Chapter 32
The steakhouse was so fucking loud.
We were shown to a private room in the back where the team had already taken over a long table.
At least fifteen players already there, drinks flowing, laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls.
Someone had pushed two tables together. Jackets were slung over chair backs.
The air smelled like expensive whiskey and steak.
“Knox!” Three voices shouted at once.
Kirk saw us first. “Matty! You came!”
I felt Andrew’s shoulders tense slightly at the nickname. His hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me forward into the chaos.
“The man of the fucking hour!” Searcy raised his beer, sloshing some onto the table. “Knox’s back, baby!”
Cheers erupted. Glasses clinked. Someone, I think it was Chappell, started banging his fist on the table in a drumbeat that half the team picked up.
“Speech! Speech!” Morrison was standing on his chair, grinning like an idiot.
“Get down, you fucking moron.” Dylan yanked his brother back into his seat.
“I’m just hyped! Knox’s back! This is literally so fire—”
“Sit the fuck down, Rook,” someone yelled, laughing.
Andrew accepted it all with his usual gruff acknowledgment—nods, a few handshakes, a middle finger to whoever threw a wadded napkin at his head—but his hand never left my back. He guided me through the chaos to a couple of open seats across from Kirk and Searcy.
The table was chaos—multiple conversations happening at once, someone arguing about whether the Wardens could take the cup this year, Morrison showing Dylan something on his phone while Dylan tried to eat his bread roll, Chappell and two other guys reenacting a play with increasingly dramatic gestures.
“—and then Knox just fucking levels him—”
“Bullshit, that’s not how it happened—”
“I was there, dickhead, I know what I saw—”
Someone ordered appetizers for the whole table. Someone else started taking bets on who’d get the drunkest. Morrison was filming everything on his phone.
I sat there, trying to figure out where I fit. Not a player. Not quite a guest. Something undefined.
Then Andrew’s leg pressed against mine under the table.
No one else could see, but I felt it like electricity.
His hand dropped to my knee a few minutes later. Just rested there.
“So Matthew,” Searcy said, leaning forward with that knowing look. “You enjoying working for Kirk?”
“It’s good. He’s easy to work with.”
“Easy?” Kirk nudged Searcy and laughed. “Matty’s being generous. I’m a disaster.”
“A disaster in progress,” I corrected.
Kirk beamed. “See? Matty gets me.”
Andrew’s hand tightened on my knee.
The conversation flowed around us. Someone made a toast to Andrew—“To not getting kicked out of the league!”—and everyone drank. More food arrived. More drinks. The volume increased.
At some point, Kirk started telling a story about his first NHL game, how he’d been so nervous he’d cried in the locker room.
“That’s nothing,” Wes Morrison interjected, laughing. “I literally threw up before my first game. Like, projectile. It was so bad.”
“And then you lied to Dr. Cross and said you were fine because you were scared he’d bench you,” Dylan said to his little brother.
“Okay, but also because the Ice Doc is terrifying! Like, if I’d told him I was sick, he would’ve come at me with IVs and needles and shit, and I just—” Morrison mimed gagging.
“And the worst part is he’s stupidly hot.
Like model-level attractive, which somehow makes it scarier?
Those eyes, man. Like a shark, but a really good-looking shark. ”
“You’re such a baby.”
“Dylan, I’m serious. It’s unnatural. The way his face looks makes me think of—what’s his name? The guy from the Speed Run movies. You know, the one who—” Morrison turned toward me suddenly. “Matthew, don’t you know him?”
I froze.
“Well. . . I used to. But I can’t really talk about it,” I said, keeping my voice light.
“Oh, come on. Not even like, what he’s like as a person? Or—”
“I signed a pretty thorough nondisclosure agreement,” I said, firmer this time. “So no. I can’t.”
Morrison opened his mouth like he was going to push again, and Andrew’s voice cut through.
“He said no.”
His tone wasn’t loud. Didn’t have to be. It cut through the noise at the table like a knife.
Everyone went quiet.
Morrison blinked, looking between us. “Oh. Uh, I was just—”
“And he gave you an answer,” Andrew said, eyes locked on Morrison. “Twice. So drop it.”
Morrison’s face went red. “Shit. Sorry, Matthew. I didn’t mean to—Kirk just mentioned it and I thought. . . My bad. For real.”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “You didn’t know.”
The conversation moved on, shifted to something else—Dylan mercifully steering his younger brother into a debate about which movie was best. But I felt Andrew’s eyes on me, the weight of his attention even as he pretended to listen to Searcy’s story about a disastrous road trip.
His hand never left my knee.
People started leaving around eleven. Heading to bars, heading home, heading wherever.
Andrew’s hand found the small of my back.
“We’re leaving,” he said quietly.
Not a question.
His hand stayed there as we headed for the exit, guiding me through the restaurant. I was hyper-aware of every point of contact—his palm, his fingers, the heat of him beside me.
The night air hit us when we stepped outside. Cold. Sharp. It did nothing to clear my head.
We walked to the car. Andrew unlocked it, but before opening my door, he stopped. Looked at me over the roof of the Porsche, his eyes dark in the streetlight.
“Get in,” he said, his voice rough.
I did.
The interior was warm, leather and expensive cologne and something else—just him. Andrew slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles went white before he forced himself to let go and start the engine.
We drove in silence, but it wasn’t comfortable. It was thick. Charged. His jaw was tight like he was holding something back, and when he shifted gears his movements were sharp, restless.
When he turned away from my neighborhood, I didn’t comment.
He was taking me to his place.
My heart kicked up.
At a red light, his hand moved from the gear shift to my thigh. Just rested there. His thumb traced a slow line along the inseam of my jeans.
I stopped breathing.
The light turned green. His hand stayed, gripping tighter.
“Andrew.”
“Matthew.” His voice was low. Strained. Like he was barely holding on.
I turned to look at him.
His eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. His hand was still on my thigh, gripping hard enough to leave an impression through the denim.
“If you want me to take you home—”
“I don’t.”
The words came out before I could second-guess them.
Something in him snapped. I could see it, the last thread of control breaking.
“Thank fuck.”