Page 91 of The Official Problem
Matthieu chuckled. “You’re missing a tooth.”
Kieran raised a hand to poke at the empty space. “Goddammit.” He started to launch himself back toward the still-scraping players, but Matthieu caught him and held him back.
“Let it go,” he whispered, low enough for only Kieran to hear. “You’ll lose another if you don’t walk away now.”
Kieran looked at him—blood on his cheek, fire in his eyes. If anyone else had said those words, he’d have ignored them. Matthieu saw the moment the fight left him. Instead, Kieran gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Alexei arrived a second later, shooing Kieran toward the bench. His teammates were already slapping his back, pulling him into hugs, celebrating the win even with twenty seconds left on the clock, even as Detroit’s coach waved wildly from the bench to signal a challenge.
The Inferno had the lead, yet the victory was far from certain.
“Careful,” was all Alexei said, reading more in his face than Matthieu meant to show, as usual. He schooled his expression, drew a long breath, and followed Alexei to view the replay.
THIRTY-THREE
KIERAN
Kieran found Matthieu holed up at the dining room table when he got home, still in his NHL quarter zip, though it looked like he’d been tugging at the collar. He was on the phone, laptop open, the screen paused on something that looked suspiciously like game highlights.
Kieran hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to interrupt. He was still a little buzzed thanks to Ivan lining up shots in the locker room, but not so far gone he missed the tension in Matthieu’s face—brow tight, jaw working. Matthieu’s fingers tapped absently against the side of his water glass as he nodded along with whatever the person on the other end said. Kieran padded to the fridge and poured a glass of water, the faint clink of ice the only sound he dared make.
After another minute of silence, Matthieu finally said, “Thank you, sir. Always appreciate the feedback.”
His voice was calm, even, but clipped at the edges. He hung up without a goodbye, leaned back, and pinched the bridge of his nose like it physically hurt to think. Kieran was grateful he hadn’t crashed through the door, demanding Matthieu force him to his knees, like he’d originally planned.
He waited a beat, but when Matthieu stayed lost in thought, he said, “Everything okay?”
Matthieu startled slightly, like he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. The tension in his features softened quickly into something warm and familiar. A small, tired smile broke across his face.
“Oh yeah, all good. Just game review.” He closed the laptop with a quiet click and slid it across the table.
“Any issues?”
“Not really,” Matthieu said, scratching the back of his neck. “Scott had some notes about that trip I called in the second, but otherwise all’s good.”
Kieran snorted. “Well, you do suck at calling tripping.” It was easy to tease him about it now. That terrible tripping call last year had set off the chain of events that brought them back into each other’s arms.
Matthieu rolled his eyes, though the smile stayed. “Noted.”
“Nothing about the goal?”
He didn’t need to clarify. It was the only goal that mattered—the one that sealed the game, the one Matthieu had called good on ice despite the commotion in the crease.
Matthieu exhaled, long and slow. “I was worried,” he admitted.
“Yeah, me too.”
“It was reviewed by Toronto when it was challenged,” Matthieu continued, sounding more like he was reassuring himself for the hundredth time than Kieran. “They backed it. It was the right call. I made the right call.”
Kieran nodded. “I know you did.”
“Did you have a good time with the guys?”
“Mhmmm,” Kieran hummed.
Matthieu tilted his head, watching him more closely. “Are you drunk, sweetheart?”
Kieran leaned in, nuzzled into Matthieu’s hair, and murmured a laugh against his temple. Then, not exactly subtly, he pressed his very hard cock against Matthieu’s thigh.
