Page 34 of The Official Problem
Kieran had given him that damn knowing smile. The one that made Matthieu’s heart race and his thoughts loop in endlesscircles. It was as if Kieran sensed the struggle in him, felt the raw ache beneath his silence. That damn crooked smile, self-assured and almost mocking, made him want to scream.
Matthieu figured he had two choices.
The first was to bury the desire deep, to ignore it, lock it up, and throw away the key. He could smother the need to drag Kieran into some dark room and let their bodies collide with the kind of hunger they hadn’t shared in years. He could toss and turn, night after night, wishing he had the guts to take what he wanted. He could keep playing the mental game, recycling the same “what-ifs” and pretending walking away was somehow easier.
Or he could throw caution to the wind. He could say, “fuck the consequences,” and give in to that primal need. It didn’t have to mean anything, right? They didn’t have to talk, didn’t even have to acknowledge each other beyond the briefest exchanges, didn’t have to be friends. Hell, they didn’t even have to like each other.
Matthieu’d been with plenty of men who were nothing more than warm bodies when he needed them. Since things with Kieran ended all those years ago, that’s all he’d let himself have. That was fine. Preferred. He didn’t need or want a relationship. He didn’t need or want someone to stay, to make promises. He just needed to burn off the restless energy that had clawed at him since Kieran had come back around.
His mind wouldn’t stop replaying every stray moment with Kieran—every touch, every heated glance. This was more than hunger. There was a pull, a complicated history stretched so tightly between them.
So much unspoken. So much unfinished.
They had been more than just lovers once. They’d been everything—until it fell apart and left scars Matthieu still hadn’thealed from. Even though he swore he wouldn’t reopen that wound, part of him still ached for the connection they’d lost.
It would be foolish to make himself vulnerable again.
God, what if they were caught? One wrong person finding out was all it would take. One leaked photo to the right news outlet—or any news outlet—and his career would be over. Not Kieran’s. Sure, the media would drag him, but he was a hockey god. Untouchable. He’d get a slap on the wrist, a few rough headlines, and move on. Matthieu would lose his job, his ability to support Julie, and to pay for his mother’s care—though having an excuse not to do that might not be the worst thing.
No. There were a million reasons why saying yes to this was a terrible idea.
There was only one reason why he should. Because he wanted to, and that want outweighed every reason to run far away. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist that want forever.
If he decided to go for it, he’d have to figure out how. How could he accept Kieran’s offer, make the leap, and not completely ruin everything in the process? He couldn’t exactly skate up during Tuesday’s game, whistle in hand, and casually ask, “Can I fuck you tonight?” Could he? It wasn’t that simple.
Maybe... maybe it was that simple.
There was always the possibility that Kieran had been messing with him that day, playing some game to see how far Matthieu would go. But Matthieu didn’t believe that. If Kieran wanted leverage, he already had plenty. The mess at the club was enough to ruin him. That incident alone could end Matthieu’s career, his reputation, everything. If Kieran wanted to destroy him, he could’ve done it already.
No, this offer had been genuine. He didn’t need to understand it, just be brave enough to take it. He could do it.
Tuesday. During the game. When there was a stoppage and the crowd got loud playing some dumb Jumbotron game, he’d pull Kieran aside. He would ask if the offer still stood. Then, after the game, they would go somewhere—somewhere private, somewhere dark. And then...
Matthieu groaned aloud, the sound echoing through the empty room. He was probably overthinking this. No—scratch that. He was definitely overthinking this.
He should have been thinking about how good Kieran’s mouth had felt around his cock. How fucking eager his eyes had been, even with his hands pressed against Matthieu’s thighs, spit pooling in the corners of his mouth as he gasped for air.
Fuck, it had been so hot.
His dick hardened fast under the sheets at the thought. He shoved the blankets aside, yanked down his briefs, and gripped his aching cock, desperate for relief. He shut his eyes, sliding his palm from root to tip in a quick, punishing rhythm. Squeezing hard in the spots that drove him wild, his thumb circling under the crown where it made him see sparks. He pretended his callused hand belonged to Kieran, imagined hot lips dragging over his skin.
There in his cold, empty bed, in that bare, impersonal room, he brought himself to the edge on memories of Kieran’s body against his. He lost himself to phantom echoes of Kieran’s moans. He came hard, Kieran’s name falling out on a broken breath.
He felt ashamed.
But fuck, if he had to go without Kieran much longer, he might snap.
Tuesday night came faster than Matthieu would’ve liked, as if time had stopped playing by the rules. He’d spent the last few days wrestling with his nerves, replaying a thousand versions of how to approach Kieran and what to say when he did.
The timing had to be perfect. No way could Kieran’s teammates, or worse, another official, overhear them. He’d need to keep it discreet because of the mic and look like he didn’t care at all, in case Kieran had changed his mind. Kieran absolutely could not know how badly Matthieu wanted this.
Luckily, or maybe not, Kieran took the choice out of his hands.
Shortly into the second period, Ivan Petrov took a hard hook to the shins while charging toward Toronto’s goal. Petrov went down like a sack of potatoes, sprawling with all the elegance of a six-foot-four giant across the ice. He was fine, too busy running his mouth to actually be hurt. Petrov wasn’t known to fight. He was an older, seasoned player, and being the captain required him to keep a level head, to set the example for the younger players, and all that.
Matthieu stood back, letting the other ref, who’d made the call, deal with the penalty. It would be a two-minute minor. A blur of red caught in his periphery. He didn’t need to look.
“Did you think about it?” Kieran asked, voice low, eyes fixed on number seventeen being ushered into the box.
