Page 26 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“First person you’ve ever met with brains, eh?” he teased, tapping his head pointedly and saw her shaking hers, but that beautiful smile was still there. “Are you sure you don’t want a muffin or something? – They are blueberry, and I picked them up from a bakery yesterday afternoon. You know, it’s against the law to come to Canada and not have blueberries, raspberries, or some sort of maple item when you first arrive,” he continued, desperately wanting to hear her laugh again… and she did.

She turned, looked at him, and smiled shyly.

“I suppose I could be talked into a blueberry muffin so I don’t get in trouble with the law,” she said softly, taking a sip of her coffee, and smiled at him again over the brim. “And I would love to go out sometime.”

“Cool,” he whispered, letting out his breath.

Hours later, Matthieu was still on the ice, sweat soaking into his undershirt beneath his heavy pads. His breath came in sharp, short bursts as he dropped to his knees again, the sting of cold biting through his gear. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself up, bracing against the tremor in his thighs. Across from him, Lafreniére stood like an unshakable wall, watching his every move with the scrutiny of a man who expected nothing less than perfection.

Salas lined up another shot, his expression unreadable. Matthieu barely had time to brace himself before the puck came flying at him.

“Get up faster…” Lafreniére’s voice cut through the pounding in Matthieu’s skull.

“I’m trying…” he panted, his voice edged with frustration.

“Tryharder…”

Matthieu gritted his teeth. The ice beneath him was slick, unrelenting. He could feel his body wearing down, his reaction time lagging, but he forced himself back up.

“You do it…” he snapped, irritation creeping into his voice.

Lafreniére didn’t flinch. “You’re practicing – and I can do it. Ihavedone it. I stop them all the time, and I’m flying to my knees in seconds less than it takes you to start climbing back up.” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was relentless, pushing him, testing him. “That’s why I was so hard on you and telling you to push into the stretches. You’re gonna feel this later—trust me.”

Salas fired another puck without warning.

Instinct took over, and Matthieu dropped, his body slamming into the ice. His thighs burned as he snapped his legs outward in a butterfly, deflecting the shot just in time. His breath was ragged now, his pulse hammering in his ears.

“You’re getting better,” Lafreniére said, nodding, but the moment of praise was short-lived. Salas sent another puck hurtling at him, zero notice, zero recovery time.

“Uh, Lafreniére…” Matthieu gasped, his voice strained. Another drop, another save. His arms were starting to shake.

“What’s up?” The other man barely looked at him, casually, like he wasn’t watching Matthieu struggle to keep up. “You can call me Dustin, you know.”

Matthieu hesitated, his heart slamming against his ribs for an entirely different reason now. “It’s just weird calling your idol…” He dropped again, stopping another shot. His entire body tensed with the effort. “…by their first name.”

“Sheesh, kid, don’t idolize me,” Dustin laughed, but there was warmth in it. “You make me feel old, and I’m barely ten years older.”

“No, I know…” Matthieu exhaled heavily with his hands braced on his knees. His mind was spinning, his thoughts a chaotic mess that had nothing to do with the game, nothing to do with hockey at all.

“Whatcha need?” Dustin asked. Matthieu flicked his gaze toward Salas, suddenly uncertain. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want anyone to know what was clawing at him from the inside out. But he needed to say something—because the fear was suffocating him.

Dustin must have sensed the shift in his posture. “Salas, give us a second. Matthieu, drop into a stretch so you don’t tighten up.”

Matthieu obeyed automatically, falling into a deep stretch on the ice, grateful for the moment to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell unevenly, a storm building inside him. But then, to his surprise, Dustin sank down beside him, full gear and all, mirroring his position like this was just another drill, just another conversation between teammates.

“What’s going on?” Dustin’s voice was quieter now, laced with something that almost resembled concern. “You seem distracted, and our first game is tomorrow.”

Matthieu stared down at the ice, his breath fogging against his visor. His pulse pounded in his throat. The words wouldn’t come. How could he explain it? The way his stomach had twisted when he signed that contract. The way his hands had trembled when he saw the clause, black ink sealing a future he hadn’t even figured out yet. Two weeks later, he was here, having thoughts he never imagined having about Jeannie. He was twenty-five. He was supposed to have time. He was supposed to have years before he found someone who made his chest ache before he had to decide if this was it. Ifshewas it – and it couldn’t be this easy— could it?

They had been strangers.

Met randomly.

Now he’d asked her out?

She wasn’t his type –or was she?

“How firm is the whole…” He hesitated, his hands flexing against the ice. His voice felt too small, too raw. “You can’t say anything, Dustin.”

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