2. Theo
THEO
The locker room smells like ice and sweat. I strip off my gear methodically—shoulder pads, elbow guards, shin pads—each piece hitting the bench with a dull thud that echoes off concrete walls.
My legs feel like concrete themselves. Two hours of drills, another hour of conditioning, then twenty minutes of shooting practice because I couldn't hit the net cleanly on my backhand and that kind of sloppiness eats at me until I fix it.
The shower runs scalding hot, and I let it burn the tension from my shoulders while steam fills the empty room.
This is the best part of late practice—the silence, the solitude, the absence of teammates who want to dissect every play and coaches who want to discuss strategy for Thursday's game against Boston.
I'm toweling off when James appears in the doorway, phone already glowing in his hand like some kind of digital appendage.
"You need to see this."
James doesn't knock. Never has. Part of his job involves monitoring my life in real-time, which means privacy is a luxury I traded away for seven figures and a Stanley Cup ring.
"Whatever it is, it can wait until I'm dressed."
"It's about Azaria Emerson."
The towel stops moving against my hair. James has that particular tone he gets when he's delivering news that's going to complicate my life—casual on the surface, but underneath there's the careful calculation of someone who's already run through the PR implications.
"What about her?"
"Police raid in Paris. Fashion party gone wrong. She got arrested."
I pull on jeans and wait for the rest of it, because with Azaria there's always more. There's always some spectacular way she's managed to turn a simple evening into front-page entertainment.
James holds up his phone, and the screen shows footage that's already been edited into bite-sized scandal.
Azaria being escorted from what looks like a penthouse, cameras flashing like strobe lights while reporters shout questions about diamonds and trafficking rings.
Her face is composed in the way she's perfected since we were teenagers—chin up, shoulders back, like she's daring the world to make something of whatever they think they've caught her doing.
"Trafficking rings?"
"Apparently some high-end jewelry theft operation. Guest list full of people with questionable income sources." James scrolls through headlines with practiced efficiency. "She's trending globally. Again."
I watch her navigate the gauntlet of photographers, and even in handcuffs—because of course there are handcuffs—she moves like she owns the sidewalk. Like the chaos is background noise to some private joke only she understands.
"Of course she is."
"The optics are interesting. Wealthy heiress, international model, family connections to luxury goods. Media's having a field day connecting dots that probably don't connect."
"They never do with her."
James raises an eyebrow at something in my tone, but I'm already reaching for a clean shirt. The footage loops, and I catch another glimpse of Azaria's expression as she's guided into the police van—not scared, not embarrassed, just mildly inconvenienced by the whole production.
That's the thing about Azaria that's always gotten under my skin.
She treats life like performance art, like every disaster is just another scene in some elaborate show she's directing.
Even as kids, when our fathers would drag us to the same charity galas and business dinners, she'd find ways to turn perfectly ordinary evenings into spectacle.
Twelve years old, and she convinced the entire children's table at some museum fundraiser that the appetizers were made from extinct animals.
Had half the kids crying and the other half demanding to try mammoth tartare.
I spent the evening explaining to traumatized eight-year-olds that salmon wasn't actually saber-tooth tiger while she watched from across the room, grinning like she'd just pulled off the heist of the century.
"Your father's probably already heard," James continues, thumb still moving across his screen.
"I'm sure he has."
Fifteen years old, and she showed up to Everett and Kofi's annual Fourth of July barbecue with temporary tattoos covering both arms and a story about joining a motorcycle gang that had everyone believing she'd lost her mind until my father found the packaging in the pool house trash.
"You going to call him?"
"Why would I call him?"
"Because you two have history. Because the media loves connecting your family to hers. Because this is the kind of thing that turns into 'sources close to the family' speculation if we don't get ahead of it."
I pull the shirt over my head and reach for my jacket. The footage is still playing on James's phone, and I can see Azaria's mouth moving as she says something to the officer beside her. Whatever it is, it makes him almost smile before he catches himself.
Even in handcuffs, she's charming people. Even in the middle of an international incident, she's finding ways to make it entertaining.
"She's always been like this," I say, more to myself than to James.
"Like what?"
"Impossible."
James shakes his head and keeps talking.
He is mid-sentence, something about endorsement risk assessments and media cycle projections, when my phone buzzes against the bench. The name on the screen makes me pause.
"That's my father."
James stops talking immediately. Everett Tate doesn't call after ten unless someone's dead or dying, and even then he'd probably wait until morning if it could keep.
I swipe to answer.
"Dad."
"Theo. You've seen the news about Azaria."
"James just showed me. Paris raid, something about jewelry theft."
"It's worse than what they're reporting."
I lean back against the locker, watching James pretend he's not listening to every word while scrolling through what I'm sure are damage control scenarios.
"How much worse?"
"She's being extradited back to New York. Federal investigation now, not just local French police. They're looking at money laundering, international trafficking networks.”
"What does this have to do with me?"
"She needs somewhere to stay while the media circus runs its course. Somewhere secure, private. Away from photographers and federal agents who might want to ask follow-up questions."
"Dad—"
"Kofi called me an hour ago. She's flying back tomorrow, and she can't go home. Can't go to a hotel. Can't be anywhere the press can find her."
"No."
"Theo—"
"Absolutely not. You know what happens when she's around. You know what proximity to Azaria costs."
"I know you've worked hard to build a certain kind of reputation?—"
"A scandal-free reputation. The one without federal investigations."
"She's not guilty of anything except being in the wrong place with the wrong people."
"She's always in the wrong place with the wrong people. That's her specialty."
"She's family, Theo."
"She's not my family."
"The Emersons are people we don't turn our backs on."
"You know what she does to people. What she did to?—"
"I know what grief does to people. I know what fear does. And I know that Kofi Emerson is one of the few people I would call without hesitation if the situation were reversed."
“I really don’t want Azaria anywhere near me.”
"Dad, this is exactly the kind of thing that destroys careers."
"Your career can survive helping someone who needs it."
"No.”
“This is completely safe, Theo.”
"Safe for who? Because it's sure as hell not safe for me."
"Theo—"
"You remember what happened the last time she needed help. You remember how that ended."
"That was different."
"Was it? Azaria in trouble, everyone else paying the price. Looks very familiar to me.”
"She was seventeen. Her mother had just died."
"And now she's twenty-six and caught up in international trafficking rings. Some people don't change, Dad."
"Some people don't get the chance to. Kofi's her only family left," he continues. "And right now, he can't protect her from this. The media, the investigation, the way people are going to treat her until this gets resolved."
"That's not my problem."
"It's not your problem until it becomes your responsibility."
"I didn't ask for that responsibility."
"Neither did I when your mother got sick. Neither did Kofi when his wife died. Neither did you when you became captain. But we take it anyway, because that's what we do."
"I'll think about it."
"Her flight lands at seven tomorrow evening."
"I said I'll think about it."
"Thank you."
The call ends, and I sit there staring at the phone screen until it goes dark.
James looks up from his own phone. "I'm going to assume from context that wasn't good news."
"My father wants me to let Azaria stay at my place while the media circus dies down."
"No."
"That was my response too."
"Any sustained association with Azaria Emerson right now is career suicide.
You have endorsement deals with morality clauses.
The captaincy comes with public image expectations.
The team's PR department is not going to be thrilled about having their star defenseman connected to international trafficking investigations.”
“I know that.”
James studies my face for a moment, then nods and slides his phone into his jacket pocket. "Good. Then we don't have a problem."
He heads for the door without another word.