6. Theo
THEO
Six o'clock. I should still be on the ice, running drills until my legs burn and my mind goes quiet. Should be pushing through another hour of practice, perfecting plays until muscle memory takes over and everything else fades to background noise.
Instead, I'm sitting in traffic three blocks from my building, watching photographers position themselves like chess pieces across strategic corners.
My phone buzzes with updates from security—seventeen media personnel counted, two news vans, and a growing cluster of curious onlookers drawn by the spectacle.
All because of her.
The light turns green and I inch forward, cataloging the chaos she's brought to my carefully ordered existence.
This morning I had routines. Schedules. A life that ran like clockwork, predictable and controlled.
Now I have security protocols and media management strategies and a woman upstairs who thinks my refrigerator organization is a sign of mental illness.
You're a mess, Azaria. You always have been. All you ever do is create chaos and burden the people around you.
The words replay in my head, sharp and ugly in the quiet of my car. I'd watched her face change when I said it—that split second before her armor slammed back into place. The way her chin lifted and her smile turned brittle, like she was used to hearing exactly that sentiment.
Shit.
I turn into the underground garage, bypassing the media circus entirely. The security team coordinated this route change three hours ago, along with revised entry protocols and expanded perimeter monitoring. My life has become a logistics operation, and I hate every minute of it.
But the look on her face?—
I park in my designated spot, engine ticking as it cools. My phone shows six missed calls from my PR team, probably wanting to discuss damage control strategies or media statements. They can wait. Everything can wait.
Christ, what kind of person says that? What kind of man takes someone who's already running from a scandal, someone whose life has imploded publicly and spectacularly, and calls them a burden to their face?
The elevator doors open to chaos.
Azaria stands in the middle of the lobby like a pink hurricane, her voice carrying across marble floors with the kind of projection that stops conversations three blocks away.
She's changed—gone is this morning's careful styling, replaced by a coordinated set.
The weave she'd hidden under a scarf now sits piled on top of her head in an elaborate knot, baby hairs swooped into dramatic spirals that frame her face like artwork.
She looks stunning. She also looks ready to commit murder.
"—absolutely ridiculous that I can't walk two blocks to get a decent matcha without three grown men treating me like I'm smuggling nuclear weapons in my purse!"
The security detail—two professionals I hired specifically for their discretion—stand like statues while she gestures wildly. One of them catches my eye over her head, his expression carefully neutral but his posture screaming help us.
"Miss Emerson, we explained the protocols?—"
"Protocols?" Her laugh could shatter glass. "I wanted green tea, not to defect to North Korea!"
I move before my brain catches up, crossing the lobby in quick strides and catching her elbow. She spins toward me, those dark eyes blazing with fury that makes my chest tight.
"What's going on?"
"Your prison guards wouldn't let me leave." She yanks her arm free, the movement sharp and graceful simultaneously. "Apparently wanting matcha makes me a flight risk."
The security team leader steps forward. "Sir, she attempted to exit through the main entrance where media is stationed?—"
"I can hear you," Azaria cuts him off. "I'm standing right here, not in witness protection."
I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the familiar weight of a headache building behind my eyes. "Azaria, we talked about this. You can't just?—"
"Can't what? Exist? Breathe? Want caffeine?
" She crosses her arms, the movement making her seem taller somehow.
"I've been trapped in this sterile museum all day while you played hockey, and when I finally decide I need something that isn't filtered water or whatever sad excuse for coffee you keep upstairs, suddenly I'm Public Enemy Number One. "
"This isn't a joke. This is your life, Azaria. Your reputation. There are seventeen photographers outside waiting for you to make one wrong move, and you want to stroll down the street for tea?"
Her chin lifts, that familiar defiant tilt that used to drive me crazy in entirely different ways. "So what's your solution? Lock me up until the world forgets I exist?"
"My solution is for you to understand that actions have consequences. That maybe, for once in your life, you could think before you?—"
"Before I what?" She steps closer. "Before I act like a human being instead of your perfectly controlled robot?"
"I'm trying to help you."
"No, you're trying to control me. You're so obsessed with appearances, with what people think, that you've forgotten what it's like to actually live.”
Heat flares in my chest. "When's the last time you thought about how your choices affect other people?"
"Oh, we're back to that." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Are you going to call me a mess again, or have you come up with something more creative?"
The lobby goes quiet. Even the security team seems to hold their breath, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"You know what?" Azaria turns to address the room at large, her voice carrying with theatrical precision.
"Fuck this security detail, fuck your uptight receptionist who's been staring at me like I'm going to steal the marble, and fuck you, Theo, for thinking that caring about people means suffocating them. "
She pivots on her heel with the kind of fluid grace that comes from years of runway training, her spine straight and shoulders back as she glides toward the elevator.
The elevator doors close behind her with a soft chime, leaving me standing in a lobby full of witnesses to whatever the hell just happened.
I press my palms against my face, fingers digging into my temples. Twenty-four hours. She hasn't even been here a full day and my lobby looks like the aftermath of a diplomatic incident. The security team exchanges glances, probably wondering if they're getting hazard pay for this assignment.
"Sir?" The team leader clears his throat. "Should we?—"
My phone screeches with the specific tone I assigned to James.
"Tate." His voice cuts through the line before I finish saying hello. "We have a problem."
"Let me guess. Something about the walking disaster currently occupying my guest room?"
"The internet thinks you're sleeping with her."
I stop walking toward the elevator. "What?"
"TMZ posted photos of her arriving at your building yesterday." James speaks in rapid-fire bullets, the way he does when managing full-scale crises. "The hashtag #TheAzaria is trending, and sixty percent of the speculation involves your relationship status."
"There is no relationship status. She's crashing here because her father asked mine for a favor."
"The internet doesn't care about facts, Theo. They care about narrative. And the narrative is that notorious party girl Azaria Emerson is shacked up with straight-laced hockey captain Theo Tate." His keyboard clicks in the background. "It's catnip for gossip blogs."
I lean against the marble wall, watching the elevator numbers climb. "How bad?"
"ESPN's already called for comment. So has Page Six, Entertainment Tonight, and three podcast hosts who specialize in celebrity relationship drama.
" More clicking. "Your agent wants to schedule an emergency call.
The team's PR department is fielding questions about whether this affects your captaincy. "
The headache blooms full force behind my eyes. "She wanted matcha. That's literally all that happened today. She wanted to leave the building for tea and my security team stopped her."
"Proximity is perception, and perception is reality in our world. You don't have to be sleeping with her for people to assume you are. You just have to be in the same zip code while she exists."
The elevator dings softly as it reaches the penthouse floor. Through the security monitors, I can see Azaria pacing the length of my living room like a caged leopard, her phone pressed to her ear.
"What's the damage assessment?"
"Your endorsement deals are safe for now, but Nike wants assurances. The team's concerned about media distraction during playoffs. And your father called my office four times in the last hour."
"Christ."
"It gets better. Someone leaked that she's staying indefinitely, which has spawned theories about secret engagements, pregnancy announcements, and witness protection programs." The typing stops.
"Theo, I need you to understand something.
Your entire brand is built on discipline, reliability, and clean living.
She represents everything opposite to that. "
Through the glass, I watch Azaria gesture wildly at whoever she's talking to. Even furious and trapped, she moves with the kind of unconscious grace that cameras love and marketing departments fear.
"So what do you want me to do? Throw her out?"
"I want you to remember that you've spent seven years building a reputation that's worth millions in endorsements and respect. Don't let charity work destroy everything you've worked for."
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the elevator doors.