“It’s too much,” he protested, looking up at Kieran over the top of his brand-new Bauer Vapor hockey skates.
They cost a grand—Matthieu knew that. He’d obsessively researched them more times over his career than he’d care toadmit. Now he was holding one in his hands, one that belonged to him, while Kieran grinned back at him, proudly clutching a fucking hand towel covered in the Inferno’s logo.
“You wouldn’t shut up about these skates in college. I told myself I’d buy you a pair with my first NHL check, but I never got to.”
The words hung between them. Kieran had remembered that little detail all this time?
“They’re not the exact ones you wanted, but these are newer. Better.” He paused, clearly misreading Matthieu’s expression. “If you’d rather have the other ones, I can return these. I just thought…”
“Kieran, shut up. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”
Kieran let out a small, relieved laugh.
“I shouldn’t accept these—they’re too expensive. But… I do really need new skates. And they’re really fucking pretty.” Matthieu knew there was no point arguing about returning them, so he clutched the skates to his chest and reminded himself that the cost was pocket change to Kieran.
“We should break them in tomorrow,” Kieran said. “I bet I can get Nixy to let us into that community center. Did you know Cynthia’s his wife? We could go first thing, stop at the hospital after, and still be home in time for you to start cooking me dinner.”
Matthieu scoffed. “I said I’d help, sweetheart, not cook the whole damn thing for you.”
Kieran practically tackled him onto the couch, the skates tumbling to the floor. He grabbed Matthieu’s chin and pressed a rough kiss to his lips. “I love when you call me that.”
It wasn’t until they were getting out of Kieran’s Jeep the next morning that Matthieu realized Andre Nix might have questions about why the two of them were skating together on Christmas morning. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He tossed Kieran the keys, muttering something about owing him one, and took off.
Kieran punched in the security code—apparently one he knew—and flipped on a few overhead lights. They laced up in comfortable silence, Matthieu soaking in the feeling of sliding into his dream skates for the first time.
Well—technically—the second time.
He might’ve snuck back downstairs in the middle of the night to run his finger over them, just to make sure they were real. Might’ve sat on the couch, unpacked them slowly, and slipped them on to feel how good they felt. Then sat there, contemplating how much his life had changed since Kieran had come waltzing back in—and trying not to feel guilty for accepting the ridiculous gift in the first place.
He’d managed to avoid a third spiral, taken them off, packed them lovingly back in their box, and left them exactly where they’d been so Kieran wouldn’t know.
“How do they feel?” Kieran asked. “Do they fit okay? I peeked inside your old pair for the size, but sometimes they run differently.”
“They fit perfectly.” It wasn’t a lie. They were snug, but only in the way brand-new skates always were. His old pair had molded to his feet like a second skin. These would take some breaking in, but the payoff would be worth it.
“You ready?” Kieran tugged him to his feet, then launched himself over the boards like it was Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final.
Matthieu watched him for a moment, skating backward laps around the ice. Kieran’s legs were pure power, muscles flexing beneath his sweats as he switched direction on the fly, then cut into a sharp stop. It shouldn’t have been that attractive. Matthieu watched pro hockey players fly around the ice every day, but Kieran carried a kind of energy that reeled him in and flipped every one of his switches.
He shook the thought loose and pushed off across the ice after him.
“Do you remember,” Kieran asked once Matthieu finished his warm-up laps, “the day we met?” That sly grin was back.
Of course, Matthieu remembered. It was the first practice of his senior year, and he’d been running late—something wildly out of character for him, and something Coach Thomas of the Michigan Wolverines had zero tolerance for. He’d just yanked open the rink door, ready to sprint to the locker room, when a yelp came from behind him. He turned to find a bumbling rookie, arms overloaded with pads, sticks, skates, and God-knew-what-else, trying to catch up.
Matthieu had said something scolding, like, “You know they make bags to carry all that stuff, right?”
The rookie had growled back, ranting about airport baggage claim, torn hockey bags, and, “Will you at least help me instead of standing there judging me?”
Matthieu had helped him. Of course, he had. The rookie was cute—blonde hair, dark eyes, and even darker brows. He was strange to look at in a way that made it impossible to look away. He’d scooped up the sticks and skates so the kid could get a better grip on everything else, then taken off down the hallway like his ass was on fire.
That rookie had turned out to betheKieran Lloyd—a twenty-one-year-old hockey prodigy, signed to Los Angeles and loaned to Michigan for two years of conditioning before joining the active roster. Matthieu had even seen him play before. His junior team had played nearby the season prior, and Coach had dragged their whole team along.
“That kid will do great things,”he’d said, pointing him out on the ice. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get a Frozen Four win out of him before I have to send him back to LA.”
Kieran had, in fact, done great things.
“Coach gave me one hundred sixty laps for being late,” Matthieu said with a laugh. Ten for every minute, after a full day of practice. He’d been sure he was going to die.
