Page 97 of The Official Problem
“You even know what they say now?” he went on, quieter. “They talk about pulling us from playoffs, taking away eligibility next year. You didn’t risk your own career, you lit fire to all of ours, too.”
Kieran opened his mouth to tell the whole story—that it had nothing to do with hockey, that he’d done it for love, that he hadn’t once considered the optics. Only Matthieu’s grief. Thefuneral bills. Making things easier for him, not harder. Cole’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. Not rough, not gentle either, just a firmDon’t you dare.
Kieran blinked fast, vision blurring. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. I never wanted to hurt the team.”
“We have to go,” Cole said, voice like a scalpel. “Management’s waiting. There’s a press conference in a few hours. PR will brief the team shortly.”
Ivan looked like he might not move. He just stood there, feet planted, blocking the path. Kieran held his breath. Then Ivan stepped aside with a long exhale and turned his back without a word. It cut deeper than he expected. Maybe he deserved it.
He hadn’t meant to betray them. But intent didn’t matter anymore—only consequence. He’d made the decision with nothing but good intentions, yet Ivan was right: they’d all pay for it. Kieran could survive losing hockey. It’d be the second most painful thing he’d ever endured, but he’d survive. If his teammates lost it too—if his choice destroyed their dreams—that he wasn’t sure he could come back from.
He and Cole moved through the locker room in silence. At the back, a set of doors opened into a hallway lined with storage closets and a few smaller conference rooms. With the press already swarming the building, eager to catch a glimpse of disgraced Kieran Lloyd, management had chosen a rarely used room tucked out of sight.
Here, in a cramped, impersonal, windowless room, Kieran would learn his fate.
He and Cole arrived first. They sat in silence until the door cracked open and the GM’s assistant poked her head inside. “Shouldn’t be much longer. They were on their way down but got ambushed by some press, so they had to take the long way.”
Kieran nodded and murmured a quiet thanks. The door clicked shut, leaving them alone again.
“Stick to what we discussed. No going off script. If you want a shot at playing next year, you follow the rules.”
He didn’t need to hear it again.
The meeting with management had gone as well as it could under the circumstances, which wasn’t saying much.
Kieran kept his mouth shut, like Cole told him—let him handle the talking, the legal gymnastics. He sat stiff in that suffocating little room while his career was reduced to a PR puzzle that might not even have a solution. He nodded when prompted, confirmed the agreed-upon version of events when needed. He didn’t correct the wording when they called it a loan agreement, didn’t flinch when they kept using Matthieu’s full namelike it was a curse.
He’d done everything “right”.
He’d never felt worse.
Now he sat in the green room outside the press-conference setup, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. His tie was too tight. The dress shirt—one Cole had produced from God knows where—itched. Lucky, really. He’d left the house in nothing but workout shorts and a ragged T-shirt.
Cole paced the room, phone to his ear, quietly reviewing talking points with PR. Kieran could barely hear over the pounding in his chest. He wasn’t ready. Not for the cameras. Not for the questions. Not to stand up there and claim Matthieu asked him for money. He couldn’t even picture opening his mouth to tell that lie.
Cole insisted it was the only way—the cleanest narrative, one people could swallow. It didn’t feel clean. It felt like betrayal. He couldn’t stop seeing Matthieu’s face that morning—fury and heartbreak tangled in his eyes.
Kieran wanted to believe this wasn’t over—that this wouldn’t be the end of their story. That maybe Matthieu was still at his place, waiting, deciding whether forgiveness was even possible. If Kieran did what Cole insisted, he knew it would never be. Choosing between Matthieu and hockey? Walking away from the man he loved or the dream he’d chased since first stepping onto the ice at five years old? Was it even a question? Did it really need debate at all?
Kieran pulled out his phone, fingers trembling as he opened their message thread. The last thing Matthieu had sent was more than twelve hours old.
Matthieu
I’m so fucking proud of you. See you at home, sweetheart.
Kieran stared at it for a long moment, wishing he could have that time back—wishing life worked like a clock he could rewind. He typed, erased, typed again. The phone shifted restlessly between his hands. He debated whether to hit send, whether any of this was still salvageable.
“Kieran.” Cole stood in the doorway. “They’re ready for you—it’s time.”
He hit send, slipped the phone into his pocket, and pressed his palms together, thumbs against his lips as he stood. He tried to brace for impact.
But the worst part wasn’t the fall.
It was knowing he’d already hit the ground.
THIRTY-FIVE
MATTHIEU
