Page 50 of The Official Problem
Matthieu blinked, taking in a kitchen far too clean and organized to belong to Kieran Lloyd. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the marble countertop. Overhead lights bounced off the polished surface, the faint scent of artificial lemon lingering in the air. It looked like a room no one used.
Matthieu had been here before. Both times, he’d only seen the route from the front door to Kieran’s ridiculously large bedroom. The second time, they hadn’t even made it that far. Matthieu had shoved Kieran into the wall, kissed him hard until they both tumbled to the floor, and fucked right there in the hallway.
His cheeks flushed at the memory. His dick stirred in the sweatpants Kieran had made him put on. He pressed a palm to it, willing away his body’s automatic response to all things Kieran. Now wasn’t the time.
Last night hadn’t been, either. While Matthieu was grateful Kieran had been smart enough to turn him down, the rejection filled him with sharp-edged anxiety. He’d only let Kieran back into his life on the condition that he stay inside a tightly defined box. A box built for sex, with no room for anything else. Lastnight, he’d smashed that box to pieces, and worse, Kieran had let him.
Matthieu should leave. No, scratch that. He needed to leave. The thought of putting weight on his legs and finding an excuse to slip past Kieran to the street outside kept him firmly rooted in place.
Exhaustion clung to every inch of him. He’d slept well—of course he had—curled in Kieran’s arms. This wasn’t the kind of tiredness sleep could fix. It was deeper, settled in his chest, making every breath feel heavy. His mind was drained, worn down by emotions that had taken more than he had to give, leaving him feeling hollow and stretched too thin.
What the hell had he been thinking, coming here last night?
Simple: he hadn’t. He’d spent most of yesterday consumed by blinding panic, racked with indecision. He'd paced the shitty carpet in his apartment, wearing holes in the battered threads as he tried to psych himself up to visit his mother. The closest he got all day was the stairwell, before despair kicked back in and sent him fleeing to his room again.
He was a coward. A fucking coward.
A terrible son. A worse brother. A letdown. A fraud.
If he showed his face at that hospital, everyone would know. They’d ask where he’d been. Why it had taken him so long to show up for his mother.
We tried to call you,they’d say.
She’s been asking for you,they’d insist.
He’d have to stand there, pretending to care. Make decisions he wasn’t qualified to make. Walk into her room, knowing full well that she might not recognize him. Hate himself for hoping she didn’t. It would be easier that way.
Instead, he crawled beneath his sheets and pulled the blankets over his head until no light made it through, letting the darkness swallow him whole. Julie’s parting blow echoedaround his head, his only company:It’s like I don’t even know you at all.She was right. He wasn’t even sure he knew himself.
By 10 p.m., it had all become too much. The restlessness of inaction took over, and before he knew it, he was outside. Walking. Where to, he didn’t know. Running away, maybe. He’d wandered through the Newark streets, aimless, until he stopped outside a vaguely familiar townhouse. A single light glowed in an upstairs bedroom facing the street.
Kieran.
Before he could stop himself, he strode up the front steps and hammered on the door. Then he was falling into Kieran’s chest, swept up in his embrace. In those strong arms, Matthieu finally let himself do what he’d been fighting all day. He wept.
Now he sat at Kieran’s counter, a warm mug of strong coffee cupped between his palms, watching as Kieran unpacked pancakes, eggs, bacon, and fruit onto two crisp, white plates. He murmured along to a song playing softly from a speaker hidden in the ceiling. He refilled Matthieu’s coffee and gave him a small, knowing smile. He set a napkin, fork, and an overflowing plate in front of him like any of this was normal. The whole act was terrifyingly domestic, and naturally Matthieu both craved and despised every second of it.
“You don’t have to do this,” Matthieu said, still croaky from sleep. Kieran gave him a look that left no room for argument and took the seat across the bar from him.
They ate in silence. Well, Kieran ate. Matthieu pushed food around his plate, shifting it side to side as if rearranging it might make it disappear. His stomach growled with hunger. It had probably been days since he last ate. He couldn’t bring himself to take a bite, so he settled for sipping his coffee. Letting the dark, bitter liquid ground him.
“You work today?” Kieran asked, glancing up from the tablet he’d been scrolling through.
Matthieu shook his head absently. “Matinee tomorrow, though. New York vs. Washington.”
“At least it’s local.”
Matthieu would have preferred the game to be anywhere but the city. Somewhere that gave him a reason, or at least a chance, to escape. To put off facing his problems a little longer.
He kept that to himself and nodded. “You?”
“Weights later. No skate, though. Coach gave us the day off.”
Matthieu hummed in acknowledgment. He’d known that, of course. He’d obsessively memorized the Inferno’s game and practice schedules weeks ago. They had a rare three-day stretch off before their next home game, then they would fly south for another road trip.
“Will you go today?”
Matthieu didn’t need to ask what Kieran meant. He’d been fooling himself to think Kieran wouldn’t bring up his mother again. Matthieu lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth, if only to delay answering a little longer. They were dry and bland as he chewed. Kieran’s eyes never left him: gentle, steady, assessing.
