Page 20 of The Official Problem
“Andre, I meant what I said—I want to help. Those kids were amazing. If they need time, I’m happy to give it. The season will make it tough, but I can find a way to show up. In the summer… maybe we could build something, some kind of program. I just don’t know where to start.”
“Well, Cynthia can help with that.” Nix smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, a flicker of approval in his expression. “You’re a good man, Kieran.”
Kieran gave a crooked smile in return. The grill’s warmth cut through the cool air, the kids’ laughter rising behind them.
“Now go. Stop hanging with old men and talk to your team,” Ivan said, half-demand, half-tease. He shoved an overflowing plate of food into Kieran’s arms. “Take this with you.”
“Fine,” Kieran grumbled, more for show than anything. Sooner or later, he’d have to put his reservations to bed and start planting roots, even if they were short and shallow ones.
EIGHT
MATTHIEU
Aheavy chill settled in the mid-October air as Matthieu stepped into the dreary, grey, single-story building his mother called home. With Julie away, he’d been spending far too much time here lately. Normally, they split the visits, each checking in once a week. But lately, it had all fallen on him.
The visits were slowly draining him. Just the thought of making the trip was enough to sour his mood for the entire day, and the guilt he felt for feeling that way only made things worse.
Part of the problem was never knowing which version of his mother he’d get.
Some days, she was bright and talkative, her spirits inexplicably high. She’d chat about the weather or gossip about drama between residents. They’d sip tea, laugh, and for a little while, it almost felt normal. Matthieu would catch glimpses of what their relationship could have been, if she hadn’t gotten sick, if she hadn’t taken everything out on him. It felt like the years of tension between them had never existed.
Even though he knew those days were a lie—knew they were only coming more frequently because her memories were slipping further away—he let himself believe in them. Soaked them up like a child being starved of affection.
Then there were the bad days. The dark-cloud days. Days when the joy drained from her, leaving nothing but bitterness behind. Days when Matthieu saw shades of how it had all started. Those sudden, dramatic lows that pulled her somewhere unreachable. She’d stop eating, stop bathing. The smallest inconvenience—a missed bill, her favorite bread being out of stock—could spiral into hours of tears, or worse, violent outbursts.
Matthieu had always taken the brunt of it. He’d let her scream at him, throw things, hurl insults, and fists until she wore herself out. Better him than Julie. At least until he’d escaped for school.
And then there were the worst days. The days when he stood in her doorway, looking into the small room she now called home, and her eyes passed right over him, blank, unknowing. Sometimes, she thought he was a nurse. Other times, she thought he was there to hurt her. She’d scream for help until a doctor came to remove him, and he’d walk out blinking back tears, heart cracked open.
Losing her like this, slowly, piece by piece, was a cruelty he hadn’t known existed. Sometimes, in the quiet after those visits, he caught himself wishing it would end—that she’d slip away entirely, that he could be free.
He hated himself for it. What kind of son wished for that?
“Hey, Matthieu!” The front desk attendant called out as he walked in. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the cold, stiff tension.
“Hey, Lauren. How is she today?” If he knew what to expect, it was easier to brace for the gut-punch these visits always brought, no matter her mood.
“Good, I think. She was in the rec room earlier, chatting with Earl. We’ve got to keep an eye on that one. He’s a terrible flirt.”
Earl flirted with anything on two legs. Including Matthieu, more than once. He grimaced, signing in.
“You can head on back. She should be in her room.”
“Thanks.”
Lauren buzzed him through the locked doors to his mother’s ward. The facility was cold and sterile at the best of times, downright miserable at the worst, not unlike his mother. It should’ve been nicer for the arm and leg it was costing him. Between her permanent housing, the medical bills piling up, and Julie’s tuition, he was barely making payments on time.
He was well paid, like every NHL official. His colleagues lived in sleek apartments and townhomes, took luxury vacations in the off-season, and spent their nights in the city across the Hudson. Meanwhile, Matthieu lived in a cramped, rundown apartment with Julie. The second bedroom little more than a glorified closet. He picked up odd jobs over the summer to keep them afloat.
He reminded himself it wouldn’t be like this much longer. Once Julie graduated and got a job, she could help with the bills and these visits. Maybe then things wouldn’t feel so hard.
He didn’t know why it still got to him, why the thought of seeing his mother made his chest tighten and his jaw lock. She’d never given a damn when he was a kid. Now she needed him, and he was the one bending over backward. Every visit felt like bleeding into an old wound.
Matthieu reached his mother’s doorway and paused to steady himself before pushing it open. She sat by the window in the chair he’d bought her last Christmas, staring out at the uninspiring view of the parking lot. He pulled in a grounding breath. This was always the moment of truth, the second she’d turn, meet his gaze, and reveal the expression that would decide the visit’s fate.
Today, a cheery smile, and Matthieu’s guard eased a little.
“Matthieu!” She held out her hand as he approached. He gave it a light squeeze, then let go. He hadn’t hugged—or been hugged—by his mother in so long the idea felt foreign. “You look well, dear. So handsome. Just like your father.”
