Page 2 of The Official Problem
Alexei loosened his grip once the target was out of sight, but Jamison kept holding Matthieu fast, like he thought Matthieu might bolt for the visitor’s box and start round two. Now that the ringing in his ears had faded and the molten rage cooled, he was more likely to flee the scene entirely than start another fight.
“What the fuck was that, Bouchard?” Harvey, Matthieu’s senior and head ref for the night, finally made his way over after clearing the ice. He stopped right in front of Matthieu, leveling a look that made him feel two feet tall and five years old. “This isn’t like you.”
Matthieu was known for keeping his cool on the ice. Most refs spent years in the AHL learning to control their tempers,make the right calls under pressure, and tune out mouthy players without rising to their taunts. Matthieu never let arrogant players or heckling crowds get under his skin. He called plays cleanly, made the right decisions every time, and carried himself with the poise of a ref who’d been doing this for decades. That’s why they promoted him so young.
But tonight? He’d lost control spectacularly, and the gravity of it hit fast. His reputation as an even-keeled professional was in shambles, and it dawned on him that he might’ve just thrown both it and his career right out the window.
Harvey cleared his throat, and Matthieu realized he hadn’t answered. What was he supposed to say?Sorry, I punched Seattle’s star forward, then jumped on him and threw in a few extra swings for good measure.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to fly.
Not only had he hit a player, it had been one of the NHL’s golden boys. During his first season as a permanent ref, no less.
First and last, Matthieu. First and last.
“Get off my ice,” Harvey snapped, cutting through his thoughts. “Take a shower. Cool off. I expect we’ll be hearing from Toronto after the game.”
“But…” Matthieu didn’t even know what he was trying to protest. There was no way Harvey would let him continue officiating a game where he’d attacked a player.
“No buts.” Harvey’s voice was flat. “I’ve got to get this shit show moving again. Thanks to whatever the hellthatwas, they’ve been stuck in commercial break for nearly eight minutes.”
Harvey turned and squinted up at the stands. The fans had moved on from hurling insults. Matthieu was lucky Seattle was the away team. If they weren’t, he’d probably be dodging beer cans, not just taunts.
“You need two refs,” Matthieu muttered, though even he knew how absurd it sounded given the circumstances.
“Not as badly as I need peace on my ice,” Harvey shot back. “If we restart with you out there, one of his teammates will be on you before I blow the whistle. Alexei and Jamison can cover your responsibilities. We only have a few minutes left.”
Matthieu opened his mouth to argue, but Harvey was already gone, leaving him standing there, holding the weight of his actions.
“Just do as he says, Matthieu,” Jamison sighed. “Get cleaned up. Calm down. You’ll need a level head if you’re gonna talk your way out of this.” He shot him a hard stare.
Matthieu gave a reluctant nod and headed toward the home team’s bench. The officials’ changing room was down the away chute, but he wasn’t stupid enough to walk through their box after pummeling one of their players less than ten minutes ago. Not a single guy on the team was under six feet or two hundred pounds, and every one of them wore a look that said they’d love to rip his head clean off.
Matthieu hoped that by the time he made it down the home side and into the changing room, Kieran Lloyd would already be laid out on the medic table getting that pretty face stitched back up. A grin tugged at Matthieu’s mouth at the thought—at least he’d made him a little less handsome, even if just for a while.
Small victories and all that.
An hour later, Matthieu stared at the blank wall of a mostly empty office connected to the officials’ dressing room. NHL refs didn’t have a home rink. They traveled more than the players,hopping between U.S. cities and Canada. As a result, this space had no personal touches, just a sterile, utilitarian room meant for officials passing through.
The game had ended long ago. Matthieu heard the muffled sounds of the stands emptying above him shortly after he got out of the shower. He’d been sitting in this cold, lifeless office ever since, waiting for the consequences to come crashing down.
Jamison had come and gone. As usual, he gave Matthieu nothing more than a passing glance, more interested in getting away from the aftermath than sticking around. Alexei, however, hovered for a while, like he thought he might need to offer moral support. Eventually, he left too, with a pitying look, a pat on the shoulder, and the usual instruction to call once Matthieu heard his verdict.
They both knew that call probably wouldn’t happen.
Alexei was Matthieu’s closest friend, but theirs wasn’t a friendship built on long phone calls or emotional heart-to-hearts. It was easy, a friendship that fit neatly into the tight corners of Matthieu's life. They chatted at work, grabbed the occasional drink, and met up for dinner when schedules aligned. It wasn’t the kind of relationship that needed constant tending, and in the life Matthieu had carved out, he didn’t have the energy for much else.
Minutes dragged by in the room’s sterile silence. After what felt like an eternity, Harvey finally appeared, still in his black and white stripes. His sweat-soaked hair stuck up in wild spikes, making him look like an electrified chipmunk.
“I hope you’ve spent this time thinking of how to talk yourself out of this mess,” he said, dropping into the chair across from Matthieu and dragging the old office phone closer.
The device beeped loudly as Harvey jabbed at the buttons, muttering under his breath when they didn’t cooperate. “This fucking thing.”
Matthieu leaned over to help connect the call, earning a quick, grateful nod.
“You still there, Scott? Got Matthieu with me now. You’re on speaker.”
The voice down the line was loud and booming, as if announcing Matthieu to a packed stadium. “Matthieu Bouchard!”
