Chapter 5 Kieran
FIVE
KIERAN
Kieran barely slept a wink. By the time Cole finally picked up, it was already late, and the conversation that dragged on into the night left Kieran too frustrated to sleep.
Apparently, it wasn’t Cole’s decision. He’d just helped facilitate what was bound to be a painful morning.
The order came directly from the NHL. There were concerns that Kieran’s transfer to the East and the increased shared ice time with a certain scowly-faced official would stir up another press frenzy over the incident last March.
Kieran hadn’t considered Matthieu when making the decision. He hadn’t thought to ask where Matthieu’s home ice was. Of course, it had to be New Jersey.
“It’s one day working alongside the guy,” Cole had assured him. “Smile for a few cameras, look cordial, preferably don’t hit each other, and everyone moves on.”
If only it could be that simple. It had taken Kieran years to get over the fierce longing Matthieu left in his wake, and he’d resigned himself to never seeing the guy again. Now Matthieu was back, orbiting his life, and Kieran, orbiting his, and it felt like hardly any time had passed.
Kieran should’ve found a way to contact him back in March and cleared the air privately. Now, they were forced to do it in front of cameras and reporters, as if this were only a misunderstanding over a tripping call, as if Matthieu hadn’t walked away with Kieran’s heart ten years ago.
Pushing it aside for now, Kieran hopped out of his Jeep and looked up at the building in front of him.
It looked like most rinks he’d played in as a kid, except this one was alarmingly run-down.
The siding needed a good power-wash, the landscaping was overgrown, and the paint around the doors and front windows was chipped and flaking.
Cole had warned him the place was underfunded, which made it a favorite for Inferno players to volunteer at, but Kieran hadn’t been prepared for this.
A pang of embarrassment hit as he stepped into the foyer, thinking about the absurd money he made chasing a puck while places like this, doing real good, were falling apart.
He’d have to find out what else they could do to help.
He barely had time to get his bearings before a tall woman with a tight ponytail stepped out of an office to his left.
“You must be Kieran,” she said, holding out her hand. He was caught off guard by her surprisingly firm grip. “I’m Cynthia Daniels, the Director of Volunteers here. We’re so glad you could stop by.”
“Nice to meet—” Kieran started, but she cut him off, not unkindly.
“I’d offer a quick tour, but the other players are already here. I’ll take you straight to the locker rooms so you can change.”
Kieran nodded, cheeks warming. He’d never quite mastered punctuality.
“Sorry, I’m late, ma’am. Still getting the lay of the land.”
She waved him off. “Oh, not a problem. You’re barely late.
” Her tone suggested otherwise, so he followed quietly as she took off at a brisk pace.
“Just in here,” she said, nodding toward the double doors.
“The kids will be here in about fifteen minutes. The others should already be inside or warming up on the ice.”
Kieran moved to push through the doors.
“Oh, Mr. Lloyd, there’s a reporter inside. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
He’d assumed as much but appreciated the warning. Nothing was worse than an unexpected mic or camera shoved in his face, even if it came with the territory.
“Ah! Kieran,” Andre Nix called as he crossed the threshold.
As Cynthia had warned, the room was full of hockey players, half-dressed, lounging around, chatting with one another. A man, whom Kieran assumed was a reporter, stuck a recorder in Louis Kessler’s face. The poor kid already looked exhausted.
“Nixy!” Kieran said, forcing himself to meet Nix’s eyes instead of scanning the room, subconsciously hunting for the figure he was both desperate to see yet hoping had canceled. “Thanks for the invite. I’m excited to be here.”
Nix’s expression made it clear he knew exactly why they were all there, but he was gracious enough not to say it.
“Glad to have you, man. Let me introduce you around.” He waved over one of their teammates, a guy Kieran had played against for years but never officially met. “This is Logan. Logan, Kieran.”
They shook hands and exchanged small talk about the upcoming season and New Jersey’s chances before Nix waved over Kessler, who had finally ditched the reporter.
“I don’t know what else that guy wanted me to say.” Kessler rolled his eyes and reached out to shake Kieran’s hand. “Louis. So great to meet you. I had your poster on my wall when I was a kid.”
Kieran was sure he meant it as a compliment, but in that moment, he’d never felt older.
The New York players came next, leaving only one man still unaccounted for.
The reporter followed Kieran’s gaze to the corner, where Matthieu stood, quietly waiting his turn.
Their eyes met, and Kieran could’ve sworn all the oxygen vanished, along with everyone else who’d been in the room just seconds before.
Matthieu drew a deep breath and stepped toward him.
Kieran froze. He needed to say something—preferably something clever.
Preferably something that didn’t give away the fact his heart had just stopped beating.
He forced a neutral expression, aware that while his attention was fully on Matthieu, everyone else in the room was watching them—including the reporter, camera poised to capture their first face-to-face since the incident last March.
Kieran gave himself a moment to do what he’d spent the entire drive over talking himself out of and took a long, sweeping look at Matthieu.
His dark hair was shorter than Kieran had ever seen it, cut close on the sides, with more length on top, meticulously styled with gel.
A close-cropped beard framed his face, tidy and deliberate.
His dark eyes lacked the brightness Kieran had once taken for granted.
His gaze drifted to the slight crook in Matthieu’s nose, and his chest tightened with memories of the day it had been broken.
Matthieu looked good, better than good. He’d been handsome in college, but time had only sharpened it. Kieran’s body tingled, familiar and involuntary, from being near him again.
Matthieu cleared his throat, and Kieran’s brain snapped back online in time to see his hand extended. “Matthieu Bouchard,” he said, like they hadn’t once known the insides of each other’s souls.
“Kieran Lloyd,” Kieran replied, his voice brittle and uncertain. He was grateful the reporter was only photographing, not recording, though he was sure his expression during the handshake looked as dejected as he felt.
“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean.” The words hit harder than Kieran expected. He hadn’t thought Matthieu could cut deeper until he added flatly, “Big fan,” and turned away.
The room seemed to exhale in the wake of their exchange.
“Well, that’s over with now.” Nix’s hand on Kieran’s shoulder pulled his attention away from Matthieu’s retreating form. “Better get kitted up. Kids’ll be here any minute. We’ve got a meet and greet, some pictures, then a few short scrimmages.”
Kieran barely registered the words. The way Matthieu had looked at him was worse than cold.
Indifferent. As if he didn’t remember the countless memories they’d shared, as if the last time they’d been in a locker room hadn’t also been the last time Kieran saw the man he’d thought was his endgame.
Like he hadn’t vanished without a word for ten years.
Kieran changed quickly, his body on autopilot, then followed the others to the ice.
The kids were already arriving, gasping and shouting as they hustled over to greet their favorite players.
Before long, a line of kids waited to talk to him and take a picture.
For the first time since arriving in New Jersey, he settled into the calm hockey usually brought.
Events like this reminded him why he played.
For most of the guys, it was about the love of the sport, the fame, and the wealth from a multimillion-dollar NHL contract.
Who was he kidding? That factored into why he played, too.
More than that, it had always been about the young fans, inspiring dreams in kids, like the hockey greats had done for him.
He couldn’t help grinning as he interacted with the kids.
They ranged in age, some barely able to skate, others already confident young players with promising futures.
One girl, Emily, talked at length about her college acceptance letter and the scholarship she’d earned to play hockey.
She said it was the only way she could afford college.
Without hockey and the training she got at this very community center, she would’ve followed in her parents’ footsteps, working a low-wage job to help pay the family bills.
Because of hockey, she had a chance to make something of herself.
As she skated off to greet Nix, Kieran glanced over his shoulder to find Matthieu standing quietly off to the side.
He hadn’t noticed in the dressing room, but Matthieu wore pads and a Michigan State sweater instead of his usual stripes.
The sight knocked the air out of him. Was he planning to play?
Kieran had assumed he’d be standing in as the official during the scrimmages. He wasn’t surrounded by kids like the others and looked relieved by that fact, maybe a little bored, too. Kieran excused himself from the swarm of children and skated over.
“No line of adoring fans?” he joked, regretting it the second the words left his mouth.
It was a careless thing to say. Matthieu either brushed it off or ignored it completely, Kieran couldn’t tell, so he tried again.
“I didn’t know you were based in New Jersey.
When I signed, I mean, I didn’t realize… ”
“I’m not sure why it would’ve mattered,” Matthieu replied, still not looking at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the other players, who were wrapping up their photo ops with the kids.
Kieran wanted to scream that, of course, it mattered. But did it? Would it have changed his decision to come to New Jersey and pushed him toward Nashville instead? Or would the thought of seeing Matthieu again only have cemented it?
He couldn’t say any of that, so he just muttered, “I guess it doesn’t.”
The icy distance between them was killing him. It had never been like this before, and Kieran longed for the days when conversation flowed. He remembered how Matthieu used to flirt, shy, uncertain, but never holding back.
Kieran wanted to ask a million questions.
How had he been? How was his mother? His sister?
Did he regret ending things without even a goodbye?
None of it mattered now. They had to get through the morning and then the inevitable run-ins over the next few years.
Kieran hoped it would get easier with time.
God, just look at me, damn it. Look at me, so I know you remember. Look at me, so I know it’s not all in my head.
“I think they’re starting.” Matthieu pushed off the boards, grabbed a hockey stick from the home box, and headed to center ice to join the others.
Kieran followed, his skates suddenly heavier than they’d ever been.