“Their gym?”
“Well, one of the PTs let me use some of their equipment. I got it approved by the team to do it off-site. It wasn’t an issue.”
It was a big deal, though. Kieran had rearranged his entire day, things he was contractually obligated to do, to be there—to make sure he was still in that hospital lobby when Matthieu came back from seeing his mother. That felt like too much. Matthieu didn’t have the capacity to process it right now.
Luckily, Kieran picked up on it and changed the subject. “Have you kept up with anyone from the old team?”
“Not really. I hear from Johnson from time to time. I officiated a few games for Milner and Orlov, but…” He trailed off. Matthieu had never been great at keeping in touch, but phones worked both ways, and no one else had made the effort either. No one ever did. “You?”
Kieran scoffed. It felt harsher than the moment called for. “Nah.” That was all he said. Barely a word, but it spoke volumes.
“How’s it playing with Jørgensen? Has he forgiven you for breaking his nose? I still can’t believe you did that.”
“He broke yours first,” Kieran said, like that was reason enough. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even remember. That guy’s taken one too many hits to the head.”
Matthieu let out a soft chuckle. That had always amused him about hockey: one moment, you were squaring off as rivals, and the next, a trade made you brothers. He knew countless players who scrapped like cats during play, then grabbed a beer afterward, wearing the bruises the other left. That duality was the part Matthieu always struggled with. He saw the world in black and white too starkly to separate the two.
“You scored two goals that game,” Kieran added. Matthieu was surprised he even remembered.
“Would’ve been three if I hadn’t needed my nose reset.”
It was the closest Matthieu had ever come to a hat-trick. He could feel it building all night: the weighty anticipation. Kieran had felt it too, passing up easy shots to feed the puck to Matthieu’s blade, giving him every chance at that elusive third goal. Coach had been furious—especially after the fight that got them both ejected.
“I remember thinking that night you’d make it. No way a farm team wouldn’t take notice and snatch you up.”
“I was never that good.”
“You were. You are. It felt like barely a day had passed playing with you at the youth center. You could’ve gone pro.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Matthieu heard it in Kieran’s tone anyway.What happened, Matthieu? Why’d you give it all up? Why’d you let it all go?
“I only ever played like that with you.”And if I didn’t have you, I didn’t want hockey at all.
Unsaid words hung heavy between them. Matthieu was probably imagining it, but he swore he heard Kieran’s wordless response to his silent confession.You could’ve had it all.
That was a lie. Everything he’d ever wanted had been ripped away in a single twenty-four-hour span—every dream, every hope, everything he’d been certain of only days before.
“Here you go.” The dull thud of their food hitting the table broke the standoff. God bless this woman and her impeccable timing.
They ate mostly in silence—not suffocating like it had been so many other times, but warm, companionable. The kind that only existed between two people who knew each other’s souls. Kieran, like always, inhaled his overflowing plate in fewer bites than should’ve been physically possible, then proceeded to slurp his milkshake like a porn star through the plastic straw.
Matthieu laughed, still stabbing at his uninspired salad until he finally let the waitress whisk the half-full plate away. He wished he’d ordered a milkshake too. He must’ve been eyeing it with lustful intent, because Kieran asked, “You want one to go?”
Matthieu shook his head.
“Jeez. Live a little, Matty.”
Matthieu didn’t bother scolding him over the pet name. Truth was, he liked the way it rolled off Kieran’s tongue. Liked it too much. Hadn’t that always been the problem?
Minutes later, Matthieu was back in the passenger seat of Kieran’s Jeep, directing him through the familiar streets he called home, a strawberry milkshake clenched in his palms and a feeling awfully close to contentment settling in his bones.
TWENTY-ONE
KIERAN
Kieran eased his Jeep into a tight parking spot outside Matthieu’s building. The worn brick exterior loomed above him, weathered and tired, beaten down by too many harsh northern winters. He barely knew the area. New Jersey was a maze of unfamiliar roads and tightly packed neighborhoods, but he was almost certain Matthieu’s place was miles from his own.
He had walked?In the middle of the night, raw and unraveling, heart hollowed by grief and guilt, Matthieu had come to Kieran’s arms. That thought alone.
