Page 7 of Goaltender Interference

Still. The universe’s mysterious conspiracies weren’t a good excuse for stupid decisions.

He tried to open the door quietly, but his hands were still shaking as he fumbled with the key.

Aiden Campbell.

AidenfuckingCampbell, after ten years and change.

There was a time when Matt, young and stupid, had really fucking thought things were going to last forever. When he’d bought a ring and everything and he’d had all kinds of big, expansive plans about coming out, about telling the Montreal media to go fuck themselves if they had a problem with him, when—

It hadn’t mattered. None of it had mattered. Heart in his throat and all of the stupid fucking hope in his chest, he’d asked,would you marry me?and Aiden had looked back at him with those big, sad eyes and said that they wanted different things, and he couldn’t be what Matt needed him to be, and he was sorry.

I’m sorry, Matty,Aiden kept saying,andI just want to do what’s best for you.

His stomach lurched, remembering. Even now he could recall with exact clarity the sick, sharp nausea he had felt in that moment, like he’d been thrown physically back into it. The despair when he’d insisted,I know what’s best for me, and that’s you.

By the time Matt stumbled into the living room, Miles was still up, watching TV. He’d clearly been waiting, and he looked sharply at Matt’s disheveled state. “Jesus fucking Christ, Matt, where the hell were you?”

“I have to. I gotta, bathroom—”

On his knees on the cold tile, he leaned over the toilet and puked until there wasn’t anything left. Until his stomach heaved and twisted and acid soured his tongue, nothing to give but trying to expel it anyway. He didn’t feel any better afterward because the problem wasn’t the alcohol. As much as he wanted to, it had become really fucking clear he couldn’t purge Aiden from his system.

Matt stripped off his come-and sweat-stained shirt and shivered, sweat beading cold on his back under the blast of the air conditioner. He counted to fifteen. He stood up, swaying. Ducked his head under the running water from the faucet, drank and spat it out in the sink.

“What the fuckhappened?” Miles demanded, when Matt came out of the bathroom. “Matt, I was fucking worried about you.”

“I—I had to take a walk,” Matt mumbled. He couldn’t look Miles in the eye. “I had to clear my head.”

“Don’t fucking tell me you—”

“I didn’t. I didn’t. I just—I just had to clear my head. I was more fucked up than I thought I was.”

“Because Jesus, Matt, we were all with you through that and I—he’s notworth it. That piece of shit isn’t worth one more second of your time or effort or emotion.”

“I know. I know, Miles.”

Miles stared at him again, a combination of worry and pity and fury, and Matt had to look away so he wouldn’t throw up again. “I’m just... Matt, you know how much we all love you, right? He’snot worth it.”

“I have to go pass out. I—I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Alone in a bed that wasn’t his, Matt lay on his back, stared at the ceiling with his hands folded over his chest. He wondered what the fuck, exactly, he thought he was doing.

I wonder if he’s thinking about me.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

Aiden didn’t sleep much that night.

He watched the sunrise on his roof deck, because eventually he’d just given up.

Pears texted him around five in the morning:Gabe said you had a rough night, everything cool?

Aiden typedyou’re not my captain anymoreand deleted it. He said,Everything’s fine.

Copacetic, bro. But he said Safaryan was there, so I was just thinking, maybe not.

I left right after we ran into them. We didn’t talk.

OK, Soup. Yo, just because you’re not technically on the roster anymore doesn’t mean you’re not a Lib. Got it?

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