14. Theo
THEO
My head feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to it repeatedly. The morning light filtering through the blinds might as well be laser beams drilling directly into my skull.
I shift carefully, trying not to disturb the warm weight pressed against my side. Azaria's curled into a tight ball, her face buried against my shoulder, one hand fisted in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear. Her breathing is deep and even.
The empty champagne bottle on my nightstand serves as evidence of my complete departure from discipline. I never drink before practice. Ever. The fact that I broke that rule for her should terrify me more than it does.
I extract myself from the bed. Azaria murmurs something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the pillows, claiming the warm spot I've vacated.
I retrieve a small pail from my bathroom, positioning it strategically beside the bed where she can reach it without fully waking. The medicine cabinet yields aspirin, which I place on the nightstand with a glass of water.
"Maria," I call softly to my housekeeper as I pass through the kitchen. She appears instantly, already dressed and efficient despite the early hour.
"Sir?"
"Miss Emerson will need breakfast when she wakes. Wake her gently in about an hour, make sure she drinks the water and takes the aspirin. Tell the cook to prepare the full spread—eggs benedict, fresh fruit, pastries, the works. Whatever she wants."
"Of course, sir. Shall I prepare anything specific for dietary restrictions?"
"She'll eat whatever looks good. Just make sure there's variety."
I pause at the base of the stairs, looking back toward my bedroom. Something tightens in my chest at the thought of leaving her there, vulnerable and trusting in my space. The protective instinct surprises me with its intensity.
The elevator ride to the parking garage feels longer than usual, my reflection in the polished steel showing exactly how rough I look. James waits beside my car, tablet in hand, wearing his standard expression of barely contained professional anxiety. Of course, he is here.
"You're twenty-three minutes late," he announces before I'm fully out of the elevator. "Coach called twice. The team meeting started without you, which never happens, and I've been fielding calls from—why do you look like death?"
I unlock the car, moving slower than usual. ", James."
"Seriously, what happened to you? You look like you haven't slept."
"I slept fine."
"Then why are you moving like an old man and squinting at everything?"
I slide into the driver's seat, immediately regretting the movement as my head throbs in protest. "I had a drink last night. Maybe two."
James freezes halfway into the passenger seat. "You what?"
"I had some champagne. It's not a federal crime."
"You never drink before practice. Never. In all of our years of working together, you've never once deviated from your routine the night before training."
I start the engine, focusing on the mechanical process rather than James's increasingly frantic energy. "It was one night."
"One night that's already throwing you off schedule.
One night that has you showing up late and hungover to the most important practice of the week.
" James pulls out his phone, fingers flying over the screen.
"The tabloids are going to have a field day with this.
'Hockey Captain Parties Hard with Scandal-Plagued Model.
' This is exactly what I was afraid of."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic. Azaria Emerson has not even been here for long and you're already breaking rules you've followed religiously for years."
I navigate through morning traffic, the movement of the car making my hangover worse. "She needed someone to talk to."
"She needed someone to get drunk with, apparently. And you obliged." James's voice rises with each word. "Do you understand what this looks like from the outside? Do you comprehend how this feeds into every narrative we've been trying to avoid?"
"Nothing happened."
"Something happened. Maybe not what the tabloids will speculate about, but something happened to make you abandon every principle of discipline you live by."
I pull into the arena's parking garage, the familiar space offering no comfort. James continues his tirade as we walk toward the entrance.
"She's dismantling everything you've spent years building. Your reputation, your discipline, your focus. This is exactly why I advised against housing her in the first place."
"The decision wasn't mine to make."
"The drinking was."
I stop walking, turning to face him fully. "James, I appreciate your concern, but you're overreacting. One hangover doesn't erase years of professionalism."
"It's not about one hangover. It's about the pattern. First you're late to meetings, then you're drinking before practice, next you'll be missing games to deal with her crises."
"That's not going to happen."
"Isn't it? Azaria Emerson has already gotten under your skin in ways that are affecting your judgment."
I push through the arena doors, the familiar smell of ice and equipment grounding me slightly. "I can handle Azaria."
"Can you? It looks like she's handling you."
“James, I just want some peace and quiet.” I say before stalking off to the locker room.
A week passes in careful rhythm. Morning practices, afternoon meetings, evening routine. Azaria and I have settled into something resembling coexistence, though the air between us still crackles with unspoken tension from that night we shared champagne and too many truths.
I find her in the kitchen Thursday evening, perched on the counter with a huge mug of tea in front of her. Her natural curls frame her face.
"There's a charity gala tomorrow night."
She glances up, one eyebrow arching. "Congratulations. I'm sure the children's hospital will be thrilled by your generous check-writing."
"Do you want to come with me?"
Azaria stares at me. I keep my expression neutral, though my pulse quickens under her scrutiny.
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
Her dark eyes hold mine, and I resist the urge to elaborate, to explain away the simplicity of wanting her there.
"Sure, I will go with you."
She slides off the counter with fluid grace, padding barefoot toward the stairs.
"What time?"
"Seven."
She pauses at the base of the staircase, glancing back with something that might be a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Don't wear the navy tux. It washes you out."
The following evening, I adjust my black bow tie for the third time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. The charity gala represents months of planning—a carefully orchestrated event to benefit youth hockey programs.
Then Azaria descends the stairs, and predictable becomes a foreign concept.
The red dress clings to every curve of her tall frame like liquid fire, the bandage construction creating a silhouette that should be illegal in public spaces.
Her natural curls are swept into an elegant half-up style that showcases the graceful line of her neck while still allowing the rest to cascade over her shoulders in glossy spirals.
Her makeup catches the light—golden highlights on her cheekbones, lips the same crimson as her dress, dark eyes rimmed and that makes them even more devastating.
She reaches the bottom step and pauses, one hand trailing along the bannister. "Better than the navy?"
My mouth goes dry. "Much."
"Good." She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her dress, the movement drawing my attention to places I shouldn't be looking. "Shall we go make some rich people feel philanthropic?"
I offer my arm, and she takes it with the natural elegance of someone who's attended a thousand events like this. Her fingers rest lightly on my forearm, the contact sending heat through me.
"You realize this is going to fuel every kind of rumor."
"Probably."
"And you're okay with that?"
I guide her toward the door. "Tonight, I don't particularly care what anyone thinks."
As soon as we settle into the car. Azaria starts messing with the dials.
Loud music pounds through the car speakers—some ridiculous pop anthem that Azaria insists on singing along to with theatrical enthusiasm.
She's turned the volume up so loud that conversation becomes impossible, which suits me fine.
Her voice carries over the bass, surprisingly good, hitting notes that make me glance sideways at her.
"You're staring instead of singing," she shouts over the music, reaching for the volume dial to turn it up even more.
"I don't sing."
"Everyone sings. You're just being difficult."
She changes the song to something with a driving beat that makes her shoulders move in rhythm. The red dress shifts with each movement, and I force my attention back to the road.
"This is my getting-ready-to-charm-rich-people playlist."
"Does it work?"
"You tell me." She flashes that devastating smile, the one with the dimple, and I understand exactly how effective her charm offensive can be.
We arrive at the event in a wash of camera flashes and shouted questions. I help her from the car, my hand finding the small of her back as we navigate through the crowd of photographers. She moves with practiced grace, neither hiding nor posing, just existing beautifully in the chaos.
Inside, the ballroom sparkles with crystal chandeliers and the soft murmur of New York's elite. Azaria surveys the room like a general assessing a battlefield.
"Who are we avoiding tonight?"
"The Gilmores—they'll monopolize you for an hour about their daughter's modeling aspirations. Mrs. Doosey will ask invasive questions about your family. And anyone holding a martini glass is probably already drunk and will say something inappropriate."
"What about the people we're actually trying to impress?"
I point toward a cluster near the silent auction tables. "The board members are over there. They'll want to meet you, but they'll be respectful about it."
"Lead the way, Captain."
The evening unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, except Azaria refuses to follow the steps I've planned.
When the board chairman's wife compliments her dress, Azaria steers the conversation toward the charity's youth programs with genuine interest. When a photographer approaches for pictures, she pulls me closer instead of creating the professional distance I expect.
At dinner, she samples everything from my plate with shameless enthusiasm.
"The lobster's better than the salmon," she declares, stealing another bite with her fork.
"You have your own lobster."
"Yours tastes different." She takes another bite, her lips closing around the fork. "Maybe it's because you're not eating it."
"I'm eating it."
"You're picking at it."
She's right. I've been too distracted watching her navigate conversations, charm donors, and somehow make every interaction look effortless despite the undercurrent of scandal that still follows her name.
When the band starts playing, she doesn't ask—just stands and extends her hand.
"Dance with me."
On the dance floor, she fits against me like she belongs there, her hand warm in mine, the other resting on my shoulder. We move together with ease.
The song changes, something slower, and she steps closer. The red fabric of her dress whispers against my legs.
Around us, I notice other couples watching, conversations pausing as people take in the sight of us together.
Camera phones appear at the edges of my vision, capturing moments I should be concerned about.
The rational part of my brain catalogs each potential headline, each way this will complicate the careful narrative James has constructed.
But that voice grows quieter with each passing moment. Azaria tilts her head back to look at me, curls catching the light, and I wait for the familiar instinct to pull away, to create distance, to protect the image I've spent years building.
It doesn't come.
She's laughing at something the couple beside us has said, her face bright with genuine amusement, the red dress catching every flicker of chandelier light. Her hand tightens in mine, unconscious and trusting, and I realize I don't want to let go.
I don't want to step back. I don't want to be sensible.
I watch her, and I don't look away.