Page 79 of The Official Problem
It was unfair to say because Matthieu was too fucked out to argue. He had a new appreciation for how quickly Kieran could rebound and play hockey after coming that hard. Instead, he let Kieran clean him up, mumbled “I love you”more into the pillow than to Kieran, and let sleep tug him under.
TWENTY-NINE
KIERAN
March 2024 - Nashville
Long road stretches had always been the worst part of the NHL, any level of hockey, really. Kieran couldn’t remember a season since his first travel team that hadn’t been swallowed by long bus rides and flights, bouncing between identical hotels. The same cities over and over. The same restless itch that came with being away from home.
Most of his teammates loved this part of the game: the thrill of being constantly on the move. The freedom. The string of eager, warm bodies waiting in each city. Sure, there was a time when Kieran fed off that high too. Somewhere along the way, the thrill dulled into something closer to dread.
And since Matthieu… since his reemergence in Kieran’s life, when he came home late from a game to find Matthieu already asleep in his bed, or woke to him nuzzling his neck. Slow morning kisses. Teasing touches that turned hot and urgent until one of them had to run to practice or catch yet another flight. These trips weren’t just exhausting anymore; they were cutting into what little time he had with Matthieu. Kieran was learning to hate them in a whole new way.
Today it was Nashville. In two days, Miami. Then Tampa Bay. By the time he got back, Matthieu would be in Boston, then God knows where. The separation was starting to wear thin.
The Inferno had been playing well lately. Every win made a playoff run seem more likely. It should have thrilled him. It used to thrill him. Wasn’t that the dream? The reason any of them played this game. The goal he’d had since the moment he first laced up a pair of skates: to one day hoist the Stanley Cup over his head at center ice, with a crowd screaming his name.
Now, all he could think about was the extra weeks apart. The extra time away from Matthieu. Ten years had already passed without him. Every second they lost now felt like theft.
He stayed quiet during morning skate, but his teammates didn’t press him. Kieran was sure he’d been radiating leave me the fuck alone energy, but he didn’t have it in him to care. They’d understand. Everyone had those days, the married guys with kids more than others. It wasn’t a mandatory skate, but sitting in his hotel room would’ve felt worse. At least the rink gave him a reason to move, a purpose. Something to make the separation feel slightly less meaningless.
With a few hours to kill before they had to report back, half the guys were napping while the others hung out in each other’s rooms, playing Xbox and shooting the shit. Neither option sounded that appealing. All Kieran wanted was to hear Matthieu’s voice. He hadn’t heard from him all morning, not even a text, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that was half the reason for his sour mood.
He told himself Matthieu was probably just busy. Traveling? He racked his brain for Matthieu’s schedule but came up blank. These days, it was hard enough keeping track of his own.
He called. It rang out. The answering machine offered to take a message, but Kieran hung up with a sigh and flopped back on the bed.
Don’t read more into this than there is; he’ll call you back.
A nap it was, then. He turned the ringer up, stripped to his briefs, and crawled under the covers. He told himself he’d wake to a text, maybe even a call. In the worst-case scenario, he could catch Matthieu after the game. He always had more luck then anyway.
Kieran had become an expert at napping on command, a skill every player had to master to survive their insane schedules. The pillows were fluffy, and the room was perfectly chilled. The quiet hum of the AC pulled him under into a sleep filled with firm hands and soft kisses.
The ringing of his phone jolted him awake. Kieran grabbed for it, desperate, hoping it was the call he’d been waiting for, longing for. But the screen flashed an unknown number. Usually, he wouldn’t pick up. It could be anyone: a reporter, a past hookup, a fan who’d somehow gotten his number. Safer not to answer, yet something in his gut told him not to ignore it.
He answered and raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hockey player,” a voice drawled at the other end. The hard-to-place accent was one Kieran knew he’d heard before.
Matthieu’s friend—the lineman.
“Alexei?” Kieran sat up straighter.
“Yes.”
There was a beat of silence, like he was supposed to say something. But he hadn’t expected this call. Why was Alexei calling? How had he even gotten his number? Then it hit him: that deep, sudden dread.
“Matthieu?” Kieran barked. “Is he okay?”
“His mother is dead.” The words cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
Dead? That didn’t make any sense. Hadn’t she been getting better? That was what Matthieu had said. There had been talk of moving her back into the care facility within the next few days. Maybe Kieran had misheard.
“She’s dead?” he repeated, barely more than a whisper.
“Yes. Early this morning. Another heart attack. They couldn’t stabilize her. She is gone.”
Kieran’s mind scrambled to catch up. Sure, it explained Matthieu’s silence, but why…
