40. Theo
THEO
Three days later, I'm standing in the tunnel waiting for the team introduction when Ronald appears beside me, bouncing on his skates like a kid on Christmas morning.
"You see her yet?" he asks, craning his neck toward the stands.
"See who?"
"Your girl. She's wearing your jersey, man."
I adjust my helmet, keeping my expression neutral. "Focus on the game, Ronald."
"Danny owes me fifty bucks. He said she'd show up in some fancy dress, but I knew better. She's got that ride-or-die energy."
The arena announcer's voice booms across the ice, introducing the starting lineup. Seventeen thousand people rise to their feet, the sound washing over us like a wave. This is what we've worked for all season—a playoff qualifier that means everything.
I skate onto the ice and the noise becomes physical, pressing against my chest. The crowd's energy feeds into my muscles, sharpening every sense.
During warm-ups, I scan the stands automatically, finding the section where I left tickets.
There she is—section 114, row K, seat 12.
My number 6 jersey hangs loose on her frame, and her fresh braids cascade over the shoulders.
She's got that enormous Hermès bag at her feet and she's leaning forward, completely absorbed in watching our drills.
Murray glides past me. "She looks good in your colors, Cap."
"Shut up and practice your slapshot. It's been garbage all week."
"My slapshot's fine. Your girlfriend's distracting you."
He's not wrong, but I'll never admit it.
The game starts fast and clean. First period, we're evenly matched—trading chances, testing each other's defenses.
Second period, the referee makes a call so obviously wrong that even the opposing team looks embarrassed. A clean hit gets called as boarding, putting us down a man for two minutes.
That's when I hear her.
"Are you kidding me? He barely fucking touched him!"
I glance toward her section and watch her rise to her feet, gesturing at the referee like she's personally offended by his incompetence.
"That's not boarding, that's hockey! Do your job!"
Three rows of fans turn to stare at her. She doesn't notice or care, too busy explaining to anyone within earshot why the call was wrong. A woman in front of her starts arguing back, and Azaria is fully engaged in defending a sport she learned the rules to last week.
Danny skates past me during the line change. "Your girl's got some lungs on her."
"She's not wrong about the call."
"Oh, you're gone, man. Completely gone."
The power play ends without damage, and we head into the third period tied 2-2. This is where games are won—when legs get heavy and mistakes get expensive. I feel the familiar calm settle over me, the zone where time slows and every decision becomes instinct.
With four minutes left, Ronald sets up the winning goal with a pass so perfect it makes the crowd gasp. The puck slides across the ice like it's following a predetermined path, and Murray buries it top shelf.
The arena explodes.
We've qualified for playoffs.
My teammates pile on Murray at center ice, helmets flying, gloves scattered across the surface. The crowd's roar becomes something primal, seventeen thousand people celebrating as one. I skate toward the celebration, but my eyes find section 114 first.
Azaria is jumping up and down, screaming something I can't hear over the noise. Her braids bounce with each movement, and her smile is so wide it transforms her entire face. She's celebrating like she's been following this team her whole life, like this victory belongs to her too.
Danny crashes into me, nearly knocking me over. "Playoffs, baby! We're going to the show!"
The celebration continues on ice—photographs with management, interviews with reporters, the ritual of victory that follows every meaningful win. But I keep glancing toward the stands, making sure she's still there.
Twenty minutes later, I'm showered and dressed, pushing through the corridor that leads to the family section. The wives and girlfriends are already gathered, champagne flowing, everyone talking at once about playoff schedules and travel arrangements.
I find Azaria near the back, somehow deep in conversation with Ronald’s wife about the finer points of power play strategy.
"So the key is maintaining possession while the man advantage expires," she's saying, gesturing with her champagne flute. "You can't just dump and chase—you need controlled entries."
"Exactly!" Ronald’s wife exclaims. "Most people don't understand the tactical complexity."
I appear beside them. "Learning hockey theory?"
Azaria turns, her smile bright enough to power the arena. "Your sport is more complicated than people think."
"Most things are."
She steps closer. "You played beautifully tonight. Like everything made perfect sense."
"It did."
"Because of the playoffs?"
"Because you were watching."
Her expression softens, the public celebration fading into background noise. For a moment, it's just us in the middle of chaos, everything else secondary.
Danny's voice booms across the room. "Tate! Get your girl over here—we're doing shots!"
Azaria raises an eyebrow.
"I like the sound of that."
The celebration swirls around us—teammates' wives pulling Azaria into their circle, teaching her victory traditions I never knew existed. She learns their names, remembers their children's ages, fits into their group like she's always belonged.
Murray's wife starts the victory dance, some ridiculous tradition involving synchronized movements that look like aerobics mixed with cheerleading.
Within minutes, all the women are participating, including Azaria, who picks up the choreography with the grace of someone who's spent years moving for cameras.
"She's perfect for you," Ronald says, appearing beside me with two beers.
"Yeah?"
"She's got your back, but she's not afraid of you. That's rare, Cap."
I watch her laugh at something Danny's wife whispers, her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious. She's wearing my jersey and celebrating with my teammates' families like this is exactly where she belongs.
"Yeah," I agree. "It is."
The celebration winds down around midnight, teammates and families gradually filtering out into the city night. Azaria finds me near the exit, my jersey still hanging loose on her frame, that enormous Hermès bag slung over her shoulder like she's carrying her entire life in it.
"Ready to go home?"
"More than ready. My feet are killing me in these heels, and I think I consumed my body weight in champagne."
The drive starts with her curled against the passenger door, animated and glowing from the victory celebration. She replays moments from the game with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a new language.
"When Murray scored that goal, I swear the entire section went insane. This woman next to me started crying actual tears of joy. Over hockey. It was beautiful."
"Playoff hockey does that to people."
"I get it now. The investment, the emotional attachment. When you're all skating around out there, it's like watching a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Everyone knows their role, but anything could happen."
She gestures with her hands, mimicking the flow of players across ice, and I catch glimpses of her in my peripheral vision—animated, unguarded, completely absorbed in describing something she experienced for the first time.
"And when that referee made that terrible boarding call, I couldn't help myself. I was so angry on your behalf."
"I noticed. Half the arena noticed."
"Good. Someone needed to call out that incompetence."
Twenty minutes from the townhouse, her voice grows softer, sentences trailing off mid-thought. The adrenaline from the win is fading, replaced by the particular exhaustion that follows intense celebration. Her head tilts against the window, braids cascading over her shoulder.
"Theo?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For letting me be there tonight. For letting me belong."
"You didn't need permission. You earned your place there."
She smiles, eyes already heavy with sleep. "Your teammates' wives are terrifying in the best way. They adopted me immediately and taught me victory traditions I never knew existed."
"They liked you."
"I liked them too. It felt like having sisters, which is something I never?—"
She doesn't finish the thought. Her breathing deepens, becoming rhythmic and peaceful. Sleep claims her gradually, her face relaxing into softness I rarely see when she's awake. The smear of team logo on her cheek from where she pressed against the jersey makes her look younger, less guarded.
I drive the remaining distance in silence, hyperaware of her presence beside me.
The city slides past the windows—the same streets that watched our relationship unfold through tabloid headlines and paparazzi speculation, the same intersections where reporters once ambushed her with accusations.
Tonight, none of that matters. Tonight, she's wearing my jersey and sleeping peacefully in my car, trusting me to get her home safely.
I park in the underground garage and sit for a moment, engine ticking as it cools.
The city hums around us with late-night energy—sirens in the distance, the occasional car passing overhead, the ambient noise of eight million people living their lives.
This same city spent three months trying to decide what we were to each other, dissecting every photograph and public appearance for clues about our relationship status.
I look at her in the passenger seat—face serene in sleep, one hand curled under her chin, that ridiculous bag taking up most of the footwell like she's prepared for any emergency. She's still wearing my number, my colors, my name across her shoulders.
I reach over and gently touch her shoulder. "Zari. We're home."
Her eyes flutter open, momentarily disoriented. "Already?"
"You've been asleep for twenty minutes."
She stretches, joints protesting after hours in celebration mode. "I had the strangest dream about Murray teaching me to skate while wearing a ball gown."
"That's not strange. That's Tuesday for Murray."
She laughs, the sound echoing off the garage walls. "I love that your teammates are completely insane."
"They love you too. Ronald's wife already invited you to book club."
"Book club?"
"Don't ask. Just say yes if you want to survive."
She gathers her bag and prepares to exit the car, but I place a hand on her arm.
"Wait. Before we go upstairs, there's something I want to show you."
Her eyebrows rise with curiosity. "It's almost one in the morning, Theo. What could you possibly?—"
"Trust me."
I lead her toward the far corner of the garage, past my usual parking spot to an area she's never explored. A car sits covered by a custom cloth, its outline suggesting classic muscle car proportions.
"What is this?"
"Your surprise."
I pull away the cover with deliberate ceremony, revealing Highland Green paint that gleams under the fluorescent lights. The 1968 Mustang Fastback GT 390 sits like a sleeping predator, every line speaking of power and precision.
Azaria goes completely still.
"Theo." Her voice comes out breathless. "Is that?—"
"1968 Fastback GT 390. Highland Green with black interior. Same specs as the one in Bullitt."
She approaches the car like it might disappear if she moves too quickly, running her fingers along the hood with reverence.
"You remembered."
"You spent forty minutes explaining why Steve McQueen's driving in that movie was better than any action sequence ever filmed."
"I did say that." She walks around the vehicle, taking in every detail. "But Theo, this is—this car is worth?—"
"It's yours."
She stops moving entirely, staring at me across the Mustang's roof. "Mine?"
"The title's already transferred. Keys are in your bag."
Her eyes widen. "In my—when did you?—"
"While you were celebrating with the wives. Danny's wife was my accomplice."
She opens that enormous bag and finds the keys immediately, holding them like they're made of precious metal. Her hands shake slightly as she processes the magnitude of the gift.
"Theo, I can't accept this. This is too much, too expensive, too?—"
"Get in."
"What?"
"Get in the car, Zari."
She unlocks the driver's door with fumbling fingers and slides behind the wheel. The black leather interior wraps around her like it was designed specifically for her proportions. Her hands find the steering wheel naturally.
"How does it feel?"
"Like coming home." She runs her fingers over the dashboard, exploring every surface. "The interior is perfect. Everything's been restored but it still feels authentic."
"Turn her over."
She inserts the key and the engine roars to life, filling the garage with the deep rumble of American muscle. The sound reverberates off concrete walls, creating a symphony of horsepower and possibility.
Tears start streaming down her face.
"Zari—"
"This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me." Her voice breaks on the words.
I walk around to the passenger side and slide in beside her. The interior smells of leather and possibility, and the engine's vibration travels through the seats into our bodies.
"You deserve to have the things that make you happy."
She turns to face me fully, tears still flowing but her smile radiant. "I love you."
"I love you too."
She reaches across the center console and kisses me, tasting like champagne and victory. The kiss deepens, carrying months of tension and uncertainty and the relief of finally admitting what we both knew was inevitable.
When we break apart, she's still crying.
"Happy tears," she clarifies, laughing at herself. "I'm not usually a crier, but this—you—everything about tonight has been perfect."
"The car's just the beginning."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this is your home now, if you want it."
She studies my face, searching for certainty. "Are you sure? Because once I really move in, you're going to find ceramic elephants in places you never expected. I'm going to rearrange your perfectly organized closet. I'm going to leave coffee cups on surfaces without coasters."
"I'm counting on it."
She kisses me again, softer this time, like sealing a promise. When we separate, she's beaming.
"Can we take her for a drive?"
"It's one in the morning."
"Perfect. No traffic."
I look at her behind the wheel of the Mustang, wearing my jersey and my team's victory like she's always been part of this life, and realize I've never seen her look more beautiful.
"Let's go."