32. Theo
THEO
The sense that something is wrong hits me before I even drop my gear bag.
I know this house the way a musician knows their instrument—every creak, every shift in temperature, every subtle change in the way sound moves through the rooms. The air feels different. Thinner. Like something vital has been extracted.
"Azaria?"
My voice carries through the empty space and comes back hollow. I already know she won't answer, but I call her name anyway because the alternative is admitting what my chest already understands.
I take the stairs two at a time, muscle memory carrying me toward the guest room while my brain catches up to what my instincts figured out the moment I walked through the front door.
The room is immaculate.
Bed stripped down to the bare mattress, surfaces cleared of the organized chaos she'd accumulated. No jewelry scattered across the dresser, no books stacked on the nightstand, no phone charger snaking across the floor.
Even the air smells different—missing the faint traces of her perfume that had somehow worked its way into the fabric of the house.
I move through the space, opening drawers that I already know will be empty, checking the closet that shows no evidence she was ever here. The bathroom yields the same result—medicine cabinet cleared, no damp towels hanging on the back of the door, no half-empty bottles cluttering the counter.
She erased herself completely.
I head back downstairs, checking spaces where she might have left something. Anything. The living room coffee table sits bare except for the remote control and yesterday's newspaper, folded exactly how I left it. The stupid elephant is gone.
Even that. She took even that.
No note on the kitchen counter. Nothing tucked under the fruit bowl or propped against the coffee machine. I check the front hall table, the spot where she always dropped her keys and sunglasses in a pile that drove me insane.
Nothing.
The completeness of her disappearance feels so painful. Like she planned every detail to avoid leaving any thread I could follow.
I climb the stairs again, slower this time, and push open the guest room door.
That's when I see them.
My sweaters. Three of them, folded with and stacked on the stripped mattress.
The navy pullover she'd claimed the first week, insisting the house was too cold.
The grey hoodie she'd worn to bed most nights, sleeves hanging past her fingertips.
The black cashmere she'd stolen yesterday morning and never bothered to return.
I reach for my phone, fingers already dialing her number before my brain fully commits to the action.
"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
I hang up and try again, convinced I misdialed. Same automated message.
Third time yields the same result.
I sit heavily on the edge of the bare mattress, still holding my phone.
Sounds I never notice when she's here seem amplified now—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, the mechanical whisper of the heating system cycling on.
I pick up the navy sweater and hold it for a moment. It still smells like her perfume, faint but unmistakable.
I scroll through my contacts and find Kofi's number. The phone rings twice before he answers.
"Theo."
"Where is she?"
"She's safe."
"That's not what I asked."
"Azaria called me this morning. She wanted to leave."
"And you just picked her up? No questions asked?"
"She's my daughter, Theo."
The careful politeness in his voice grates against my nerves like sandpaper. I stand up from the bed, pacing to the window that overlooks the street where paparazzi have been camped for weeks.
"Did it occur to you to call me first? To let me know she was planning to disappear?"
"I should have. You're right. But when your child calls and says they need you?—"
"She didn't need you. She was running."
"From what?"
I don't know the answer. That's the part that's driving me insane—I have no idea what spooked her badly enough to vanish without a word.
"I don't know. That's why I'm calling you."
"Theo, I don't know what happened between you two, but?—"
"Nothing happened."
"I see."
"Do you? Because I really don't."
I catch my reflection in the window—jaw tight, shoulders rigid. I look like I'm preparing for a fight, which isn't far from the truth.
"She packed everything. Changed her phone number. Erased herself from this house like she was never here."
"That sounds like Azaria when she's made up her mind about something."
"Made up her mind about what?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I honestly don't know, son. She didn't give me details. Just said she needed to leave and asked me to arrange transportation and a place to stay."
"And you didn't ask why?"
"Of course I asked. She said she didn’t want to talk about it."
"She made her choice. And I have to respect that, even if I don't understand it."
"So that's it? She runs, and you enable it?"
"I protect my daughter. The same way you'd protect someone you?—"
He stops mid-sentence.
"The same way I'd what?"
"Nothing. I misspoke."
"No. Finish the thought."
"I need to make some calls. I'll call you back."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
James intercepts me in the hallway outside the locker room.
"Emergency board meeting. Now."
"I just finished practice."
"Shower later. They're waiting."
I follow him through corridors I could navigate blindfolded, my gear bag slung over one shoulder, skates still laced.
James pushes open the conference room door without knocking.
Three faces turn toward me: Bree Henley, Ferdinard, and Walsh.
"Gentlemen. Bree."
I drop my gear bag beside the nearest chair and remain standing. James positions himself near the door like he's planning an escape route.
"Theo, please sit."
"I'm good here. Go ahead."
Ferdinard clears his throat, shuffling papers that probably contain my professional obituary written in corporate speak.
"Before any of you waste time with prepared statements, let me save us all some energy."
The room goes still.
"Make Murray captain if you want. I'm done with you people trying to order me around."
Bree's pen hovers above her notepad. Ferdinard's mouth opens slightly, then closes. Walsh stares at me like I've started speaking in tongues.
"Theo—"
"No. I'm talking now."
I plant my hands on the conference table, leaning forward just enough to make my position clear.
"You want to strip my captaincy because I won't publicly abandon someone?
Fine. You want to threaten my endorsements because I refuse to throw a woman under the bus for your comfort?
Do it. But I will not be managed into abandoning someone I love, and if that costs me everything you think I should care about, then that's a consequence I accept. "
James stares at me like I've just lit myself on fire. The board members exchange glances that communicate entire conversations without words.
Walsh recovers first.
"Theo, I think you're being hasty?—"
"You already made your decision. You're just waiting for me to beg you to reconsider."
"That's not?—"
"Isn't it?"
I straighten up, crossing my arms.
"Murray's a good player. He'll make a fine captain. Better than me, probably, since he won't complicate your lives by having opinions about things that matter."
Bree finally finds her voice.
"We're not asking you to abandon anyone. We're asking you to consider the larger picture."
"The larger picture? You mean your larger picture. Your bottom line. Your public image concerns."
"The team's image?—"
"Is apparently more fragile than I gave it credit for."
Ferdinard leans forward.
"Theo, be reasonable. This situation with Azaria Emerson?—"
"What situation? The situation where she was framed? The situation where she's being used as a scapegoat? Or the situation where I'm the only person willing to help her prove her innocence?"
"The situation where your association with her is damaging?—"
"Damaging what? Our win record? Our playoff chances? Or just your ability to sleep at night knowing you control every aspect of your players' lives?"
James shifts his weight near the door. I can feel his anxiety radiating across the room.
"You think I don't understand what you're asking? You want me to choose between hockey and her. Between this organization and doing what's right."
"We want you to be smart about this," Walsh says.
"Smart would have been staying away from her in the first place. Smart would have been letting her father handle everything. Smart would have been following your script and keeping my mouth shut."
I pause, letting that sink in.
"But I didn't do any of those things. And I won't start now."
The room falls silent again. Bree taps her pen against her notepad in a rhythm that sounds like a countdown.
"So that's your final position?" Ferdinard asks.
"That's my only position."
"We'll need to discuss this privately," Bree finally says.
"No, you won't. You've already decided. You just want me to leave so you can pretend this was a difficult choice."
I reach for my gear bag.
"Murray will do fine. Just remember to give him better PR support than you gave me."
I head for the door, James stepping aside to let me pass.
"Theo."
I turn back.
"This doesn't have to end this way," Walsh says.
"Yes, it does. Because this is who I am, and apparently, that's not what you need."
I walk out, leaving them to their private discussion that won't change anything.
James catches up with me at the elevator.
"That was?—"
"Necessary."
"That was career suicide."
"Maybe."
The elevator arrives, and I step inside. James hesitates, then follows.
"What's your plan now?"
"I don’t know.”
The elevator reaches the parking garage, and I step out.
"Where are you going?"
"To make some calls."
I pull out my phone as I walk toward my car, scrolling through contacts until I find Logan's number. He answers on the second ring.
"Tate. What's up?"
"I need a favor."
"Name it."
"Azaria Emerson. I need to find her."
"Isn't she staying with you?"
"Not anymore. She disappeared yesterday. Changed her phone number, wiped herself clean."
"And you want her back."
"I want to talk to her."
"Same thing. What do you know?"
I unlock my car and slide behind the wheel.
"Her father picked her up. Kofi Emerson. He's got security, drivers, probably safe houses. She could be anywhere."
"Kofi Emerson's crazy loaded. This will be a bit difficult. I need a week."
"Logan—"
"Yeah?"
"This is important."
"I figured. You don't usually call in favors for women who ghost you."
I hang up and immediately dial Todd, the head of my own security team.
"Todd, it's Theo. I need you to reach out to your contacts in executive protection. Anyone who might have connections to the Emerson family's security detail."
"Looking for someone?"
"Azaria. She left yesterday with her father's people."
"Any idea where they might take her?"
"No. But someone will know. Money like theirs doesn't move without leaving traces."
"I'll make some calls."
Next, I try Raya, a journalist who's covered the luxury industry for years and owes me a favor from when I helped her get an exclusive interview last season.
"Raya, it's Theo Tate."
"Theo! How are you handling all this drama with the Emerson girl?"
"That's why I'm calling. I need information about Kofi Emerson's properties. Houses, apartments, anything he might use to keep his daughter out of sight."
"That's a big ask. Why would I help you stalk a woman?"
"I'm not stalking her. I'm trying to find her so I can have a conversation."
"About what?"
"Raya, c’mon. Please.”
Raya pauses.
"You're serious about her."
"Dead serious."
"Give me some time. I'll see what I can dig up."
I need Azaria. I need to find her.