Chapter 28
Kirk’s office was a disaster.
“So,” Kirk said, rubbing the back of his neck. Kirk was in full gear minus his helmet, having just come off the ice. “This is bad, right?”
I stood in the doorway, taking it in. The space was more of a corner than an office, a tiny room they’d given him to sort things out, and Kirk had decided to not sort anything. Ever.
Papers everywhere. Unopened mail stacked on the desk. A calendar that was three months out of date still hanging on the wall. Empty protein shake bottles lined up on the table like trophies.
“It’s not great,” I admitted.
“Emma used to handle this stuff, but then I told her she didn’t have to, that I’d figure it out.” He gestured helplessly at the chaos. “I did not figure it out.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Yeah?” He looked genuinely relieved. “Because I have no idea where to start.”
“Start by sitting down. Let me look through everything.”
He dropped into the chair behind the desk, which groaned under his weight. I moved to the file cabinet, started pulling folders.
Sponsorship requests. Media appearances. Charity events. All jumbled together with no system, no response dates, no organization whatsoever.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked.
“Uh.” Kirk thought about it. “Two years?”
“Two?”
“Maybe three.”
I looked at him. He gave me a sheepish grin.
“Okay,” I said. “We’re starting from scratch.”
Two hours later, I had a system.
Color-coded folders. Digital calendar synced to his phone. Priority list for upcoming obligations. Follow-up emails drafted for the things he’d been ignoring.
Kirk watched me work with something like awe.
“How are you doing that?” he asked.
“Doing what?”
“Making sense of it. I’ve been staring at that pile for months.”
“It’s just organization. You break it into categories, prioritize, and tackle it piece by piece.”
“You make it sound easy.” He laughed. “Emma’s gonna love you. She’s been telling me to hire someone for years.”
I pulled up his calendar on the laptop. “You have a sponsorship call tomorrow at ten. Radio interview Thursday at two. And something called ‘charity skate with kids’ on Saturday.”
“Oh shit, the kids thing. I forgot about that.”
“When was the last time you confirmed?” I asked.
“Uh.” He looked guilty. “Never?”
I made a note. “I’ll handle it.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Matty.”
The nickname landed weird. It felt like the kind of thing teammates called each other.
“I prefer Matthew,” I said.
“Matthew. Got it.” He said it once, nodded to himself. Then, thirty seconds later: “So what else is on the list, Matty?”
I looked up, pushing my glasses back. “You just—”
“Sorry! It’s a habit.” He looked genuinely apologetic. “Is it weird? I can stop.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but I wasn’t going to make an issue of it on day one.
“Cool. Matty it is.”
I went back to the calendar, and was making good progress, when Andrew showed up twenty minutes later.
I heard him before I saw him, the distinctive sound of skates on rubber matting, voices in the hallway. Then he appeared in the doorway, still in gear, sweaty from practice.
Which was a problem, since technically Andrew wasn’t supposed to be practicing with the team until everything was settled at the hearing.
His blue eyes went straight to me.
“Chappell.”
“Knox.” Kirk looked up from his phone. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in.” Andrew’s gaze hadn’t left me. “Making sure everything’s working out.”
“Oh yeah, Matty’s amazing. Look at this.” Kirk gestured at the now-organized desk. “He fixed everything. I can actually find stuff now.”
“Matty,” Andrew repeated. His voice was flat.
“It’s a nickname,” Kirk said.
“His name is Matthew.”
Kirk winced. “I know, but—”
“So use it.”
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
Kirk looked between us, clearly confused. “Uh. Okay?”
I stood up. “Did you need something, Mr. Knox?”
The formality was deliberate. A reminder that we weren’t—that this wasn’t—
“No.” Andrew’s jaw was tight. “Just wanted to make sure you were settling in. Mr. Quinn.”
“I am. Thank you.”
He nodded once, turned, and left.
I watched him go, unease curling low in my stomach. He shouldn’t have been here, and he definitely shouldn’t have been hovering.
Kirk stared after him. “What the hell was that about?”
I shuffled something on the desk. “No idea.”
“He’s been weird lately. Weirder than usual.” Kirk shook his head. “Anyway, where were we?”
Andrew kept showing up.
Not in Kirk’s office, that would be too obvious. But around the facility. In the gym when I was dropping off Kirk’s protein shake. In the hallway when I was heading to the printer. Rinkside when Kirk and I were reviewing his practice schedule.
Other players noticed.
I was standing by the boards, making notes about Kirk’s upcoming media availability, when Searcy skated over.
“Hey, Matthew.”
“Hey.”
“Knox’s here a lot lately.” He said it casual, like an observation. “Usually he skates, works out, leaves. But this week he’s just. . . around.”
I kept my eyes on my laptop. “Oh? Is that unusual?”
“For Knox? Yeah.” Searcy grinned. “Almost like he’s keeping an eye on something.”
“Or someone,” another player added, skating past.
My face heated.
Searcy laughed. “Don’t worry about it. We’re all just entertained.”
“Entertained by what?”
“By Knox. It’s new.” He skated backward, still grinning. “Good luck with that, man.”
Now that I was around the entire time team, it only took a few days before anyone asked me about my past. Kirk and I were in his office, going through sponsorship opportunities. One of them was for a sports drink brand that wanted him for a commercial.
“They want me to do acting,” Kirk said, reading the proposal. “I’m terrible at acting.”
“It’s just reading lines. You’ll be fine.”
“Have you ever done anything like that? Commercial stuff?”
“I’ve been around it. My last long-term job was in entertainment.”
Kirk’s eyes lit up. “Really? Doing what?”
“I was an assistant to an actor. Benjamin Harroway.”
“Wait, what?” Kirk nearly dropped his phone. “Benjamin Harroway? Speed Run Benjamin Harroway?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit. I love those movies. I’ve seen all of them.” He leaned forward, excited. “What’s he like? Is he cool?”
The question was innocent. Enthusiastic. Kirk had no idea he was stepping on a landmine.
The NDA I’d signed flashed through my mind. I could confirm I’d worked for Ben, that was public, on my resume, but anything beyond that? Off limits.
“I can’t really talk about it,” I said. “NDA.”
“Oh. Go figure.” Kirk looked disappointed but understanding. “Was he at least cool to work for?”
I thought about Ben’s warm smile. The way he’d made me feel special. The way things had ended.
Even that felt too close to the line.
“It was a learning experience,” I said carefully. “But sorry, can’t discuss specifics.”
Kirk nodded. “That makes sense. Well, hey, at least you’ve got experience with this stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said, closing the laptop. “The commercial’s a good opportunity. We should take it.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Matty.”
I went back to work, grateful he’d let it drop.
The rest of the week passed in neat blocks of calendars, emails, and quiet competence. I focused on things that stayed put when you organized them. Schedules. Files. Tasks that ended when you finished them.
I didn’t think about Benjamin Harroway.
I definitely didn’t think about what it felt like to be pulled into someone else’s orbit and told it was opportunity.
By Friday, the rink felt like the safest place in the building.
Kirk was running through drills, and I was rinkside making notes about his schedule next week, when he skated over.
“Hey.”
I looked up. “Yeah?”
“You said you played, right?”
“In college. Beer league.”
“Come help me with something.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I’m working on defensive positioning. Could use a body out there.” Kirk was already skating toward the bench. “Come on, Matty. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
My heart stuttered. “I don’t have gear.”
“We’ve got spare stuff. Come on.”
He was so casual about it. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like stepping onto professional ice wasn’t something I’d dreamed about for years.
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
The gear fit surprisingly well. Skates broken in by someone else, a practice jersey that hung loose, gloves that smelled like sweat and tape. Kirk helped me adjust the pads, chattering the whole time about some play he’d seen on TV.
“You remember how to do this?” he asked as we walked toward the ice.
“I think so.”
“It’s like riding a bike. Your body remembers.”
He was right.
The second my skates hit the ice, everything came back. The feel of it. The sound. The way your weight shifted differently on blades, the way you had to trust your edges. I pushed off, glided, turned. Tentative at first, then with more confidence.
God, I’d missed this.
“There you go!” Kirk was grinning. “See? Like riding a bike.”
We skated together, easy laps to warm up. Then Kirk started explaining what he wanted to work on—defensive positioning, gap control, reading the rush.
I got it immediately. Saw what he was trying to do, where the spacing was off.
“What if you adjusted here?” I suggested, demonstrating. “Give yourself more time to read the play.”
Kirk tried it, eyes widening. “Oh shit, that’s better. Why’d you stop playing?”
“Had to make a living.”
“That sucks, man.” He passed me a puck. “You’re good. Like actually good.”
We ran through drills. Kirk explained concepts, I absorbed them, suggested adjustments. He kept calling me Matty, friendly and warm, and I didn’t correct him because it felt natural here, on the ice, like this.
I was breathing hard, sweating, grinning despite myself.
This was the happiest I’d been in years.
I didn’t notice Andrew watching until I looked up and saw him in the stands.
Just sitting there. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
Our eyes met.
He didn’t look away.
I missed my next pass.
The locker room was quiet when I finally came off the ice. Kirk had disappeared into the showers, steam already fogging the glass, and I sat on the bench, most of my gear off, chest rising and falling as my pulse slowly came down.
My legs were shaky. My hands too.
I heard footsteps behind me and knew who it was before I turned. Andrew stood in the doorway in jeans and a sweatshirt. No skates. No gear. Just him. Watching me like he was trying to decide whether stepping any closer was a mistake.
“You’re better than you think you are,” he said.
I looked up. “What?”
“On the ice.” He jerked his chin toward the rink. “You’ve got good edges. Your backwards crossovers are clean. And your hockey sense is there—you read the play before it happens.” Andrew paused. “Most people who haven’t played in years lose that. You didn’t.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest. “Thanks.”
“I’m not blowing smoke up your ass, Quinn. I’m stating facts.” But his mouth twitched slightly, almost a smile. “You looked good out there.”
I felt my face heat. “I haven’t skated in a while.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He took a few steps closer, stopping just inside the doorway. “You also don’t skate like someone who’s scared of taking up space. You drove the net twice. Didn’t hesitate.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“That’s not something you do everywhere,” he added, his voice dropping slightly.
My breath caught. “Andrew—”
“I know.” He held up a hand. “I’m trying to give you space. Let you figure things out. But watching you out there—” He broke off, exhaled hard. “You don’t make yourself smaller on the ice. You just. . . exist. Fully. And it makes it really fucking hard to pretend I don’t want you.”
The air between us felt thick.
I stood up slowly, my heart hammering.
“We’ve got a few minutes,” I said quietly.
Andrew went very still.
I stepped toward him, close enough now to see the pulse jumping in his throat, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“I suggest,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “we don’t waste them.”