Page 23 of The Official Problem
He hoped she wouldn’t see through it.
Keystone Arena was packed as Matthieu stepped onto the ice, the weight of twenty thousand fans pressing down on him. No, not on him. No one in those seats cared about him, and yet he felt like he was skating out there naked. He was emotionally raw and in no shape to do his job, not that he had an option.
He could’ve called out sick, but that would’ve left his crew scrambling and the league short a ref. Letting people down wasn’t in his nature, despite how often he felt like he’d been doing just that lately.
“You sure you’re okay?” Of course, Alexei could read him like a book. He’d sensed something was off the moment Matthieu walked into the locker room.
Aside from the badly wrapped bandage on his hand, he was sure he was radiating the same soul-sucking energy he’d grown used to from his mother.
He squared his shoulders and forced on a mask of indifference. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Alexei pursed his lips, clearly debating whether to push against the icy wall Matthieu had built around himself. He let it go and skated off toward the far side of the rink.
Matthieu knew he should talk to someone about what was going on inside him. Where did you even start that conversation? I’m scared I’m going crazy? Losing my grip on who I am? Afraid I’m turning into her? No—he couldn’t say it. Speaking those fears made them real. He was barely keeping them at bay as it was.
It was just a long day. He could keep it together for a few more hours, make it through the game, then crawl back to his apartment, curl into bed, and feel sorry for himself in peace.
Right now, he had to focus.
The arena lights came on, and the home crowd let out one final cheer as their players skated to center ice for the puck drop. Matthieu squeezed the frozen rubber disk in his palm, the sting of his bruised knuckles snapping him back to the moment as he skated to join them. He muttered something about a good, clean game to the players around him, then bent and dropped the puck.
NINE
KIERAN
From the moment Kieran stepped onto the ice, he could tell something was wrong with Matthieu. He looked distracted, eyes glazed and red-rimmed, like he’d been crying. His usual sharp focus was gone. He’d hovered near the edge of the rink until play started—pale, posture limp, as if the weight of his thoughts were too heavy to bear.
Kieran wasn’t the only one who noticed Matthieu’s mood. One of the linemen watched him closely throughout the game, concern etched across his face. There was clearly some unspoken understanding between them. It made no sense that the growly creature in Kieran's gut, something that stirred only when Matthieu was involved, bristled at their bond.
He tried to shake it off. Whatever was going on with Matthieu wasn’t his business. He had a hockey game to win. They were down two goals heading into the third period, and tensions were high. Ottawa was skating circles around them, outmatching every play. No matter how hard Kieran and the team pushed, Ottawa had more energy, more drive.
Kieran hated this. Getting out-skated on home ice was embarrassing, and if he didn’t get his head back in the game, Coach would tear him a new one. He took several deep breathsand forced his focus back to the game as he made his way to center ice.
Matthieu was already there, puck in hand, staring into space like the world around him didn’t exist. The fragile resolve Kieran had spent the entirety of intermission building cracked clean in two. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t ignore that the version of Matthieu before him was barely a shell. He didn’t have the right to ask what was wrong, but if he didn’t try, the look on Matthieu’s face would haunt him all night.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The sound still startled Matthieu, who looked up with hazy eyes, a question furrowing his brow. “Fine.” The word sounded anything but.
“You’re barely here with us, Matthieu. You’ve been missing calls all night.” Then, like he had a death wish, Kieran added, “It’s not like you.”
That snapped Matthieu back to reality. His eyes focused, darkening with a cold fury Kieran had never seen in them before.
“You don’t know shit about me, Lloyd.”
“Don’t I?”
There was a time when Kieran had known everything about the man before him. Although Matthieu now seemed unrecognizable, Kieran was certain he’d find pieces of the man he once loved beneath those walls.
Matthieu’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Back the fuck up, Lloyd, before I give you a penalty for interference.”
Kieran should’ve taken the warning. Should’ve let Matthieu be. But he’d never been good at walking away, ten years apart hadn’t broken the habit.
“You can talk to me,” Kieran muttered, aware that his fellow teammates were starting to notice the whispered exchange delaying the period’s start.
The other officials had noticed too. The same lineman who’d been watching Matthieu all night was skating toward them, his expression unreadable. Kieran knew how this looked from the outside—barely an inch apart, Matthieu’s face scolding. He tried to ignore the attention, focused only on Matthieu, though the tightness in his chest threatened to crush him.
“Meet me after the game. I want to help.” It was the wrong thing to say.
