Page 90 of The Official Problem
Harvey squeezed his shoulder gently. “I know she’d be proud of you.” Then he continued down the hall before Matthieu could say the woman had never been proud of him a single day in his life. Death likely hadn’t changed that.
Matthieu followed, shoving the ache in his chest back down where it belonged. Maybe after the season he’d talk to Scott, lay it all out—who he was with, what they had, what they meant to each other. Maybe once Julie was back from Paris, he could afford a demotion to the AHL so his relationship with Kieran wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. It would break his heart to give up this dream. But the dream of a life with Kieran was greater.
For now, he just had to survive the next sixty minutes of hockey without giving himself away.
Fuck. He might've just given himself away.
The game was a war zone from puck drop. Dirty hockey since the moment he’d blown the first whistle. Matthieu stopped counting the penalty minutes racked up by both sides, stopped hoping the Inferno’s goal wouldn’t be answered within minutes. Every time New Jersey pulled ahead, Detroit answered before the fans even made it back to their seats.
The Inferno struck first midway through the opening period—a messy rebound jammed in by Volkov at the edge of the crease. Forty seconds later, Detroit tied it with a perfect top-shelf snipe on a breakaway, as if on a personal mission to keep New Jersey from clinching their wildcard spot. It stayed that way all night. One step forward. One step back.
Detroit didn’t need the win. Their playoff spot had been locked in weeks ago; their first-round opponent was already set. But they played like everything was on the line, like the Inferno were sworn enemies they had to take down. Every hit landed harder than necessary. Every scrum dragged on too long. Each time Kieran took the ice, he was shadowed, slashed, chirped, poked, and prodded, like a target was painted on his back.
And the Inferno… they were exhausted.
New Jersey had clawed through the last month with grit and desperation, refusing to die no matter how many counted them out. The wear and tear showed—shifts lagged by half a second, transitions lost their sharpness, mistakes crept in, bodies broke down. They looked like a team trying to outrun the inevitable. Every play was a prayer. Every shot a last chance.
Now, with 1:38 left, all the effort—all the sacrifice—came down to this final push. The score was tied. Every fan in the building sat on the edge of their seat, watching Andre Nix fight for his life in the Inferno’s crease as the clock bled down painfully slow. The season looked over. Even if Andre kept the puck out a little longer, it would only push the game into overtime, and the Inferno needed two points. Then everything changed. The fans were suddenly on their feet, twenty thousand pairs of eyes glued to the ice.
Matthieu’s heart slammed against his ribs as number twenty-five tore down the ice like a man possessed. His gaze locked on Kieran the moment Bergstrom jabbed his stick into the loose puck, sending it skipping to Kieran’s blade like it was magnetized. Kieran was gone in an instant. Skates sliced through open ice, Volkov on his left, Novak barely a breath behind. They crossed center ice as one, Kieran half a stride faster, sliding over the blue line. Matthieu exhaled in relief. Onside.
He needed to pass. Pressure rushed in hard from both sides, tight and unrelenting, but Kieran kept the puck. Of course he did. A quick fake, a sharp pivot, slipping between Detroit defenders with a shoulder drop and a flash of blade. Volkov and Novak peeled wide, forcing the D-men to commit, while Kieran held center.
It was just him and the netminder now.
The rink seemed to vanish. Matthieu’s ears rang, his lungs burned. He could feel the tension vibrating off the glass, smell the sweat and adrenaline thick in the air.
Detroit’s goalie crouched low in the crease, every muscle coiled, eyes locked on the charging forward. He didn’t flinch. Just waited—a predator watching his prey barrel toward the trap.
The crowd held its breath. Matthieu held his breath.
Kieran cut right, then left. But the goalie remained steady. Then came the spin—fluid, controlled, reckless. Matthieu’s body leaned with him, his eyes locked, mouth parted, heart in his throat. The shot rippled low. Matthieu tracked the rubber disk like his life depended on it, watching it cut through the air before slamming into the ice for its final slide.
Matthieu was so focused on the puck that he didn’t see Kieran catch an edge. Didn’t see his balance shift or his skate jerk out from under him, the momentum launching him toward the goalie, who was just as locked in. Kieran crashed to the ice, gear flying, stick skidding, helmet popping off, and tumbling across the blue paint. There was a spray of snow, a tangle of limbs. Twenty thousand voices gasped at once. But the puck kept going. Kept sliding. Somehow slipped past the goalie’s pads, crossing the goal line as Kieran barreled into him.
The horn blared. The lamp lit up. The crowd exploded—arms up, voices rising in a guttural roar, shaking the building.
Matthieu’s heart didn’t leap. Not yet. He looked back at the net: a tangle of bodies, the goalie down, Kieran half-pushed onto his side, trying to get up. His stick lay behind the goal. His helmet spun like a coin near the post.
Had it counted? Had the puck crossed the line before Kieran made contact?
Matthieu saw it. Thought he saw it. Wanted to believe he saw it. Was that the truth, or his heart rewriting the timeline to give the man he loved the game-winning goal?
His mind ran it back in jerky frames. Puck to stick. Spin. Shot. Edge catch. Contact. Collision. Goal lamp.
It was close, incredibly close. But clean. The shot went off before the contact was made. No shove. No deliberate interference.
It was a good goal.
A good goal. The right call.
Matthieu blew his whistle and raised his hand, signaling fair play. He hadn’t even lowered it before chaos broke loose. Detroit jerseys crashed down on Kieran like a wave, shouting and shoving. One player yanked his shoulder pad, another knocked him back to the ice. The crowd didn’t care; they were already singing, screaming, chanting Kieran’s number.
Twenty-five. Twenty-five. Twenty-five.
Matthieu was moving, skating hard toward the scuffle as New Jersey players swarmed in to defend their teammate. He couldn’t see Kieran under the pile, but he shoved players aside, whistle blasting until he grabbed hold of Kieran's arm. Alexei and Harvey held the attackers at bay as Detroit's goalie streaked toward his bench to demand a challenge.
Matthieu’s fingers tightened around Kieran’s jersey, yanking him to his feet. Kieran grinned, his usually white smile streaked with blood.
