice in my head whispered. You promised your mom. You promised yourself.
But Nico was in a hospital bed because he’d wanted to die, and I was the one who’d left him, and the guilt was so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.
I turned the razor over in my hands.
Just one. Just to take the edge off. No one has to know.
My phone buzzed.
Derek’s name flashed on the screen. A FaceTime call.
I stared at it for three rings. Four. My thumb hovered over the decline button.
Then I answered.
His face filled the screen—smiling at first, that warm easy grin, but it faded almost instantly.
“Théo? What’s wrong?”
I opened my mouth to say nothing. To say I’m fine. To deflect and distract and hide, the way I always did.
Instead, what came out was a sob.
“Théo.” His voice sharpened. “Talk to me. What happened?”
“I—” I couldn’t get the words out. My chest was too tight. “Nico. My ex. He tried to—he’s in the hospital. He tried to kill himself.”
“Oh, fuck. Théo, I’m so sorry—”
“And I’m sitting here—” I held up the razor, showed him what was in my hand. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because I was too tired to lie. Maybe because I needed someone to stop me. “I’m sitting in your bathroom and I found these and I want to—I really want to—”
“Okay.” Derek’s voice was steady. Calm. The kind of calm that coaches used when someone was injured on the ice. “Okay. I need you to put those down for me. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You answered my call instead of using them. That means part of you doesn’t want to.” His eyes were locked on mine through the screen. “Put them down, snowdrop. Please.”
The nickname undid me.
I dropped the razors into the sink with a clatter and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, crying in a way I hadn’t let myself cry in months. Ugly, gasping sobs that hurt my chest and made it hard to breathe.
“That’s it,” Derek said softly. “That’s good. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess, I don’t know why you—”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” His voice cracked slightly, the first sign that he wasn’t as calm as he was pretending to be. “I’m just glad you answered. I’m so fucking glad you answered.”
I sank down onto the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, and let him talk me through it. His voice in my ear, steady and sure, while the razors sat untouched in the sink and the worst of the storm slowly, slowly passed.
◆◆◆
I flew out to Toronto just as Derek returned from Florida. News of Nico’s overdose spread like wildfire on the internet. Speculation was rampant. About him. About us. About what had really happened between the two rising stars of Canadian figure skating.
Sabrina picked me up from the airport, subdued as she wrapped her arms around me.
I crumpled into her. Now that the tear floodgates had opened, I didn’t seem to be able to shut them. I knew I probably should have made an emergency therapy appointment but I couldn’t find the energy to deal with that. I could barely find the energy to stand.
“It’s not your fault, Théo,” she said softly, rubbing my back. “You know that, right?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I believed her.
We went straight to the hospital.
Technically, visitors were restricted to immediate family.
Nico was still in the psychiatric unit, still on observation, still fragile enough that the nurses monitored everyone who came and went.
But Renaud had made a call—pulled whatever strings Olympic coaches could pull—and my name had been added to the approved list. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
But I wanted to see Nico more.
We checked in at the nurse’s station, surrendered our phones and bags, and waited in a sterile hallway that smelled like industrial cleaner and despair. Sabrina squeezed my hand.
“I’ll be right here,” she said. “However long it takes.”
A nurse led me through a set of locked doors. The psychiatric unit was quieter than I expected—no screaming, no chaos, just a heavy stillness that pressed against my chest. She stopped outside a room with a small window in the door.
“If he gets agitated, press the call button,” she said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and stepped inside.
The room was small and aggressively neutral. Pale walls, pale floor, a window with reinforced glass that let in thin afternoon light. No sharp edges anywhere. Nothing that could be used to hurt.
Nico was sitting up in bed, wearing a hospital gown that hung off his frame.
He’d lost weight—too much weight, the kind that made his cheekbones jut out and his wrists look fragile as bird bones.
His pale golden hair was limp and unwashed and there were shadows under his eyes that looked like bruises.
He looked up when I walked in. For a moment, neither of us said anything.
“You came,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. Smaller than I remembered.
“Of course I came.” I crossed the room and sat in the armchair beside his bed, close enough to touch him but not sure if I should. “Nico, I’m so—”