Chapter 25 Matthieu
TWENTY-FIVE
MATTHIEU
Kieran
Call me when you’re back in your room.
Matthieu flopped onto the hotel bed and turned to the depressing view of the parking lot.
Snow had started falling as he left the arena.
It hadn’t been forecasted, but that didn’t mean much in this part of the country.
December was brutal here, not that New Jersey was much better.
All he wanted was to lie on a warm beach and soak up the sun.
Well, that—and Kieran, who Matthieu was horrified to realize he missed.
The snow better not fucking stick.
They’d spent some time together these last few weeks, but not enough. Late nights after grueling games. Longing glances at the gym. Quick, foolish kisses in deserted practice-facility hallways. Stolen pockets of time.
Matthieu was quickly realizing that two packed schedules and constant travel didn’t leave much time to nurture something new.
Especially with hospital visits cutting into the little time he was home.
He hadn’t gone as often as he could—definitely not as often as he should.
He was trying, though, and Kieran had been supportive, even if it ate up most of Matthieu’s already nonexistent free time.
It would be okay. Three months ago, he hadn’t had Kieran at all. So this was an improvement—even if it felt a little hopeless.
Matthieu dragged himself up the bed to lean against the headboard and tapped the video chat icon next to Kieran’s name. Kieran had a game tonight too, but it was late enough that Matthieu knew he’d be back alone. He wouldn’t have asked for a call if he were out with the team.
“Hey, baby cakes,” Kieran said, eyes sparkling.
This was Kieran’s new thing. Now that they’d taken the next step, he seemed to need to test-drive gross pet names until one stuck. The only pet name Matthieu actually wanted was the one he’d yelled at Kieran for using at least a hundred times: Matty.
“Hard pass.”
“Yeah, knew it the second I said it,” Kieran chuckled. “I’ll figure it out. How was the game?”
“Less a game, more of a train wreck. I’m not sure Buffalo even showed up.” Toronto wiped the floor with them in their own barn. Seven-zip. “How about you?”
“Scraped the W, but not our best game. I put two away, though.”
Matthieu smirked. Only Kieran would say “not our best” after scoring twice. He was always hypercritical of his game, though he’d never admit it. Kieran might’ve been a mess off the ice, but on it? He was meticulous.
“Day off tomorrow?”
Kieran nodded, turning to grab a water bottle from the side table.
The motion revealed a fresh gash, stitched tight, below his ear.
Matthieu tried not to be angry at the mark.
It was part of the game. Kieran’s body was a masterpiece of angry bruises and cuts.
Matthieu had fallen into the habit of cataloging them, pressing his lips to each one like the touch might heal it.
“What happened there?” Matthieu asked, nodding toward the cut.
“Caught a high stick in the third. A butterfly would’ve done, but Anthony likes to fuss. Said it would heal prettier if I let him stitch it.”
“You’re already pretty enough.”
Kieran actually blushed. The flush across Kieran’s cheekbones made Matthieu’s cock thicken.
He adjusted himself as subtly as he could.
He didn’t get like this over guys, not until Kieran.
Sure, he got horny sometimes, but he had never fixated on one person.
It had never felt this consuming. Anyone used to do.
Hell, his hand usually did the job just fine.
Lately, though, it was a poor imitation of the real thing.
“I miss you,” Matthieu confessed, sure he was blushing as well. He tried to layer flirt over the vulnerability in his voice. “I miss that body, too. Will you show me?”
Kieran rolled his eyes and flipped the camera, revealing a perfect set of abs.
The only thing he wore was a pair of obscenely tight gray Calvins.
The way the material stretched around his muscular thighs made Matthieu’s mouth water.
The thick outline of Kieran’s cock strained against the fabric.
Matthieu ached to dive through the screen, to press his mouth to that tension and pull him free, to feel the weight of it on his tongue.
“God, you’re perfect,” he moaned, giving up on suppressing his hard-on. His jeans were painfully tight. “Is that for me?”
His throat went dry with want.
“This?” Kieran ran a palm along the bulge, squeezing his shaft. His stomach spasmed under the touch. The flutter of muscle unlocked something primal in Matthieu.
“Take it out. Let me see that pretty cock.”
Kieran groaned low, lifting his hips to tug the fabric down one-handed. His dick slapped against his abs as it sprang free.
The phone jostled, and Matthieu lost sight of him for a moment.
Then he was back, phone propped against something on the nightstand, giving Matthieu a heart-stopping view of Kieran’s long, toned body stretched across the bed.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other tracing lazy circles over his obliques.
A fucking work of art.
“The things I’d do to you if I were there. Stroke yourself for me, sweetheart.”
Kieran obeyed, like the good boy he was. He dragged a slow finger from root to tip, through the precum already leaking from his slit. Matthieu watched, rapt, as Kieran stroked himself with long, slow pulls: unhurried, teasing, torturous.
He couldn’t see Kieran’s face, but he could picture the look in his eyes.
It was seared into his memory. The way Kieran’s lips parted in pleasure.
The way his gaze turned glassy as he neared the edge.
The flush across his cheeks. The frantic little pants as he fought to hold off release a second longer.
“You look so fucking good. Such a tease.”
“Says you,” Kieran panted, breathy and quick. “You the only one who gets a show?” He turned his face on the pillow, dark eyes looking up at Matthieu through thick lashes. “Let me see you.”
“I’m right here, sweetheart.”
“Matty, please.”
God, he loved when Kieran begged. It never got old. Kieran could make him do anything with those puppy-dog eyes and that whined word—the e long and drawn-out.
“Such a brat.” He chuckled, shifting a pillow to the end of the bed to prop his phone against and shucked out of his clothes, not wanting to waste another second.
The view was obscene: Matthieu’s legs spread, balls drawn near the camera, dick hard and heavy above neatly trimmed pubes.
Kieran groaned as Matthieu squirted lube into his palm and wrapped his fist around his cock.
He pushed his head into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, imagining his palm was the warm, tight heat of Kieran’s ass.
God, he loved fucking him. Loved having him writhing beneath him. Loved watching him straddle his hips, those sinful hockey thighs riding him into oblivion.
“I’m already so fucking close,” Matthieu gasped as he stroked faster, chasing the edge.
Tension coiled low in his belly, every nerve sparking like a live wire. On screen, Kieran had abandoned teasing. He fisted himself in earnest, mouth parted in a silent moan, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts.
They unraveled together. Kieran’s name spilled from Matthieu’s lips like a prayer.
His spine arched, muscles locking tight as release crashed over him in waves.
He came with a shout, hot ropes of cum splashing across his hand and belly.
Stars exploded behind his eyelids. Kieran’s groan followed a second later, shuddering and desperate.
For a few suspended moments, nothing existed but their ragged breathing and the rapid thrum of Matthieu’s heart.
He let his arm fall limp to the side, fingers twitching with aftershocks.
When Matthieu finally came around, Kieran was blinking up at him with a soft, hazy smile.
Still naked, the sheet draped low across his waist.
“I love watching you fall apart,” Kieran whispered. “I wish I could hold you.”
Matthieu’s throat tightened. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to move and reached for the tissues on his nightstand. He wiped off quickly and pulled on clean boxers before climbing back into bed. He shifted the phone closer on the pillow, propping it up at the perfect angle to see Kieran’s face.
Matthieu closed his eyes, imagining Kieran’s arms wrapped around him.
That strong body under his hand. The warmth of Kieran’s skin against his own.
If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel it: the slow, steady rise of Kieran’s chest, the gentle circles he’d trace on Matthieu’s back, the whisper-soft kisses he’d press into his hair.
“Don’t go,” he whispered. The words were small, but he didn’t care. “Not yet.”
“I won’t,” Kieran promised. He clicked off the bedside light, plunging the screen into darkness. “I’m right here.”
Matthieu inhaled deeply and pulled the blankets over his head, tucking himself into a dark cocoon where he could pretend, just a little longer, that Kieran was beside him. He listened to Kieran’s soft, steady breathing, barely audible over the phone. The familiar cadence soothed him like a lullaby.
“How many days do you have off over Christmas?” Kieran asked as sleep pulled Matthieu under.
“Three,” he muttered back.
The league avoided scheduling games on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, giving players and staff a chance to celebrate with their families, at least those close to home.
Matthieu had lucked out and gotten the day after Christmas off, too.
A fact he knew—thanks to committing the Inferno’s schedule to memory—was also true for Kieran.
“Spend them with me?”
Maybe if Matthieu hadn’t been so warm. Maybe if he hadn't been riding the high of release. Maybe if Kieran hadn’t whispered those words across the four hundred miles between them, voice full of hope and love, Matthieu would have said no.
That it felt too soon. That he’d be in a terrible mood that day and would rather be alone.
Instead, he took a deep breath and promised, “Okay.”
When Matthieu’s alarm went off, his phone screen was dark. The bed was empty and cold. A message was waiting: three emojis—a Santa hat, a reindeer, and a red heart.
Kieran
See you in five days, love.
It shouldn’t have made Matthieu smile as much as it did.