12. Theo
THEO
Iwake up with Azaria's head on my chest and the immediate realization that this is a problem I didn't plan for.
Her breathing is steady against my ribs, one hand curled against my shoulder. The playlist ended hours ago, leaving us in the kind of silence that feels deliberate rather than empty. Morning light filters through the windows, casting everything in soft focus.
I find myself cataloging details—the way her hair smells like expensive shampoo and something floral, how her fingers twitch slightly in sleep, the weight of her against me that feels both foreign and familiar.
When she finally stirs, stretching like a cat before blinking up at me with sleepy confusion, I'm already regretting how comfortable this felt.
"Morning," she murmurs.
"Morning."
She untangles herself without awkwardness, padding toward the kitchen like waking up on my chest is something we do regularly.
The week that follows operates under some unspoken agreement.
She starts doing yoga in the living room each morning, unrolling a mat in the space between the coffee table and windows.
I discover this accidentally, coming downstairs for my pre-practice meal to find her moving through sun salutations with focused grace that makes me forget why I came downstairs in the first place.
"Don't mind me," she says without breaking her flow into warrior pose. "Pretend I'm furniture."
Impossible instruction. Azaria has never been background noise in any room she's occupied, and watching her stretch in fitted leggings while morning light catches the curve of her spine makes pretending anything increasingly difficult.
By Thursday, I've adjusted my schedule to accommodate her presence.
Not officially—just small modifications that happen to coincide with her routine.
Coffee preparation that takes five minutes longer than necessary.
Protein shake consumption that requires me to remain in the kitchen while she finishes her practice.
"You know," she says Friday morning, rolling up her mat, "there's this new album I've been obsessing over. Mk.gee. You'd probably hate it."
"Why would I hate it?"
"Because it's weird and atmospheric and completely impractical." She grins, that dimple appearing in her left cheek. "Very anti-routine."
"Try me."
The challenge slips out before I can stop it. Azaria's eyebrows raise slightly, like she's surprised I've engaged instead of deflected.
"Really?"
"Really."
She disappears upstairs, returning with her phone and a determined expression that suggests this has become a mission rather than a suggestion.
"Sit," she commands, pointing at the couch.
I sit.
She connects to the sound system, then settles beside me—close enough that I catch her perfume but far enough to maintain plausible deniability about proximity.
The first track begins with layered guitars that sound like they're underwater, building into something that's part rock, part dream sequence. It shouldn't work, but it does, creating space in my head I didn't realize I needed.
"See?" Azaria says, curling her legs under her. "Weird."
"It's good weird."
"Right? Like, who decides to make music that sounds like being inside a kaleidoscope?"
The album continues, each song bleeding into the next without clear boundaries.
Azaria provides running commentary—which track reminds her of driving through fog in Northern California, how the guitar tone on the third song sounds like conversations overheard in hotel lobbies.
Her observations are specific and strange and completely accurate in ways that make me wonder how long she's been paying attention to details most people miss.
"This one," she says as the fifth track begins, "sounds like three AM in a city you've never been to before."
She's right. It does.
"How do you hear things like that?" I ask.
"Same way you read plays on ice, probably. Pattern recognition. Except instead of predicting where the puck will be, I'm translating sounds into feelings."
The album reaches its midpoint, atmospheric and hypnotic in ways that make time feel negotiable. I should be reviewing game footage or returning calls from my agent. Instead, I'm listening to experimental rock with a woman who describes music like she's mapping emotional geography.
"You don't have to stay," Azaria says, noticing my phone vibrating with notifications. "I know you have important hockey captain things to do."
But I don't want to leave. The realization arrives with uncomfortable clarity—I'm enjoying this. Her commentary, the music, the way she's claimed space on my couch like she belongs there. When did sitting still become something I look forward to instead of endure?
"The important hockey captain things can wait," I say.
She smiles, settling deeper into the cushions. "Good. Because the best part is still coming."
The album finishes with a track that dissolves into ambient noise.
"Well?" Azaria asks, turning to face me fully.
"You were right. I should hate it."
"But you don't."
"But I don't."
She grins, looking pleased with herself . "I love corrupting people with good taste."
My phone lights up with my practice reminder. The real world reasserting itself with typical timing.
"I have to go," I say, standing reluctantly.
"Of course you do. Can't let the team down with experimental rock poisoning."
"Something like that."
I grab my gear bag, but pause at the door. She's still curled on the couch, looking comfortable in my space.
"Thanks for the music lesson."
"Thanks for not running away screaming."
During the drive to practice, Mk.gee continues playing in my head while my thoughts circle back to Logan Moore's latest update.
Still pulling threads on the Paris guest list, still finding connections that don't quite connect.
Financial records that show payments to shell companies.
Event planning details that change depending on who's asked.
A jewelry collection that may or may not have been stolen from a private collector three months before the party.
The pieces exist. They just refuse to form a complete picture.
I push through drills with more aggression than necessary, channeling frustration into slap shots that ring off the crossbar with satisfying violence. My teammates give me space, recognizing the mood without asking questions.
But practice drags. Every drill feels longer than usual, every break between sets an eternity. I catch myself checking the clock more often than I have since rookie year, counting minutes until I can leave.
When I finally escape the rink, I drive home faster than traffic allows.
I find Azaria in her room, sitting on the bed with her laptop open and what looks like legal documents spread around her.
"Any luck remembering something new?" I ask from the doorway.
She looks up, pushing hair back from her face. "About Paris? No, nothing. Same fragments as before—the party, the tension in the room, then chaos."
I watch her carefully as she speaks, cataloging micro-expressions the way I read opposing players on ice. The slight furrow between her eyebrows when she concentrates. The way her fingers tap against her thigh when she's thinking. The absence of tells that usually accompany lies.
"Walk me through it again. From the beginning."
"Theo, I've told you everything I remember. The afterparty, the weird energy, security getting tight, then the raid." She closes the laptop, giving me her full attention.
"What about before that? Earlier in the evening?"
"Champagne, small talk, the usual fashion week nonsense. Nothing unusual until it was."
"You're sure there's nothing else? A face, a conversation, something that seemed off?"
"I'm sure." Her voice carries a thread of frustration. "Trust me, if I remembered anything that could help, I'd tell you."
I believe her. That's the problem.
Azaria closes the laptop with a decisive snap.
"You don't think I'm lying."
"No, I don't."
"But you think I'm missing something."
"I think someone made sure you were missing something."
She tilts her head. "Explain."
I move into the room, settling into the chair by her window.
"You stepped outside for air at the time the robbery happened."
"So?"
"So you have an alibi that also makes you look guilty. You weren't in the room when the actual theft occurred, which means you couldn't have done it. But to anyone reading headlines, stepping outside during a robbery looks like suspicious behavior."
Azaria's fingers stop tapping against her thigh. "You think someone orchestrated that timing."
"I think someone wanted Azaria Emerson at that party, visible enough to be photographed, absent during the actual crime, and present for the aftermath. Perfect positioning for maximum scandal with built-in reasonable doubt. I know we were just speculating you were used. I think I am almost certain now.”
She unfolds her legs, leaning forward with intensity that transforms her entire demeanor. "Who would do that? And why?"
"That's what we need to figure out."
The questions multiply faster than answers. Someone with access to guest lists and security protocols. Someone who understood media cycles well enough to predict coverage patterns. Someone who wanted Azaria specifically—not just any high-profile target, but her.
"This is insane," she says, running both hands through her hair. "We are talking about someone setting me up like I'm some kind of chess piece."
"Aren't you?"
Azaria shrugs.
"Fair point. I've been a chess piece my entire life." She stands, pacing to the window. "The question is who's playing the game this time."
I watch her profile against the afternoon light, cataloging the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightens when she's thinking.
Someone went to considerable trouble to position her perfectly for this scandal.
The kind of trouble that requires resources, connections, and intimate knowledge of how she moves through the world.
"I need Logan to find something concrete," I say. "A name, a connection, something that explains who benefits from your reputation taking this particular hit."
"And until then?"
"Until then, we keep you safe and visible in controlled circumstances."
She turns from the window, eyebrows raised. "Controlled circumstances. You mean more fake couple appearances."
"They're not fake if they're serving a purpose."
"What purpose is that, exactly?"
"Making sure whoever did this doesn't get to finish the job."