The Official Problem (Penalty Box Confessions #1)

Chapter 1 Matthieu

ONE

MATTHIEU

“Jesus, Matthieu.”

A pair of strong hands grabbed Matthieu by the shoulders, yanking him off the wriggling body he’d pinned to the ice.

He wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed since they collided in a blur of fists and curses.

With the way they’d circled each other all night, it was only a matter of time before one of them snapped.

If he were a betting man, Matthieu wouldn’t have put money on himself throwing the first punch.

But he wasn’t, and tonight, apparently, was full of surprises.

All it took was that jerk getting in his face over what should’ve been an undeniable tripping call—in Matthieu's professional opinion—and he was ready to drop gloves.

Except referees didn’t wear gloves.

Oh shit. This was bad.

Matthieu was so laser-focused on his target, completely zoned in on causing that piece of shit as much pain as possible, he’d forgotten where they were. Center ice at a New York vs. Seattle game, wailing on each other like a couple of rowdy teenagers in a high school scrimmage.

It was all coming back to him now.

Hands tugged again, harder this time, hauling his body off the ice.

The douchebag he’d been hitting lurched forward, like now Matthieu was restrained, he might actually fight back.

Luckily for Matthieu and his imminent black eye, the other man’s captain stepped in before a fist could fly in his direction.

“What’s gotten into you? Stop fighting me,” Alexei, Matthieu’s closest friend and fellow lineman in tonight’s game, hissed in his ear. If only Matthieu had an answer for him. Alexei was right, this wasn’t like him at all.

Even back in college, Matthieu hadn’t been a fighter.

His singular on-ice scrap had resulted in a concussion and the slight bend he still sported in his nose, courtesy of a nasty hook.

He was pretty sure the guy only landed one swing before the ref broke it up, but Matthieu had crumpled to the ice like he weighed nothing.

He blinked rapidly, clearing the fog from his mind as the scene around him sharpened into view.

Almost every player from both benches was on the ice now.

Seattle formed a barrier in front of number twenty-five, as if he’d be foolish enough to pounce again while the guy was having the damage to his face assessed.

New York’s bench was split evenly: half watched with confused curiosity, while the other half tried to calm the roaring crowd.

Shit. How had he forgotten about the twenty thousand fans watching?

He glanced at the stands. Every person on their feet, pushing and shoving for a better view of the mayhem unfolding on the ice. They booed and cheered, pointing in his direction, whispering among themselves, no doubt wondering what the hell had made him dive onto one of the league's top players.

During play, Matthieu was always careful to keep his focus trained on the ice and the game.

Nothing was more overwhelming than acknowledging that many pairs of eyes watching, so he’d become good at ignoring them.

When the whistle blew, it was just him, twelve players, and three other officials in the building.

He tuned everything else out and focused on the job he was paid to do—the one he’d dreamed about ever since walking away from playing hockey for good.

He’d worked hard for this. He couldn’t let anything get in his way.

Well, except for a six-foot-one, loud-mouthed, cocky asshole of a hockey player. Apparently, just seeing the guy's face again was enough to make Matthieu toss all his hard work out the window for a chance to do something he should’ve done a long time ago.

He hoped he’d knocked out some of those stupid, white teeth.

He was so fucked.

Now that the adrenaline had faded, the reality of what he’d done was crashing in.

The sensory overload was unbearable. Stadium lights were too bright, stands too loud.

A sharp pain throbbed in his knuckles, already bruising and split open, and a dull ache bloomed in his jaw.

His left palm burned where it had been pressed flat to the ice, and his nose scrunched at the stench of blood and sweat.

It was all too much.

He needed to get off the ice. Needed to get out of everyone’s line of sight and into somewhere dark and quiet before he did something even more embarrassing.

“You want to help us by moving your legs, tough guy?”

Matthieu forced his feet to move and half-followed, half-let himself be dragged toward the New York bench by the two linemen he was officiating with tonight.

Jamison, a guy Matthieu rarely worked with and didn’t particularly like, wasn’t looking at him.

His gaze stayed fixed over his shoulder, probably on the chaos Matthieu had left behind, brow furrowed in either annoyance or disbelief—Matthieu couldn’t tell.

Alexei, on the other hand, was staring directly at Matthieu, eyes narrowed like he was trying to burrow into Matthieu’s brain and figure out what the hell he’d been thinking.

Even if Alexei had developed mind-reading powers in the last four seconds, Matthieu wasn’t convinced he’d find any answers.

Less than fifteen feet away, number twenty-five made it to the bench.

Seattle’s head coach, Brian Fox, yelled something at him before patting his ass and sending him down the chute to the locker rooms. Blood ran down the player's face, enough to tell Matthieu he’d need stitches or at least a butterfly bandage.

Matthieu guessed the furious head referee storming toward him had hit the player with a misconduct, ejecting him from the game. He gulped, already dreading what his own fate would be.

Alexei loosened his grip once the target was out of sight, but Jamison kept holding Matthieu fast, like he thought Matthieu might bolt for the visitor’s box and start round two.

Now that the ringing in his ears had faded and the molten rage cooled, he was more likely to flee the scene entirely than start another fight.

“What the fuck was that, Bouchard?” Harvey, Matthieu’s senior and head ref for the night, finally made his way over after clearing the ice. He stopped right in front of Matthieu, leveling a look that made him feel two feet tall and five years old. “This isn’t like you.”

Matthieu was known for keeping his cool on the ice.

Most refs spent years in the AHL learning to control their tempers, make the right calls under pressure, and tune out mouthy players without rising to their taunts.

Matthieu never let arrogant players or heckling crowds get under his skin.

He called plays cleanly, made the right decisions every time, and carried himself with the poise of a ref who’d been doing this for decades. That’s why they promoted him so young.

But tonight? He’d lost control spectacularly, and the gravity of it hit fast. His reputation as an even-keeled professional was in shambles, and it dawned on him that he might’ve just thrown both it and his career right out the window.

Harvey cleared his throat, and Matthieu realized he hadn’t answered. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, I punched Seattle’s star forward, then jumped on him and threw in a few extra swings for good measure.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to fly.

Not only had he hit a player, it had been one of the NHL’s golden boys. During his first season as a permanent ref, no less.

First and last, Matthieu. First and last.

“Get off my ice,” Harvey snapped, cutting through his thoughts. “Take a shower. Cool off. I expect we’ll be hearing from Toronto after the game.”

“But…” Matthieu didn’t even know what he was trying to protest. There was no way Harvey would let him continue officiating a game where he’d attacked a player.

“No buts.” Harvey’s voice was flat. “I’ve got to get this shit show moving again. Thanks to whatever the hell that was, they’ve been stuck in commercial break for nearly eight minutes.”

Harvey turned and squinted up at the stands. The fans had moved on from hurling insults. Matthieu was lucky Seattle was the away team. If they weren’t, he’d probably be dodging beer cans, not just taunts.

“You need two refs,” Matthieu muttered, though even he knew how absurd it sounded given the circumstances.

“Not as badly as I need peace on my ice,” Harvey shot back. “If we restart with you out there, one of his teammates will be on you before I blow the whistle. Alexei and Jamison can cover your responsibilities. We only have a few minutes left.”

Matthieu opened his mouth to argue, but Harvey was already gone, leaving him standing there, holding the weight of his actions.

“Just do as he says, Matthieu,” Jamison sighed. “Get cleaned up. Calm down. You’ll need a level head if you’re gonna talk your way out of this.” He shot him a hard stare.

Matthieu gave a reluctant nod and headed toward the home team’s bench.

The officials’ changing room was down the away chute, but he wasn’t stupid enough to walk through their box after pummeling one of their players less than ten minutes ago.

Not a single guy on the team was under six feet or two hundred pounds, and every one of them wore a look that said they’d love to rip his head clean off.

Matthieu hoped that by the time he made it down the home side and into the changing room, Kieran Lloyd would already be laid out on the medic table getting that pretty face stitched back up.

A grin tugged at Matthieu’s mouth at the thought—at least he’d made him a little less handsome, even if just for a while.

Small victories and all that.

An hour later, Matthieu stared at the blank wall of a mostly empty office connected to the officials’ dressing room.

NHL refs didn’t have a home rink. They traveled more than the players, hopping between U.S.

cities and Canada. As a result, this space had no personal touches, just a sterile, utilitarian room meant for officials passing through.