Page 16 of The Official Problem
He’d just reached the parking lot when the sound of footsteps jogged up behind him. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. To think he had been so close to making his escape. One more minute and he would have been in his crappy car, driving toward the safety of his empty apartment. God was apparently not on his side.
“Wait up.”
It would have been easier to pretend he hadn’t heard him, to slip into the car and drive off, leaving Kieran on the sidewalk. Maybe part of him wanted to talk to Kieran, because Matthieu reluctantly slowed to a stop and let himself be caught.
“That was fun,” Kieran said, finally catching up.
He was still in his Under Armour, loose sweatpants tugged over his lower half, sweat drying on his skin. He looked so different but, at the same time, entirely the same. More filled out. Perhaps even an inch or so taller. But beneath the slightly older exterior, Matthieu saw the Kieran he’d once been in love with. Was still—if he let himself admit it—a little in love with.
“Yeah, they were good kids.”
“The best.” An awkward silence stretched between them. Kieran looked like he had more to say. Surely he did. Yet he stood there like he hadn’t been the one who chased Matthieu down.
“I should get going.”
“Oh?” Kieran shuffled from foot to foot, unable to meet Matthieu’s eyes. It was perhaps a small mercy. “I thought maybe you’d have time to catch up.”
“You thought wrong.” The words came out unnecessarily sharp.
“Right. Well, if…” Kieran trailed off.
Matthieu refused to let himself wonder what the end of that sentence might have been. He turned back toward the parking lot. Kieran clearly wasn’t going to get to the point, and Matthieu didn’t have time to stand around on the sidewalk all day. These next two weeks were the last he’d have before the season started, when his free time would cease to exist. His to-do list was a mile long.
As Matthieu walked away, he heard Kieran mutter, “It was nice to see you again,” followed, a moment later, by an even quieter, “I’ve missed you.”
The last part was surely a figment of his imagination.
He didn’t know what to do with it either way.
Matthieu stood in line at a small organic coffee stand outside Keystone Arena. The morning air was warm, but a cool breeze swept through the streets, a reminder that fall, and the NHL season, was rapidly approaching. It wasn’t too crowded yet, but the noise of busy commuters buzzed around him. He didn’t usually stop at the stand. Spending five bucks on coffee he could make for cents at home was the kind of frivolity Matthieu couldn’t really afford. But this morning called for an extra shot of espresso and the comforting heat of it warming his palms through the paper cup.
The line moved slowly, to Matthieu’s discomfort. He hoped to get a quick workout and a skate in before the Inferno descended for today’s training camp. Better to get in and out before any blonde hockey players with chocolate-brown eyes showed up.
He hadn’t seen Kieran since the charity event two weeks ago, which had been by design. Playing with him again had been a shock to the system, and Matthieu’s mind kept wandering to the man more than he cared to admit. The way it felt skating together. The weight of Kieran’s hand in his. The cling of his base-layer, damp with sweat, when he chased after him. His laugh—how it rumbled from deep in his chest, so familiar Matthieu swore he could still hear it.
No, wait—he could definitely hear it.
Fuck.
Kieran Lloyd stood three people ahead, leaning against the cart, chuckling at whatever the barista said as she made his drink. It was almost like the universe was playing some sickand twisted joke. Matthieu shifted, trying to block himself from Kieran’s view behind the much shorter woman in front of him. She seemed to think he was up to no good, dramatically sidestepping right as Kieran glanced over his shoulder.
His eyes caught on Matthieu. His lips twitched into a smirk before he turned back and said something else to the barista. Matthieu decided coffee wasn’t so important after all and muttered his apology to the woman as he slipped out of the queue. He’d made it all of ten steps when Kieran appeared next to him, two paper cups in his hands.
“I presume your order hasn’t changed,” he said, offering Matthieu one of the cups.
It hung awkwardly between them as Matthieu tried to get his brain to catch up with what the hell was happening. Had Kieran really bought him coffee? Was this some sort of caffeinated olive branch after what he’d done? Matthieu couldn’t decide whether to knock it out of Kieran’s hand or take it, only to throw it back in his face.
How dare he—after all this time?
Finally, Matthieu calmed his racing heart long enough for his limbs to cooperate. He took the cup from Kieran, who watched with quiet curiosity.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered into the cup.
The sweet scent of vanilla and caramel floated out of the hole in the lid. He hadn’t had one of these in years. His sweet tooth had dissipated sometime around when Kieran had broken his heart.
“I usually drink my coffee black.” He liked the scalding bitterness against his tongue.
“Oh.” Kieran didn’t have the right to look so saddened by that. “I can have them make you something else.”
