11. Azaria
AZARIA
The headlines are absolutely delicious.
"New York's Golden Boy and the Diamond Scandal Queen: A Match Made in Heaven or Hell?"
"Theo Tate's Mystery Woman: Inside Their Steamy Night at the Met Gala"
"From Ice Rink to Red Carpet: Captain Tate's Surprising Romance"
I scroll through my phone, curled up in the leather armchair by the front window, watching photographers camp out across the street like devoted fans at a concert.
The photos from last night are everywhere—Theo's hand on my waist as we danced, the way I threw my head back laughing at something he said, that moment when he caught me mid-dip and we stayed frozen there just a beat too long.
We look good together. Disgustingly good, actually. Like we were designed to complement each other's angles.
My first thought isn't damage control or crisis management or any of the sensible responses my publicist would expect. My first thought is how perfectly this serves my purposes—and how absolutely furious Theo is going to be when he sees it.
The anticipation makes me giddy.
I position myself by the front door around six-thirty, knowing his practice schedule down to the minute by now. The sound of his key in the lock sends electricity through my veins, the same rush I used to get before walking a runway in Milan or Paris.
The door opens, and Theo steps inside, gym bag slung over one shoulder.
Perfect.
"Hello, darling," I say, rising from my perch and crossing to him in three quick strides.
Before he can react, I press up on my toes and kiss his cheek, letting my lips linger just a moment longer than strictly necessary. His skin is warm and smells like expensive soap and something indefinably masculine that makes my pulse quicken.
"Just playing the part of the loving girlfriend," I murmur against his ear, then step back to watch his face.
The reaction doesn't disappoint. His gaze go dark, his jaw tightens, and I catch the almost imperceptible intake of breath that tells me I've successfully rattled his composure.
"Have you seen the headlines?" He asks carefully.
"Seen them? Darling, I've been refreshing Twitter all afternoon. We're trending." I spin in a little circle, arms outstretched like I'm embracing the chaos. "Congratulations, Theo. You're officially part of my scandal narrative now."
"Azaria—"
"You're in it," I continue, warming to the theme. "Fully embroiled. There's no getting out now, not when Page Six has already dubbed us 'New York's most surprising power couple.'"
His phone buzzes in his hand. Then again. And again.
"That'll be your PR team," I observe cheerfully. "And probably your agent. Oh, and I'm betting at least three endorsement deals are having emergency meetings as we speak."
The muscle in his jaw jumps. "You think this is funny."
"I think it's inevitable. We were photographed together, we looked good together, and now everyone wants to know if we're sleeping together. It's basic celebrity math."
"This isn't a game." His voice drops to that dangerous register that would probably intimidate most people.
It just makes me want to push harder. "You take everything as a joke, but there are real consequences here.
Endorsement deals worth millions of dollars.
Team optics. The captaincy I've spent years earning. "
"Mmm." I tap my finger against my lips thoughtfully. "But consider the alternative narrative—reformed bad girl tamed by America's hockey sweetheart. Very Beauty and the Beast, very redemptive. The sponsors might actually love it."
"They won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough." He sets his gym bag down. "My entire career is built on being dependable. Stable. The kind of player coaches can count on and fans can respect. This—" He gestures between us. "—this changes that."
I study his face, noting the tension around his eyes, the way his hands keep clenching and unclenching at his sides. The chemistry that's been crackling between us since I arrived sits heavy in the space between us, unaddressed and increasingly impossible to ignore.
"Don't worry so much," I say, moving closer again, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I'm going to be the best person you've ever lived with. You'll see."
I say it playfully, with the same teasing lilt I've been using all evening.
But underneath the banter, I mean every word.
Theo didn't have to take me in. His father might have strong-armed him into it, but the door was still his to open or not.
He could have found a dozen excuses, a hundred ways to say no.
He didn't.
And I'm grateful for that, even if I'd rather swallow my flask whole than say so directly.
“Right.” He gives me a small smile before going into his bedroom.
I discover that being considerate requires an entirely different skill set than being disruptive.
Tuesday morning, I leave eye cream outside his door at five-thirty, before his alarm goes off. The little glass jar sits in its pristine white box. Just the most expensive skincare product money can buy, placed where he'll see it when he emerges for his morning routine.
The facialist in Geneva swore by this particular formula when I flew there for a photoshoot last year. She claimed it was the only thing worth putting near the delicate eye area, that European royalty had standing orders for it. At a thousand dollars for half an ounce, it better perform miracles.
I don't mention it when he appears in the kitchen twenty minutes later. Don't even glance at him to see if he's carrying it. Just continue making my espresso while he moves through his breakfast ritual—protein shake, two pieces of whole grain toast, exactly one tablespoon of almond butter.
"Morning," he says, voice still rough with sleep.
"Good morning." I step aside as he reaches for his travel mug, creating space instead of occupying it.
Wednesday, the velvet box arrives via courier from Paris.
Inside, a custom USB drive engraved with his initials contains forty-three minutes of carefully curated audio—rain sounds layered with distant thunder, the gentle hum of a coffee shop in Prague, ocean waves recorded at three different beaches across the Mediterranean.
Each track selected for its ability to quiet an overactive mind.
I spent four hours on a call with the boutique's sound engineer, describing exactly what I needed without explaining why. The sounds that would appeal to someone who craves control but struggles to find stillness.
The box goes on his nightstand while he's at practice. No note this time either, just a small card that reads: The playlist is good. You should try it.
Thursday morning, I find him in the kitchen at six-fifteen, exactly when his schedule dictates. Instead of commandeering the coffee machine like I have every other day, I wait. Make myself busy with my phone while he prepares his pre-practice meal.
The discipline required to not interrupt, not comment, not fill the comfortable silence with my usual commentary, feels like holding my breath underwater. Every instinct screams at me to engage, to provoke, to claim space. Instead, I become smaller. Quieter. Present but unobtrusive.
"You're different this week," he observes, not looking up from his toast.
"Different how?"
"Quieter." He glances at me then, those grey eyes searching. "Less..."
"Chaotic?"
"I was going to say present."
"Just trying to be a better houseguest," I say lightly.
"The eye cream," he says finally. "It's great. Thank you, Zari. Really."
"Good. Your under-eyes were starting to look tired."
"And the playlist?"
"Do you like it?"
"I haven't tried it yet."
"You should. Tonight, maybe. After practice."
He nods slowly, still watching me with that unreadable expression that makes me want to either run away or step closer.
At two-thirty in the morning, sleep feels like a foreign concept.
I've been staring at the ceiling for three hours, my mind cycling through brand deals, legal depositions, and the way Theo's voice softened when he thanked me for the eye cream.
The silk sheets that usually feel luxurious now twist around my legs like restraints.
I give up and pad downstairs in search of something to quiet my thoughts. Maybe the expensive Swiss chocolate I spotted in his pantry, or the leftover Thai food from dinner. Anything to occupy my hands and mouth while my brain refuses to shut down.
The kitchen light is already on.
Theo sits at the island, shoulders hunched over a cup of tea, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants and exhaustion. There are shadows under his eyes that the expensive cream hasn't touched yet.
"Can't sleep either?"
He looks up, unsurprised to see me. "No. You?"
"My brain won't turn off." I move to the fridge, suddenly self-conscious about my silk pajama shorts and camisole. "I was going to raid your snack collection."
"There's leftover pad thai. And I think there's ice cream in the freezer."
"What kind of ice cream?"
"Vanilla."
"Of course it is." I grab the container and two spoons, setting them on the counter between us. "Very on-brand for you."
He almost smiles. "It's good vanilla. French. From that place in SoHo."
I take a bite. It's ridiculously good—rich and complex, with real vanilla beans speckling the cream. "Acceptable."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, passing the container back and forth. The townhouse settles around us, creaking softly in that way old buildings do when they think no one is listening.
"You know," I say, licking my spoon clean, "we could try the playlist. The one I made you."
His gaze find mine across the granite. "Now?"
"Why not? We're both awake. Both clearly overthinking everything." I gesture at the space between us. "Might as well put those forty-three minutes of European sound engineering to work."
He considers this, then nods. "Okay."
We migrate to the living room, settling onto his massive sectional sofa. Theo pulls out his phone, finds the playlist, and connects to the sound system. The first track begins—gentle rain against windows, distant thunder rolling across an invisible landscape.
The townhouse transforms.
I curl into the corner of the sofa, pulling a cashmere throw over my legs. Theo leans back, his head resting against the cushions, eyes closed.
The second track transitions seamlessly—ocean waves recorded somewhere along the Mediterranean coast. I watch Theo's chest rise and fall, notice how his shoulders gradually release tension he probably didn't realize he was carrying.
The third track pulls me under—a coffee shop in Prague, complete with the gentle clink of porcelain and distant conversations in languages I can't identify. My eyelids grow heavy as the sound wraps around us like a blanket.
"This is nice," Theo murmurs, his voice already thick with approaching sleep.
"Mmm." I shift deeper into the cushions, my feet tucking under the throw. "The sound engineer said it was recorded at three in the morning. Something about capturing the perfect ambient temperature."
"You're ridiculous," he says, but there's fondness in it that makes my chest warm.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth tracks, I find myself gravitating toward him.
Not consciously—just the natural pull of shared warmth and the way his breathing has settled into a steady rhythm that's better than any meditation app.
The sofa is enormous, plenty of space to maintain appropriate distance, but my body has other ideas.
"Your couch is trying to swallow me," I whisper, half-asleep.
"Come here then."
His arm lifts, creating space against his side. I should resist. Should maintain the careful boundaries we've been dancing around all week. Should remember that this is temporary, that I'm here under duress, that getting comfortable is the fastest way to complicate everything.
Instead, I curl against him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, steady and warm.
The playlist continues its journey through European soundscapes—rain in London, wind through olive groves in Tuscany, the distant hum of traffic in Amsterdam at dawn.
Each track blends seamlessly into the next, creating a cocoon of sound that makes the townhouse feel like somewhere else entirely.
"Zari?" His voice is barely audible now.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this. For trying."
His arm tightens around me, just slightly, and I feel the exact moment he surrenders to sleep. His breathing deepens, his grip on consciousness finally loosening after what must have been hours of fighting his overactive mind.
I should move. Should extract myself and retreat to my own bed, my own space, my own carefully maintained emotional distance. The smart thing would be to treat this like the temporary lapse in judgment it obviously is.
But the weight of his arm around me feels like safety I haven't experienced in years. The sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear drowns out the constant chatter in my head that usually keeps me awake until dawn. For once, my body feels still. Quiet. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The playlist reaches its final track—ocean waves recorded at sunset somewhere along the Amalfi Coast. I let myself sink deeper into Theo's warmth, my hand settling against his chest, fingers splaying across the cotton of his t-shirt.
Sleep takes me under before the last wave fades to silence.