22. Theo
THEO
The numbers don't lie. They never do.
James has his laptop angled toward me across the conference table in the arena's executive suite, his finger tapping against the trackpad.
"Sponsorship metrics down eighteen percent in the last two weeks," he says, scrolling through charts that paint my career in declining shades of red.
I settle deeper in my chair, arms crossed.
The bad mood I went to bed with last night clings to me like morning fog—thick, persistent, impossible to shake.
I'd waited for her. Stood outside her door for twenty minutes like some lovesick teenager, listening for movement that never came.
Made dinner and left it on the floor like an offering to a temperamental goddess who couldn't be bothered to acknowledge my existence.
"The captaincy polling numbers are worse," James continues, pulling up another spreadsheet. "Board confidence down twenty-three percent. Fan sentiment tracking negative for the first time in four years."
"Fan sentiment." I rub my temples where a headache has been building since dawn. "Since when do we care about Twitter polls?"
"Since Twitter polls predict merchandise sales, which predict revenue, which predicts whether you keep the C on your jersey. This isn't complicated, Theo. Distance yourself from Azaria Emerson or lose everything you've spent the last decade building."
James has always been good at his job because he treats people like variables in an equation. Remove the problematic element, restore balance to the system. It's logical. It's reasonable. It's the only conclusion a rational person could reach.
"I hate that I have to keep repeating this to you," he says, closing the laptop with a decisive snap. "You're my most disciplined client. You've never made decisions based on emotion before. Why start now?"
Because walking away from her feels like cutting off a limb I didn't know I needed until it was gone.
"The Paris investigation is ongoing," I say instead. "New evidence could clear her name completely."
"Could. Maybe. Possibly." James counts off each word on his fingers. "You're betting your entire career on hypotheticals while the damage compounds daily. Every photo of you two together makes this worse."
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through what I assume are more metrics designed to prove his point. "TMZ ran a piece yesterday speculating about wedding plans. Wedding plans, Theo. Your Q-rating drops another two points every time someone suggests you're serious about her."
The mention of wedding plans sends an unexpected jolt through my chest. Not panic—something else entirely. Something that feels dangerously close to possibility.
"I'm not abandoning her."
"I'm not asking you to abandon her. I'm asking you to be smart about this.
" James’s expression shifts from frustrated to almost pleading.
"You want to help her? Fine. Do it quietly.
Hire the best lawyers money can buy, fund the investigation through back channels, pull strings behind the scenes.
But stop appearing in public together like you're starring in some romantic drama. "
The conference room feels smaller suddenly, the walls closing in around the reasonable solution James has laid out so carefully. Help from a distance. Support without visibility. All the protection money can buy wrapped in plausible deniability.
It's perfect. It's logical. It makes me want to put my fist through the nearest window.
"She doesn't want help from a distance," I say finally. "She wants someone who won't run when things get complicated."
"Then maybe you're not the right person to give her what she wants."
James isn't wrong about the numbers. He isn't wrong about the risks. He's built his reputation on managing crises exactly like this one, and his track record speaks for itself.
But he's wrong about Azaria.
"I need more time to fix this."
I watch James's expression shift through several stages of professional grief.
First comes the slight widening of his eyes—surprise that I'm still not hearing him.
Then the tightening around his mouth as frustration settles in.
Finally, his shoulders drop half an inch in what I recognize as resignation.
He stares at me with exhaustion, like he has been beating his head against the same wall for weeks now. It's the look he gets when he knows his carefully constructed arguments are landing and then sliding off like water on glass.
"More time." James repeats the phrase slowly, testing each syllable. "To fix what, exactly? Her reputation? The sponsorship deals? The captaincy situation? Or are we fixing something else entirely that you haven't bothered to explain to me?"
"All of it."
"That's not an answer, Theo. That's a deflection." He closes his laptop. “You're asking me to manage a crisis I can't understand because you won't tell me what we're actually trying to accomplish."
"She's not guilty."
"I never said she was. Guilt and liability are different things in our world, and you know that.
You've built your entire brand on discipline, control, making smart decisions under pressure.
Now you're making choices based on—" He stops himself, jaw working like he's chewing on words he can't quite spit out.
"Based on what?"
"I don't know. That's the problem." James stands up, gathering his materials with the efficient movements of someone who has reached the end of his professional rope.
"For years, I've been able to predict your decisions because they followed logical patterns.
Risk assessment, cost-benefit analysis, long-term strategic thinking.
But this?" He gestures vaguely in my direction. "This is something else entirely."
The conference room falls quiet. Through the windows, I can see the ice below where the team will practice in two hours. My team. The guys who look to me for leadership both on and off the ice.
James pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. When he turns back, there’s genuine concern on his face.
"Whatever this is about, Theo, whatever's really driving these decisions—you need to figure it out fast. Because I can't protect what I don't understand, and I'm running out of ways to explain your behavior to people who write the checks."
James walks out quietly.
I pull out my phone as I walk toward the elevator, fingers moving automatically across the screen.
Flu symptoms hitting hard. Won't make practice today.
Coach will probably stare at the message for a full minute before accepting it.
In eight years, I've missed exactly three practices—two for concussion protocol and one for food poisoning that landed me in the ER.
The man has never seen me call in sick for something as mundane as the flu. I am sure he will give me a pass.
The elevator doors close with a soft chime, and I watch the numbers descend.
My phone rings against my palm before I reach the parking garage.
My father.
"Dad."
"Theo."
I push through the exit doors into the underground garage, keys already in hand. "What's going on?"
"The board's been talking. Word travels fast in our circles. Faster when it involves captaincy reviews."
Of course it does. The hockey world is smaller than people think, especially at the executive level where old boys' networks still run deep. My father coached half these guys' sons at some point. The other half he probably played against in college.
"How much have you heard?"
"Enough." I hear him settling into what sounds like his office chair, the familiar creak of leather. "Enough to know you're standing at a crossroads that could define the next decade of your career."
I slide into my car but don't start the engine yet. The garage is quiet except for the distant hum of ventilation fans and the occasional echo of footsteps from other levels.
"The captaincy's under review," I say, giving him the real version instead of the sanitized summary I've been carrying around.
"Eighteen percent drop in sponsorship metrics.
Fan confidence tracking negative for the first time in years.
Board's questioning whether I can lead a team when I can't manage my own public image. "
My father listens without interrupting—a skill he perfected during twenty years of coaching. Let the player talk themselves through the problem before offering solutions.
"James wants me to cut ties completely," I continue. "Distance myself from Azaria, handle any support through back channels, restore the carefully cultivated image of discipline and control that sponsors pay for."
"And you?"
"I can't walk away from her."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
My father makes a sound that might be approval or resignation—with him, it's often hard to tell the difference.
"The measure of a man isn't what he protects when it costs him nothing, son."
I start the engine, letting the low rumble fill the silence while I process what he's really telling me. Everett Tate has never been a man who speaks in abstractions or philosophical platitudes. When he offers wisdom, it comes from experience—usually the kind that leaves scars.
"I know what this could cost me," I say finally.
"Do you know what walking away could cost you?”
“Dad.”
“I have to go now, son. Bye.”
“Bye, dad.”
The question follows me through twenty minutes of Manhattan traffic, threading between taxis and delivery trucks while my phone sits silent on the passenger seat.
My house feels different when I walk through the front door. Quieter, maybe, or charged with some energy I can't identify. I'm barely three steps into the entryway when Azaria appears at the top of the stairs.
"Hey." Bright smile, perfectly applied makeup, braids swept into an updo.
But the shadows under her eyes are deeper than expensive concealer can hide, and there's something brittle in the way she moves down the steps—too fast, like she's trying to outrun something that's following close behind.
"You're home early." She reaches the bottom of the staircase, already angling toward the kitchen with purposeful strides like someone who has conversations to avoid.
I open my mouth to explain about practice, about James, about the phone call with my dad that's still echoing in my head. But she's already moving past me.
"Azaria—"
"Can't talk right now. I am busy."
She disappears into the kitchen before I can finish the sentence, leaving me standing in the entryway.
There’s something going on with her.