Page 1 of The Official Problem
ONE
MATTHIEU
March 2023 - New York City
“Jesus, Matthieu.”
A pair of strong hands grabbed Matthieu by the shoulders, yanking him off the wriggling body he’d pinned to the ice. He wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed since they collided in a blur of fists and curses. With the way they’d circled each other all night, it was only a matter of time before one of them snapped.
If he were a betting man, Matthieu wouldn’t have put money on himself throwing the first punch. But he wasn’t, and tonight, apparently, was full of surprises. All it took was that jerk getting in his face over what should’ve been an undeniable tripping call—in Matthieu's professional opinion—and he was ready to drop gloves.
Except referees didn’t wear gloves.
Oh shit.This was bad.
Matthieu was so laser-focused on his target, completely zoned in on causing that piece of shit as much pain as possible, he’d forgotten where they were. Center ice at a New York vs.Seattle game, wailing on each other like a couple of rowdy teenagers in a high school scrimmage.
It was all coming back to him now.
Hands tugged again, harder this time, hauling his body off the ice. The douchebag he’d been hitting lurched forward, like now Matthieu was restrained, he might actually fight back. Luckily for Matthieu and his imminent black eye, the other man’s captain stepped in before a fist could fly in his direction.
“What’s gotten into you? Stop fighting me,” Alexei, Matthieu’s closest friend and fellow lineman in tonight’s game, hissed in his ear. If only Matthieu had an answer for him. Alexei was right, this wasn’t like him at all.
Even back in college, Matthieu hadn’t been a fighter. His singular on-ice scrap had resulted in a concussion and the slight bend he still sported in his nose, courtesy of a nasty hook. He was pretty sure the guy only landed one swing before the ref broke it up, but Matthieu had crumpled to the ice like he weighed nothing.
He blinked rapidly, clearing the fog from his mind as the scene around him sharpened into view. Almost every player from both benches was on the ice now. Seattle formed a barrier in front of number twenty-five, as if he’d be foolish enough to pounce again while the guy was having the damage to his face assessed.
New York’s bench was split evenly: half watched with confused curiosity, while the other half tried to calm the roaring crowd.
Shit. How had he forgotten about the twenty thousand fans watching?
He glanced at the stands. Every person on their feet, pushing and shoving for a better view of the mayhem unfolding on the ice. They booed and cheered, pointing in his direction,whispering among themselves, no doubt wondering what the hell had made him dive onto one of the league's top players.
During play, Matthieu was always careful to keep his focus trained on the ice and the game. Nothing was more overwhelming than acknowledging that many pairs of eyes watching, so he’d become good at ignoring them. When the whistle blew, it was just him, twelve players, and three other officials in the building. He tuned everything else out and focused on the job he was paid to do—the one he’d dreamed about ever since walking away from playing hockey for good.
He’d worked hard for this. He couldn’t let anything get in his way.
Well, except for a six-foot-one, loud-mouthed, cocky asshole of a hockey player. Apparently, just seeing the guy's face again was enough to make Matthieu toss all his hard work out the window for a chance to do something he should’ve done a long time ago.
He hoped he’d knocked out some of those stupid, white teeth.
He was so fucked.
Now that the adrenaline had faded, the reality of what he’d done was crashing in. The sensory overload was unbearable. Stadium lights were too bright, stands too loud. A sharp pain throbbed in his knuckles, already bruising and split open, and a dull ache bloomed in his jaw. His left palm burned where it had been pressed flat to the ice, and his nose scrunched at the stench of blood and sweat.
It was all too much.
He needed to get off the ice. Needed to get out of everyone’s line of sight and into somewhere dark and quiet before he did something even more embarrassing.
“You want to help us by moving your legs, tough guy?”
Matthieu forced his feet to move and half-followed, half-let himself be dragged toward the New York bench by the two linemen he was officiating with tonight.
Jamison, a guy Matthieu rarely worked with and didn’t particularly like, wasn’t looking at him. His gaze stayed fixed over his shoulder, probably on the chaos Matthieu had left behind, brow furrowed in either annoyance or disbelief—Matthieu couldn’t tell. Alexei, on the other hand, was staring directly at Matthieu, eyes narrowed like he was trying to burrow into Matthieu’s brain and figure out what the hell he’d been thinking. Even if Alexei had developed mind-reading powers in the last four seconds, Matthieu wasn’t convinced he’d find any answers.
Less than fifteen feet away, number twenty-five made it to the bench. Seattle’s head coach, Brian Fox, yelled something at him before patting his ass and sending him down the chute to the locker rooms. Blood ran down the player's face, enough to tell Matthieu he’d need stitches or at least a butterfly bandage.
Matthieu guessed the furious head referee storming toward him had hit the player with a misconduct, ejecting him from the game. He gulped, already dreading what his own fate would be.
