26. Theo
THEO
Isit in my car in the arena parking lot for ten minutes before practice, staring at the steering wheel like it holds answers to questions I don't want to ask.
It's just sex, Theo. Really good sex, but that's all it is.
The way she said it keeps looping in my head. Just flat. Matter-of-fact. Like she was reading ingredients off a cereal box.
I've heard Azaria lie before. She gets animated when she's spinning stories, her hands moving, her voice shifting pitch. This wasn't that. This was something worse—the kind of honesty that cuts because it's delivered without malice.
Inside, the locker room buzzes with the usual pre-practice energy. Jokes about some other hockey team’s last night's game footage, complaints about the morning skate schedule, someone's girlfriend drama. Normal sounds that bounce off me like I'm wrapped in glass.
I gear up on autopilot. Skates, pads, helmet. The familiar routine that usually centers me does nothing today. My hands know the motions, but my brain is stuck in that moment when she wrapped the towel around herself and walked away.
"Tate, you look like someone pissed in your protein shake."
Matt drops onto the bench beside me, already suited up. He's been my linemate for three years, which means he's seen me in every mood imaginable.
"I'm fine."
"Right. And I'm a figure skater." He leans back against his locker. "What's eating you?"
"Nothing's eating me."
"Uh-huh." He stands, tapping his stick against my shin guard. "Well, whatever nothing is, leave it in here. Coach has been in a mood all week."
The ice feels wrong under my skates. Usually, the moment my blades hit the surface, everything else falls away. The rink becomes the only world that matters, clean lines and clear rules and problems that can be solved with speed and precision.
Today, my body goes through the drills while my mind stays locked in Azaria's bathroom doorway, watching her disappear behind closed doors.
"Tate!"
Coach’s voice cuts through the sound of skates on ice. I realize I've been standing in the wrong position for the power play setup, completely missing the play development.
"With us today, Captain? What? Your flu is back?”
Twenty-two pairs of eyes turn my way. My teammates, waiting for me to get my shit together so we can run the drill properly.
"Yeah. Sorry."
But it happens again during the breakout practice. And again during the scrimmage when I miss an easy pass because I'm thinking about Azaria."
Coach’s whistle pierces the air. Sharp, angry blasts that make everyone stop what they're doing.
"Everyone off except Tate."
The guys file off the ice, shooting me looks that range from sympathetic to annoyed. Matt gives me a shoulder pat as he passes.
Coach skates over, his expression unreadable behind his visor.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Bullshit." He crosses his arms, stick balanced against his shoulder. "I've watched you play for years, Tate. You don't miss passes like that. You don't lose track of plays like that. Hell, you don't even think about anything but hockey when you're on this ice."
He's right. The rink has always been my sanctuary, the one place where my brain can't wander into dangerous territory. Where everything makes sense because the rules are clear and the objectives are simple.
"You fighting something off the ice?"
I want to laugh. Fighting something. Like Azaria is a problem I can solve with the right strategy, the right amount of force applied in the right direction.
"It's handled."
"Is it?" Coach skates closer, his voice dropping. "Because what I'm seeing out there isn't handled. What I'm seeing is my captain showing up in body only, and that's not going to work. Not with playoffs coming up."
He's quiet for a moment, letting that sink in.
"Look, I don't give a damn about your personal life.
Sleep with whoever you want, fight with whoever you want, buy whatever overpriced car makes you feel better about yourself.
But when you step on this ice, you're not Theo Tate having problems. You're the captain of this team, and these guys need you present. "
"I know that."
His stick taps against the ice. "You don’t. You are giving me the worst performance I've seen from you since your rookie year. And back then, you had the excuse of being young and stupid."
I've been coasting on muscle memory and instinct while my actual focus sits in my townhouse, probably finding new ways to convince herself that nothing between us matters.
"Whatever's eating at you, figure it out. Fast." Coach turns to skate away.
I push through the locker room doors, still pulling my jacket on, when James materializes like he's been waiting in the shadows.
He's got his tablet clutched against his chest like armor, that expression on his face that means he's about to deliver news I don't want to hear. The same look he wore when he told me about the first round of sponsor concerns, and again when the executive board started making noise.
"You look like someone ran over your dog with a zamboni."
"Shut up, James."
He blinks. I've never told him to shut up. I've disagreed with him, ignored him, occasionally walked away mid-sentence, but I've never been outright rude.
"Right. Well." He clears his throat, adjusting his blazer. "I have something you need to see."
He holds out the tablet screen facing me. The document is already open, crisp black text on white background, formatted with the kind of professional precision that makes everything sound bloodless and corporate.
I take it and read.
Following recent media speculation regarding my personal associations, I want to clarify that my relationship with Ms. Azaria Emerson is purely professional and temporary.
While I've offered assistance during a difficult time, any romantic involvement has been greatly exaggerated by media outlets seeking sensational stories.
My focus remains entirely on my team, our upcoming playoff run, and the responsibilities that come with my position as captain...
It goes on.
I set the tablet down on the bench beside me.
Pick it up again.
Navigate to the document.
Delete it.
The screen goes blank. James stares at me. I stare back.
Everything that needs to be communicated has been.
"The executive board has scheduled another meeting."
"When?"
"Friday. Two o'clock." He pauses, reclaims his tablet, checks the blank screen where his statement used to exist. "This isn't the warning stage anymore, Theo. This isn't even the ultimatum stage. They're moving toward a decision."
"Okay."
I stand, shouldering my gear bag. James doesn't move, blocking my path to the exit.
"That's it? Okay?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
His compact frame vibrates with barely contained frustration. "I want you to acknowledge that this is serious. I want you to understand that your entire career is on the line because you won't distance yourself from someone who?—"
"Someone who what?"
James's mouth opens, closes, opens again. He's too smart to finish that sentence, too professional to say what he's really thinking.
"I want to play hockey," I tell him. "Nothing more. And people don't get to control my life."
I step around him, heading for the door.
"Theo."
I don't stop.
"This isn't about control. This is about consequences."
The door shuts behind me with a soft thud, cutting off whatever else James wants to say about consequences and decisions and the careful balance of professional obligations.
The townhouse is quiet when I walk in.
I drop my gear bag by the entrance and listen. No music from upstairs, no television, no sound of Azaria moving around with her usual disregard for my preference for peace. Just the soft hum of the heating system and the distant murmur of traffic outside.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. The ritual of making tea grounds me in a way that nothing else managed today.
The water takes longer to boil than usual, or maybe I'm just more aware of time passing. I select two mugs from the cabinet, then put one back. Then take it out again.
The chamomile sachets sit in their neat little box, arranged by someone who believes in order even in the smallest details. Me. I arranged them that way because chaos in tea storage leads to chaos everywhere else.
Except Azaria has been living here for months now, and my life hasn't collapsed. It's shifted, tilted, rearranged itself around her presence like furniture moved to accommodate a new piece that doesn't quite fit but somehow makes the room more interesting.
The kettle whistles. I pour hot water over the tea bag, watching it steep until the liquid turns the right shade of amber. No milk, one sugar. The way she drinks it.
I carry the mug upstairs.
Her door is closed. Light seeps out from underneath, warm and golden against the dark wood floor.
I knock. Three soft raps with my knuckles, the sound barely audible even in the quiet hallway.
"Come in."
I turn the handle and push the door open.
Azaria sits cross-legged on the bed, laptop open in front of her, surrounded by papers and printouts and what looks like a timeline drawn on hotel stationary.
She's wearing an oversized sweater that belongs to me—I recognize it but don't remember giving it to her—and her hair is no longer in braids and her curls are pulled back in a messy bun secured with what appears to be a pencil.
She looks up when I enter, her dark eyes moving from my face to the mug in my hand and back again.
"Tea?"
"Chamomile."
I cross the room and extend the mug toward her. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine for just a moment before she wraps both hands around the ceramic and inhales the steam.
"Thank you."
I nod, unsure why I came up here, what I planned to say. The investigation materials spread across her bed tell their own story—she's been working, following the threads we identified, refusing to let the case go cold just because the world has decided she's guilty.
She takes a sip of tea, studying me over the rim of the mug.
"Bad practice?"
"Something like that.”
“I just wanted to tell you that I am still with you. You know, for the Paris investigation. I know things?—”
“Of course, you are.” She says softly. “You are perfect.”
Before I can respond, she stands and crosses the space between us. Her arms come around my waist, pulling me into an embrace that catches me completely off guard.
She's warm and solid against my chest, her face pressed into my shoulder, her breath soft against my neck. I feel her hands flatten against my back, holding on like she's trying to anchor herself to something steady.
I don't move for a moment, don't breathe, don't do anything that might break whatever this is. Then my arms come up to circle her, one hand settling between her shoulder blades, the other threading through the hair that's escaped from her makeshift bun.
She doesn't say anything. Neither do I.
We just stand there, holding each other in the warm light of her borrowed room, surrounded by evidence of a crime she didn't commit and the weight of decisions that will determine everything that comes next.