39. Azaria #2
I end up choosing a ridiculously expensive dollhouse that I absolutely don't need, and Dad buys it without blinking. Then he picks out a remote-controlled helicopter and insists we test it in the store, much to the delight of actual children and the horror of their parents.
Walking back to his car with shopping bags and genuine laughter between us.
"Thank you, Dad."
"For what?"
"For coming here. For staying. For reminding me who I am when I'm not performing for cameras."
He stops walking and pulls me into another hug, right there on Fifth Avenue with tourists streaming around us.
"You're my daughter, Zari. That's never going to change, no matter what scandals or successes or anything else life throws at us."
"Even when I'm difficult?"
"Especially when you're difficult. That's when you need me most."
Two days after Dad leaves for Hong Kong, Theo appears in the kitchen doorway wearing dark jeans and a button-down that makes his eyes look like storm clouds.
"We're going somewhere," he announces.
"Good morning to you too. Where exactly are we going?"
"Team event. Pre-playoff tradition."
I set down my coffee cup, studying his face. "You want to bring me to meet your teammates?"
"I want you there."
"Will they hate me?"
"Probably."
"Excellent. I'll wear something offensive."
His mouth twitches in what might be amusement. "Wear whatever you want. They'll adjust."
The venue turns out to be a private dining room at an upscale steakhouse, filled with men who look like they could bench press small cars. I walk in wearing a black silk slip dress, and the conversation dies like someone unplugged a speaker.
"Gentlemen," Theo says, his voice carrying across the sudden quiet, "this is Azaria."
A massive redhead with a face full of freckles recovers first. "Holy shit, you're even prettier in person."
"Danny," Theo warns.
"What? I'm being nice."
I extend my hand to Danny, who shakes it like he's afraid I might break. "Thank you. You're much less terrifying than I expected, considering Theo described you all as barely domesticated animals."
Danny's laugh booms across the room. "He said that?"
"Among other things."
"What other things?" This comes from a lean brunette with suspicious eyes and sharp jawline that suggests he's used to getting his way.
"That you cry during romantic comedies, Murray."
Murray’s face goes crimson. "I do not cry during?—"
"And that you have a secret addiction to reality dating shows."
The room erupts in laughter, and Murray looks like he wants to murder Theo, who maintains his usual expression of mild irritation while somehow managing to look pleased.
"Tate, you're dead," Murray mutters.
"Get in line," Theo replies smoothly.
A stocky defenseman with kind eyes introduces himself as Ronald and immediately starts grilling me about modeling, which leads to a conversation about travel, which somehow evolves into me telling the story about the time I got trapped in an elevator in Milan with three supermodels and a very judgmental Pomeranian.
"So there we are," I continue, gesturing with my wine glass, "stuck between floors for four hours, and this dog—I swear to God, this dog had opinions about everything.
Valentina tries to give him some of her protein bar, and he literally turns his back on her.
Full disdain. Like, 'Excuse me, peasant, I only eat organic. '"
Ronald is wiping tears from his eyes. "What happened next?"
"Well, Giselle decides she's going to train him.
Starts doing these elaborate hand gestures, speaking to him in Portuguese, treating him like he's going to perform Shakespeare.
And this dog—this tiny, fluffy, ridiculously pampered dog—sits there like he's actually considering her artistic direction. "
"You're making this up," Danny wheezes.
"I swear on my Louboutin collection, this actually happened.
So we're all sitting on the floor now, right?
And Valentina starts doing yoga poses to 'center her energy,' which makes the dog nervous, so he starts barking.
High-pitched, indignant barking. Like he's personally offended by downward dog. "
The entire table is losing it now, even the guys who looked skeptical when I walked in. I catch Theo's reflection in the window behind Murray—the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to betray him.
"The elevator finally starts moving," I continue, "and when the doors open, there's this crowd of firefighters and building security waiting for us.
And this dog—this prima donna Pomeranian—walks out like he planned the whole thing.
Tail up, head high, completely unbothered.
Meanwhile, we're all disheveled and traumatized, and he looks like he just finished a spa day. "
"Did you ever see him again?" Ronald asks.
"He has his own Instagram account now. Two million followers."
Murray nearly chokes on his beer. "The dog has an Instagram?"
"The dog has better brand partnerships than most humans."
The laughter continues and the men begin telling me stories about Theo too while I swap some childhood stories with them too. By the end of the night, I am friends with all twenty of them.