Page 81 of The Official Problem
With that, Ivan was off to wrangle the team. Kieran slid into a cab, praying that by some miracle there would be an empty seat on any plane heading northeast.
If there was a God, he was apparently on Kieran’s side. There was a seat on a flight to New York leaving forty-five minutes after he reached the airport. The last-minute ticket was unreasonably expensive, but it wasn’t like Kieran was strapped for cash. If he didn’t use it on things that mattered, what was the point of having it?
Kieran spent the entire flight stressing about the state Matthieu would be in. Grief worked in mysterious ways, but for Matthieu, it would go far beyond simple sadness. There were layers to Matthieu’s relationship with his mother that Kieran couldn’t begin to understand.
He worried he wouldn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who lost a person they were expected to love unconditionally, who had abused them their entire life? Kieran knew Matthieu didn’t need his words. He needed someone who wouldn’t expect him to be strong. Someone who could carry a little of the weight while he found his footing again. That, Kieran could be.
As the wheels touched down at LaGuardia, he turned his phone on, hoping that two and a half hours in the air hadn’t made him miss a call or text. The screen was still blank. Matthieu still hadn’t reached out. Not once. On one of the hardest days of his life, Matthieu was yet again pulling within himself, shutting everyone out. Kieran tried hard not to let that sting.
Maybe he should have told Matthieu that he was on his way. That way, Matthieu wouldn’t have been sitting there feeling alone in the world for hours. Kieran knew what he would havesaid. He would’ve told him not to come, insisted everything was under control. God, it was infuriating how this stubborn man thought he had to shoulder everything alone.
The irritation stayed with Kieran the entire cab ride to Matthieu’s apartment. A woman coming out of the building let him in, and he sprinted up the stairs. He hadn’t been sure Matthieu would have buzzed him in. Now he stood outside Matthieu’s door, pounding hard enough to break it down. A shuffle of footsteps on the other side made his heart jump.
Matthieu opened the door without the surprise Kieran had expected. “Well, this explains why you were listed as a last-minute scratch,” he said, stepping aside.
Kieran pulled Matthieu into his arms. The TV, volume low in the background, showed that the New Jersey vs. Nashville game had gone into overtime.Fuck.It was supposed to have been an easy two points.
“You really didn’t need to come,” Matthieu said, not quite looking at him. “I’m fine.”
Kieran didn’t bother justifying that with a reply. Instead, he pointed toward the TV. “You were watching my game?”
“I always do. When I can, that is,” Matthieu said, like it wasn’t some massive revelation. There wasn’t time to unpack that further. That wasn’t why Kieran had flown all this way.
“Are you…” He started, then stopped himself. “Never mind. That was going to be a stupid question. Have you eaten?”
Matthieu shook his head and headed back to the couch. The TV showed a close-up of Ivan hugging Jørgensen after a game-winning goal.Thank fuck.Kieran didn’t want to face Coach or the team in Miami after a sure win turned into a loss because of him. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he carried the team, but he chipped in a point or two most nights. His absence would have made a difference.
“I can grab pizza from that place you like,” Kieran offered. Matthieu turned up his nose. “Or is there something else you’d rather have?”
“I’m not hungry,” Matthieu muttered. “Just—come here.”
Kieran went willingly, kneeling in the space between Matthieu’s legs. He placed his hands on Matthieu’s temples. Matthieu leant forward, pressing their foreheads together and letting out a sigh. It sounded like he’d been holding it in all day. They didn’t talk. They just sat there, breathing together in silence, holding on with the lightest of touches. Matthieu’s sorrow settled between them, a heavy weight.
“I wish I’d been able to say goodbye,” he finally whispered, so soft it nearly got lost in the small space between them. “They asked if I wanted to see her body, but I couldn’t bring myself to say yes. It seemed easier in the moment, now…”
He trailed off again, sucking in another lungful of air. His fingertips dug into Kieran’s thigh like the contact was the only thing holding him together. Kieran fought back the urge to speak. From the way Matthieu’s gaze locked with his, he knew listening was all that Matthieu needed right now.
“Thank you for coming,” he said at last.
“Of course.”
Kieran ran his fingers from Matthieu’s temples up into his hair. Matthieu tilted his face up just enough for Kieran to press a soft kiss to his lips. There was nothing sexual about it, yet it lingered, a silent connection between them.
“I can’t stay long, but we have tomorrow. Let me help with whatever you need.”
Matthieu nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut as the day’s exhaustion finally took over.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Kieran muttered. He dragged himself to his feet, sore muscles protesting as he pulled Matthieu up after him.
He followed slowly, saying nothing as Matthieu crawled into bed still fully clothed. He wore soft sweatpants and one of Kieran’s T-shirts, hanging loose against his slender frame. Kieran peeled off his suit and carefully folded it, knowing Matthieu would be irritated if he woke to find it crumpled on the floor. Then he slid under the covers beside him.
It wasn’t long before Matthieu fell asleep, his warm breath tickling Kieran’s ear. Kieran ran his fingers through Mathieu’s dark hair and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about what tomorrow might bring. They would face it together. At least until Kieran had to leave again.
THIRTY
MATTHIEU
Matthieu fumbled with the buttons on his cheap suit. Kieran had offered to lend him one of his, but the height and build difference would’ve made Matthieu look like he was wearing his dad’s. That was laughable, considering Matthieu didn’t have a dad and never would. He didn’t even have the number of the man who’d contributed half of his DNA. What would he even text?Just so you know, she’s dead.
