Page 13 of The Official Problem
Fuck.
Matthieu Bouchard.
It suddenly clicked. The last-minute PR event. Cole dodging his calls. This was a setup. He was going to barbecue Cole alive for this.
FIVE
KIERAN
Kieran barely slept a wink. By the time Cole finally picked up, it was already late, and the conversation that dragged on into the night left Kieran too frustrated to sleep.
Apparently, it wasn’t Cole’s decision. He’d just helped facilitate what was bound to be a painful morning. The order came directly from the NHL. There were concerns that Kieran’s transfer to the East and the increased shared ice time with a certain scowly-faced official would stir up another press frenzy over the incident last March.
Kieran hadn’t considered Matthieu when making the decision. He hadn’t thought to ask where Matthieu’s home ice was. Of course, it had to be New Jersey.
“It’s one day working alongside the guy,” Cole had assured him. “Smile for a few cameras, look cordial, preferably don’t hit each other, and everyone moves on.”
If only it could be that simple. It had taken Kieran years to get over the fierce longing Matthieu left in his wake, and he’d resigned himself to never seeing the guy again. Now Matthieu was back, orbiting his life, and Kieran, orbiting his, and it felt like hardly any time had passed.
Kieran should’ve found a way to contact him back in March and cleared the air privately. Now, they were forced to do it in front of cameras and reporters, as if this were only a misunderstanding over a tripping call, as if Matthieu hadn’t walked away with Kieran’s heart ten years ago.
Pushing it aside for now, Kieran hopped out of his Jeep and looked up at the building in front of him. It looked like most rinks he’d played in as a kid, except this one was alarmingly run-down. The siding needed a good power-wash, the landscaping was overgrown, and the paint around the doors and front windows was chipped and flaking.
Cole had warned him the place was underfunded, which made it a favorite for Inferno players to volunteer at, but Kieran hadn’t been prepared for this. A pang of embarrassment hit as he stepped into the foyer, thinking about the absurd money he made chasing a puck while places like this, doing real good, were falling apart. He’d have to find out what else they could do to help.
He barely had time to get his bearings before a tall woman with a tight ponytail stepped out of an office to his left.
“You must be Kieran,” she said, holding out her hand. He was caught off guard by her surprisingly firm grip. “I’m Cynthia Daniels, the Director of Volunteers here. We’re so glad you could stop by.”
“Nice to meet—” Kieran started, but she cut him off, not unkindly.
“I’d offer a quick tour, but the other players are already here. I’ll take you straight to the locker rooms so you can change.”
Kieran nodded, cheeks warming. He’d never quite mastered punctuality.
“Sorry, I’m late, ma’am. Still getting the lay of the land.”
She waved him off. “Oh, not a problem. You’re barely late.” Her tone suggested otherwise, so he followed quietly as she tookoff at a brisk pace. “Just in here,” she said, nodding toward the double doors. “The kids will be here in about fifteen minutes. The others should already be inside or warming up on the ice.”
Kieran moved to push through the doors.
“Oh, Mr. Lloyd, there’s a reporter inside. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
He’d assumed as much but appreciated the warning. Nothing was worse than an unexpected mic or camera shoved in his face, even if it came with the territory.
“Ah! Kieran,” Andre Nix called as he crossed the threshold.
As Cynthia had warned, the room was full of hockey players, half-dressed, lounging around, chatting with one another. A man, whom Kieran assumed was a reporter, stuck a recorder in Louis Kessler’s face. The poor kid already looked exhausted.
“Nixy!” Kieran said, forcing himself to meet Nix’s eyes instead of scanning the room, subconsciously hunting for the figure he was both desperate to see yet hoping had canceled. “Thanks for the invite. I’m excited to be here.”
Nix’s expression made it clear he knew exactly why they were all there, but he was gracious enough not to say it.
“Glad to have you, man. Let me introduce you around.” He waved over one of their teammates, a guy Kieran had played against for years but never officially met. “This is Logan. Logan, Kieran.”
They shook hands and exchanged small talk about the upcoming season and New Jersey’s chances before Nix waved over Kessler, who had finally ditched the reporter.
“I don’t know what else that guy wanted me to say.” Kessler rolled his eyes and reached out to shake Kieran’s hand. “Louis. So great to meet you. I had your poster on my wall when I was a kid.”
