Page 43 of The Official Problem
His eyes must’ve drifted that way, because Kieran answered the silent question. “It’s Ivan’s. He won’t ask questions.”
“Petrov?” The name landed like a punch to the sternum. Matthieu masked it with a scoff, yet something cold slid down the back of his spine.
Kieran nodded, then disappeared into the bathroom. A second later, the shower roared to life. Matthieu glanced around the room for the first time: clothes draped over every availablesurface, a half-eaten protein bar still in its crumpled wrapper on the nightstand, and three pairs of shoes scattered across the floor, none of them near their mate. The room looked lived-in for a week, not barely occupied for two hours. There was something unmistakably Kieran about the disorder. The years hadn’t done a damn thing to curb his messy habits.
Matthieu sat on the edge of the unmade bed, staring at a scuff on the wall until Kieran was dressed. He hovered for a beat, clearly unsure how to leave this messed-up situation. He settled for a kiss on Matthieu’s temple and muttered, “Bye.”
Matthieu hated the affection in it. The kiss felt too much like… something. The door clicked shut, and Matthieu was alone again.
SIXTEEN
KIERAN
November 2023 - Boston
“Imight have fucked up.”
Cole looked up as Kieran practically fell into the chair opposite him and sighed, more fond than exasperated. Kieran didn’t often meet with his agent in person, especially since moving to New Jersey. Cole had flown out for a press conference that was more than a little bit Kieran’s fault.
That morning, he’d gotten a text from a slightly frazzled but mostly excited Louis: tomorrow would be the big day. He jumped on a plane a few hours later to be there in support. It would be a quick turnaround with the game in Montreal the following night. Thankfully, his coach understood why he needed to go. There weren’t many out players in the league, after all, and a friendly face in the crowd was sure to go a long way.
Kieran smiled sheepishly at Cole, taking a moment to prepare himself. He looked significantly grayer than the last time Kieran had seen him in person. Kieran wondered how many of those gray hairs he was personally responsible for.
After a moment, Cole gave him a wave, as if to say,go on then.
Kieran looked around the coffee shop Cole had picked for their meeting. It was a local chain they didn’t have in New Jersey. The place was busy, but everyone nearby wore headphones, eyes glued to their laptops, typing furiously. It was as private as they could get in such a public place.
Kieran leaned across the table and lowered his voice to a whisper, just enough to avoid being heard over the hum of coffee machines and shuffling feet. “I did something I probably shouldn’t.”
Cole sighed and scooped up the paperwork spread in front of him, slipping it into the file in his laptop bag at his feet—endorsement contracts for Kieran to sign, no doubt.
For a terrible moment, Kieran thought Cole was leaving, but then he leaned back, folded his hands on the table, and said, “Something or someone.”
Kieran wrinkled his nose. “Obviously, someone.”
Cole had always been able to see right through him. It was part of what made him so good at his job. The man was impervious to bullshit.
“And how bad will it be when the press inevitably gets hold of this?”
“Pretty fucking bad.”
Cole gave him a look, surprisingly laced with pity. “The official? From March? The one you have history with?”
Kieran nodded, a little surprised he’d admitted that much, but it had been eating away at him for weeks. He’d started to worry that if he didn’t let some of this out soon, he’d explode.
“Please tell me it was just the one time.”
Kieran mumbled something under his breath.
“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”
“It might have been three…”
Or four, if he counted after the Pittsburgh game, when he got back to his hotel and found Matthieu’s glasses sitting rightwhere he’d left them on the table by the door. Of course, he’d had to return them; it was only decent. Since he was already at Matthieu’s room, he might as well have slipped inside and let him pull another orgasm or two from his tired, aching body.
Or five, if he counted the week after, when Matthieu tugged him into a familiar supply closet and took him apart with his mouth, then let a desperate, eager Kieran return the favor.
Or six—seven, really, if he counted both times Matthieu had fucked him this week, and it was only Wednesday.
