Chapter 13 Matthieu
THIRTEEN
MATTHIEU
Matthieu lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The weight of the blankets pressed down on him, but it wasn’t the cold that chilled him. It had been years since he’d shared his bed with another person. Years since someone’s touch had sparked anything in him. He’d convinced himself he didn’t need it.
But lately, he woke tangled around his pillow, like it was a stand-in for something, or someone, he wasn’t brave enough to name. He didn’t know when it had started. Maybe it was when Kieran slipped back into his life.
Ugh, Kieran.
Matthieu couldn’t stop thinking about that moment at the practice arena. The way Kieran had looked at him, with a hint of something dangerous in his eyes. Something irresistible. Matthieu would give anything to go back and take what Kieran had offered.
He needed it so badly. Now, that moment was gone.
That morning, Matthieu had seen Kieran again at the rink. Just a passing encounter, a casual “Hey,” but it had been enough. Enough to ignite a familiar ache inside Matthieu’s chest.
Kieran had given him that damn knowing smile. The one that made Matthieu’s heart race and his thoughts loop in endless circles. It was as if Kieran sensed the struggle in him, felt the raw ache beneath his silence. That damn crooked smile, self-assured and almost mocking, made him want to scream.
Matthieu figured he had two choices.
The first was to bury the desire deep, to ignore it, lock it up, and throw away the key.
He could smother the need to drag Kieran into some dark room and let their bodies collide with the kind of hunger they hadn’t shared in years.
He could toss and turn, night after night, wishing he had the guts to take what he wanted.
He could keep playing the mental game, recycling the same “what-ifs” and pretending walking away was somehow easier.
Or he could throw caution to the wind. He could say, “fuck the consequences,” and give in to that primal need.
It didn’t have to mean anything, right? They didn’t have to talk, didn’t even have to acknowledge each other beyond the briefest exchanges, didn’t have to be friends.
Hell, they didn’t even have to like each other.
Matthieu’d been with plenty of men who were nothing more than warm bodies when he needed them.
Since things with Kieran ended all those years ago, that’s all he’d let himself have.
That was fine. Preferred. He didn’t need or want a relationship.
He didn’t need or want someone to stay, to make promises.
He just needed to burn off the restless energy that had clawed at him since Kieran had come back around.
His mind wouldn’t stop replaying every stray moment with Kieran—every touch, every heated glance. This was more than hunger. There was a pull, a complicated history stretched so tightly between them.
So much unspoken. So much unfinished.
They had been more than just lovers once. They’d been everything—until it fell apart and left scars Matthieu still hadn’t healed from. Even though he swore he wouldn’t reopen that wound, part of him still ached for the connection they’d lost.
It would be foolish to make himself vulnerable again.
God, what if they were caught? One wrong person finding out was all it would take.
One leaked photo to the right news outlet—or any news outlet—and his career would be over.
Not Kieran’s. Sure, the media would drag him, but he was a hockey god.
Untouchable. He’d get a slap on the wrist, a few rough headlines, and move on.
Matthieu would lose his job, his ability to support Julie, and to pay for his mother’s care—though having an excuse not to do that might not be the worst thing.
No. There were a million reasons why saying yes to this was a terrible idea.
There was only one reason why he should. Because he wanted to, and that want outweighed every reason to run far away. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist that want forever.
If he decided to go for it, he’d have to figure out how.
How could he accept Kieran’s offer, make the leap, and not completely ruin everything in the process?
He couldn’t exactly skate up during Tuesday’s game, whistle in hand, and casually ask, “Can I fuck you tonight?” Could he? It wasn’t that simple.
Maybe... maybe it was that simple.
There was always the possibility that Kieran had been messing with him that day, playing some game to see how far Matthieu would go.
But Matthieu didn’t believe that. If Kieran wanted leverage, he already had plenty.
The mess at the club was enough to ruin him.
That incident alone could end Matthieu’s career, his reputation, everything.
If Kieran wanted to destroy him, he could’ve done it already.
No, this offer had been genuine. He didn’t need to understand it, just be brave enough to take it. He could do it.
Tuesday. During the game. When there was a stoppage and the crowd got loud playing some dumb Jumbotron game, he’d pull Kieran aside. He would ask if the offer still stood. Then, after the game, they would go somewhere—somewhere private, somewhere dark. And then...
Matthieu groaned aloud, the sound echoing through the empty room. He was probably overthinking this. No—scratch that. He was definitely overthinking this.
He should have been thinking about how good Kieran’s mouth had felt around his cock. How fucking eager his eyes had been, even with his hands pressed against Matthieu’s thighs, spit pooling in the corners of his mouth as he gasped for air.
Fuck, it had been so hot.
His dick hardened fast under the sheets at the thought.
He shoved the blankets aside, yanked down his briefs, and gripped his aching cock, desperate for relief.
He shut his eyes, sliding his palm from root to tip in a quick, punishing rhythm.
Squeezing hard in the spots that drove him wild, his thumb circling under the crown where it made him see sparks.
He pretended his callused hand belonged to Kieran, imagined hot lips dragging over his skin.
There in his cold, empty bed, in that bare, impersonal room, he brought himself to the edge on memories of Kieran’s body against his. He lost himself to phantom echoes of Kieran’s moans. He came hard, Kieran’s name falling out on a broken breath.
He felt ashamed.
But fuck, if he had to go without Kieran much longer, he might snap.
Tuesday night came faster than Matthieu would’ve liked, as if time had stopped playing by the rules. He’d spent the last few days wrestling with his nerves, replaying a thousand versions of how to approach Kieran and what to say when he did.
The timing had to be perfect. No way could Kieran’s teammates, or worse, another official, overhear them. He’d need to keep it discreet because of the mic and look like he didn’t care at all, in case Kieran had changed his mind. Kieran absolutely could not know how badly Matthieu wanted this.
Luckily, or maybe not, Kieran took the choice out of his hands.
Shortly into the second period, Ivan Petrov took a hard hook to the shins while charging toward Toronto’s goal.
Petrov went down like a sack of potatoes, sprawling with all the elegance of a six-foot-four giant across the ice.
He was fine, too busy running his mouth to actually be hurt.
Petrov wasn’t known to fight. He was an older, seasoned player, and being the captain required him to keep a level head, to set the example for the younger players, and all that.
Matthieu stood back, letting the other ref, who’d made the call, deal with the penalty. It would be a two-minute minor. A blur of red caught in his periphery. He didn’t need to look.
“Did you think about it?” Kieran asked, voice low, eyes fixed on number seventeen being ushered into the box.
Matthieu nodded slowly. “Tonight,” he muttered back.
Kieran’s lips twitched, just the hint of a smile, but his tone stayed flat. “I live…”
Matthieu cut him off. “Not there.” The idea of sneaking into Kieran’s house felt reckless, too risky. What if they were followed? What if someone saw them? What if Matthieu never wanted to leave?
“Okay,” Kieran said slowly, thinking it over. The other players were already regrouping in the defensive zone for the face-off. They were running out of time. “Across the street, then. I’ll text you the room number.”
Matthieu started to tell him he didn’t have his number, but Kieran was already skating away. He’d figure it out later. Right now, he didn’t have time to think about it. He shoved the nerves down and forced himself to focus on the game.
The play was fast, players darting from one end of the rink to the other, bodies crashing into the boards in an almost rhythmic dance. Matthieu’s hand tightened around the whistle, his mind racing. Under it all, his heart kept pounding for a different reason entirely.
Matthieu entered the hotel lobby across the street.
He tugged his hat low, as if anyone would actually recognize him, let alone guess he was here to have sex with Kieran Lloyd.
He knew he was being paranoid, but it wasn't doing anything to stop him from acting sketchy as hell.
He headed for the elevator and slipped inside, pulling out the phone that had burned a hole in his pocket the whole walk over.
Unknown
Room 1239
He was grateful he’d never changed his number. Maybe a little warm and fuzzy too, that even though Kieran had changed his, he’d kept Matthieu’s.
Don’t be stupid. He probably did a bulk transfer.
Still, the first thing Matthieu had done after Kieran broke his heart was delete his number. Petty, in hindsight.
The elevator crawled up to the twelfth floor. Maybe his heart was pounding so fast that everything else felt like it was moving in slow motion. Finally, the doors dinged open, and he stepped out into the hallway, praying it was empty.
He could only imagine the field day a fan would have if they caught him sneaking into Kieran’s room.
Not that a fan would recognize him, of course.
But the hotel was across from the arena, and plenty of fans were staying here—fans who’d recognize a star like Kieran Lloyd and wonder why an Inferno player needed a hotel room when he lived in the area.
He was thinking too hard, as usual.
Kieran was known for being openly gay. He probably hooked up with half the city from hotel rooms, even in his own damn neighborhood.
If Matthieu were rich and famous like Kieran, he wouldn’t take strangers home either.
That would be foolish. A hotel made sense for a hook-up, because that’s all this was, after all.
Room 1239 was at the very end of the hallway.
Matthieu hesitated outside the door, unsure what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Should he text? Call? He took a deep breath and knocked, just two quick taps against the smooth wood of the door.
A second later, it yanked open to reveal Kieran’s grinning face.
“I wasn’t sure if you would come.” Kieran wore that smug little grin that made Matthieu want to punch something. He almost turned right back around. “Are you going to come in?”
Running would be easy. Following Kieran inside was the harder choice.
Man, did he look good. His hair was still damp from his post-game shower, but the suit he’d worn out of the arena was gone. Matthieu thought he’d be disappointed to miss out on peeling Kieran out of one of those perfect suits. God, he looked so good in them.
The low-hanging gray sweats and oversized tank dipping down to reveal his dusted, chiseled chest more than made up for it. That was new. At least, Kieran hadn’t had chest hair back when they were together. Maybe he was too young to grow it then. Maybe he used to shave.
Matthieu stepped across the threshold.
“You want something to drink? There’s beer in the fridge.”
Matthieu nodded and grabbed one, mostly to have something to do besides shuffle around like an idiot.
He hadn’t thought past getting to the hotel room.
Now, he had no idea what the next step was.
With random hookups, Matthieu cut straight to the chase.
He didn’t need names, didn’t need life stories.
He and the guy were there for one thing only: to get off, then get out.
With Kieran, it was different. He knew Kieran—his name, his story, all of it. They’d had sex before, countless times. Even after all these years, the familiarity made it feel like there should be more.
Kieran didn’t seem to share his hesitation. He gave Matthieu just long enough to crack open the beer and take a swig. Then, he crossed the room and grabbed him by the back of the neck. He studied Matthieu’s face like he was searching for doubt, before he leaned in and crashed their mouths together.
Kissing Kieran was like coming home. It was hungry and familiar, like no time had passed at all.
Like it was only this morning when they were twenty-one, kissing for what neither of them knew would be the last time.
They hadn’t kissed at the club. Now they kissed like they were running out of time.
As if any minute, one of them would come to their senses and call the whole thing off.
Kieran broke from the kiss first, only to trail pecks, nips, and slow, teasing kisses up the side of Matthieu’s neck, along his jaw, all the way to his ear.
“What do you need?” he mouthed against Matthieu’s lobe, then nuzzled into the cropped hair above his temple.
Everything. Matthieu needed everything he’d gone without for years.
He wanted Kieran on his knees like he had been at the club. He wanted Kieran on his back, legs wrapped around Matthieu’s waist. He wanted him panting and boneless and screaming…
No. He had to stop.
He’d meant to say a few things before they got here.
Things he had practiced under his breath on the short walk over so he wouldn’t forget them.
Things that might stop him from handing Kieran his whole damn heart.
But within minutes of having Kieran pressed up against him, they had gone right out the window.
“We need to talk first,” he managed, by some divine miracle.
Kieran hummed into that soft spot between his neck and shoulder that never failed to make him squirm.
“Rules.” The word came out strangled as Kieran’s hand grazed his already hardening cock. “We need to establish some rules first.”
Kieran stepped back with a laugh, shaking his head as he glanced at the floor, a soft blush creeping up his cheeks. “Rules? Okay, let’s hear them.” When Matthieu didn’t answer, he added, “You’ve got until my clothes are off to get those rules out. Otherwise, I’m starting without you.”
Matthieu thought that might not be the threat Kieran had meant it to be.