16. Theo
THEO
I'm out the door by five-thirty, an hour earlier than necessary. The empty streets of Manhattan stretch before me, dawn still hours away, and I tell myself this has nothing to do with avoiding the conversation waiting upstairs in my guest room.
The rink welcomes me with familiar cold and silence. I change methodically—laces tight, gear checked twice, routine intact. This is where order lives. Where muscle memory and discipline override everything else.
Except today, they don't.
The first drill goes fine. Basic skating patterns, warming up joints that know this dance by heart. But when we move into scrimmage work, my concentration fractures.
"Tate, what the hell was that?" Coach's voice cuts across the ice as I completely whiff on a pass that should have been automatic.
I shake my head, refocus. Get back into position.
But then Ronald comes down the wing, and instead of seeing the developing play, I'm remembering the way Azaria's breath caught when I touched her. The soft sound she made against my mouth.
The puck slides past my stick.
"Again!" Coch barks.
I reset. Concentrate on the fundamentals. Read the ice. Anticipate movement. But my brain keeps sliding sideways—to the taste of her skin, to how she arched beneath my hands, to the way she looked at me afterward.
By the third botched play, even my teammates are shooting me looks.
"You feeling alright, Cap?" Jensen skates up during a water break, concern creasing his features.
"Fine. Just working through some adjustments."
He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go.
The rest of practice limps along. I manage to pull myself together enough to avoid complete disaster, but it's sloppy. Distracted. Everything I never allow myself to be on the ice.
Afterward, I sit in the empty locker room longer than usual, staring at my hands. Trying to work through the available explanations.
We were both wound tight from weeks of forced proximity. Sexual tension had been building—anyone could see that. Azaria is beautiful, magnetic, the kind of woman who turns heads wherever she goes. Of course I was attracted to her. Who wouldn't be?
Last night was just physical release. We needed to get it out of our systems, and now we have. She couldn't get out of there fast enough afterward, which proves it meant nothing to her. A momentary lapse in judgment we can both move past cleanly.
The reasoning sounds logical. Mature. The kind of rational analysis that should satisfy my need for order and explanation.
But even as I think it, I know it's complete bullshit.
Because this isn't about attraction or sexual tension or getting anything out of my system.
This is about how I've started listening for her footsteps in the hallway.
How I find myself making coffee for two.
How I catch myself smiling when she gets protective over her ridiculous collection of designer handbags, treating each one like a small, expensive pet.
This is about how I've memorized the routine of her morning yoga—the way she moves through poses with unconscious grace while I pretend to read nearby. How her presence has become the thing that makes my space feel like home instead of just a place where I keep my stuff.
This is about missing her when she's not in the room.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and force myself to acknowledge what I've been avoiding for weeks now.
I'm attached to Azaria Emerson. And that attachment isn't new. I've just finally stopped pretending it doesn't exist.
The locker room door clangs shut behind another player, the sound echoing in the empty space. I need to get home. Face whatever awkwardness is waiting. Figure out how to navigate this new reality where I can no longer lie to myself about what she means to me.
Because whatever happened last night, whatever made her run, it changed nothing about the fundamental truth I've been dancing around.
I'm falling for her. Have been falling, probably, since the moment she walked back into my carefully ordered life and turned it completely upside down.
I'm shouldering my gear bag when James appears in the locker room doorway, tablet clutched against his chest like armor. His usual immaculate appearance shows stress fractures—hair slightly disheveled, tie loosened a fraction.
"We need to talk."
"Hello, James."
He steps closer, lowering his voice even though the locker room is empty. "The charity gala photos dropped an hour ago."
I zip my bag closed with deliberate calm. "And?"
"And you look like you're about to devour her on camera."
The tablet appears in front of my face. I glance at the screen despite myself.
The first photo stops me cold. Azaria and I standing close, her hand on my chest, my head bent toward hers.
The way the photographer caught the light makes her skin luminous, but it's my expression that hits like a punch to the gut.
I'm looking at her like she's the only person in the room. Like she's the only person who matters.
James swipes to the next image. This one shows us during the auction, Azaria leaning into me while I whisper something in her ear. My hand rests possessively on her lower back. Her smile is soft, unguarded—nothing like the sharp mask she usually wears in public.
"Keep going." James's voice carries the exhaustion of someone who's been managing crises since dawn.
The third photo captures us leaving together, Azaria's fingers intertwined with mine. Neither of us is looking at the cameras. We're looking at each other.
"These went live at six AM." James pulls the tablet back. "By seven, we had calls from three major sponsors expressing 'concern' about your association with someone under active investigation. By eight, the team front office was asking pointed questions about your judgment."
I straighten, meeting his stare. "What's your point?"
"My point is that you're throwing away everything we've built for a woman who's toxic to your career."
I keep my expression neutral, but something dangerous unfurls in my chest.
"Careful."
James doesn't back down. "Nike is reconsidering the contract extension. The captaincy review board is having emergency meetings. Your pristine reputation—the thing that makes you valuable beyond just playing hockey—is crumbling in real time."
He pulls up another screen, showing trending hashtags. #TateEmerson sits at number two, accompanied by speculation about secret relationships and conspiracy theories about the Paris scandal.
"This isn't just about endorsements anymore, Theo. This is about your legacy. Your future after hockey. Everything you've worked for."
I shoulder my bag, moving toward the exit. James steps into my path.
"I've watched you build something incredible. Disciplined, reliable, marketable. The golden boy of professional hockey. And now you're willing to burn it all down for what? A woman who runs from chaos to chaos, dragging everyone down with her?"
My jaw tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Your focus is shot. Your practice performance today was garbage—yes, I heard.
Your public appearances are becoming about her instead of your career.
When was the last time we discussed anything that wasn't damage control?
The solution is simple." James pulls up what looks like a prepared statement on his tablet.
"We announce that you were helping an old family friend through a difficult time.
Purely platonic support. She's moving out, you're focusing on hockey, end of story. "
I stare at the screen, scanning the carefully crafted language designed to distance me from Azaria as cleanly as possible.
"The team wants this handled soon," James continues. "We need to execute a clean separation before the media digs any deeper."
I hand the tablet back to James without reading the rest of the statement.
"No."
James blinks. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean no. I'm not cutting ties with Azaria. I'm not entertaining your clean separation strategy. And I'm not negotiating this with you."
James stares at me like I've just announced my retirement mid-season.
"Theo, you're not thinking clearly. The financial implications alone?—"
"Are my problem to deal with."
James sets his tablet down, switching to the reasonable tone he uses when he thinks I'm being irrational. "Look, I understand there's history between you two. Maybe some unresolved feelings. But you need to consider the bigger picture here."
"The bigger picture." I repeat his words back to him.
I adjust the strap of my gear bag, meeting his stare directly.
"James, let me be very clear about something.
You don't know Azaria. You've never had a real conversation with her.
You've never seen her when the cameras aren't rolling or the headlines aren't screaming.
You know the version the media has constructed, and that's not the same thing. "
James opens his mouth to respond, but I continue.
"She's not some chaos-seeking liability who destroys everything she touches. She's intelligent, loyal, and stronger than anyone gives her credit for. The fact that she's been set up to take the fall for something she didn't do doesn't make her toxic—it makes her a target."
"Theo—"
"I'm not finished. Going forward, I'd prefer you keep Azaria's name out of your mouth unless you have something positive to say about her. I'm not interested in hearing your professional assessment of her character or your theories about her motivations."
James straightens, his expression shifting from persuasive to genuinely concerned. "You're making a mistake that could cost you everything."
"Maybe. But it's my mistake to make."
James picks up his tablet, fingers hovering over the screen like he's considering showing me more damaging evidence. Instead, he tucks it under his arm.
"The team wants an answer soon."
"Then they'll have one."
James nods once, sharp and professional, but his shoulders carry the weight of someone watching a carefully constructed plan crumble in real time.
"For what it's worth, I hope you know what you're doing."
"So do I."
He turns toward the exit, then pauses. "She's lucky to have someone willing to go down with the ship for her."
"James." He stops, glancing back. "That's exactly the kind of comment I was talking about."