Chapter 39
The Garden was a cathedral.
That was the only word for it. The soaring ceilings.
The massive championship banners hanging from the rafters—decades of history suspended in the air.
The practice facility was nice, professional, well-equipped.
But this was different. This was where legends had played.
Where seventy years of Boston hockey lived in every corner. A cathedral to hockey.
And we were the mere worshippers.
I stood just inside the tunnel entrance, league credentials hanging around my neck, and felt impossibly small.
A woman from PR—I’d met her once, couldn’t remember her name—was ahead of me, heels clicking on concrete.
“Keep up,” she called over her shoulder.
I was trying, but there was staff everywhere. Camera crews hauling equipment. Light stands being adjusted. Someone shouting into a walkie-talkie about angles and timing. The whole place hummed with controlled chaos for Media Day.
We emerged onto the main floor.
I stopped.
The ice was pristine. Perfect. The Wardens logo painted at center ice, massive and bold. The boards gleaming under the lights. And above it all, those banners. Championship years. Retired numbers. A visual history of greatness staring down at me.
This wasn’t just Andrew. This was a machine. A multi-million dollar operation. Legacy and business and spectacle all rolled into one.
“This way,” the PR woman said, and the spell broke.
“The shoot’s already started,” she said, checking her tablet. “Both teams are here. Rivalry marketing. Knox and Archibald front and center—first game back from suspension, facing each other. Media’s eating it up.”
She led me toward the photographer’s setup. Massive lighting rigs. Multiple cameras. A backdrop with both team logos positioned perfectly. And players. Everywhere. Wardens in their home whites. Guys milling around, stretching, talking shit.
Then I saw Andrew.
He was in front of the camera, mid-pose. Full gear. Stick in hand. The photographer was shouting directions—“More aggressive! Like you’re about to kill someone!”—and Andrew was delivering.
God, he looked good.
The camera loved him. The lights caught his blond hair, made his blue eyes sharp and intense. He moved like every angle was natural, like being the center of attention was as easy as breathing.
The photographer snapped another series. “Perfect! That’s it! Beautiful, Knox!”
Andrew stepped back, lowered his stick, and saw me.
His whole face changed. Not a smile, exactly, but something close. Something that made my chest do a thing I wasn’t ready to name yet.
He started toward me, but the PR woman intercepted. “Not yet. We need Archibald next, then you two together for the rivalry shots.”
Andrew’s eyes stayed on me for another second. Then he nodded, stepped aside.
“Archibald!” the photographer called. “You’re up!”
Brandon Archibald stepped into the light.
Blond hair styled perfectly. Sharp jawline. Symmetrical features that probably photographed well even when he wasn’t trying. The kind of face that belonged on billboards.
What a waste. All that and he was still ugly where it counted.
He took his position. Lifted his stick. The photographer started clicking.
And then Archibald’s eyes found me.
I saw the moment of recognition. The slight pause. The flicker in his expression.
The shoot continued. Individual shots of both players. Then the rivalry setup—Andrew and Archibald facing each other, sticks crossed, manufactured intensity for the cameras.
“Yes! This is exactly what we need!” The photographer was practically vibrating with excitement. “The fans are going to lose their minds! Okay, hold that—yes—perfect—”
Andrew and Archibald stood inches apart, both locked in that competitive stare. But it didn’t look staged. It looked real. Like they actually wanted to destroy each other.
Maybe they did.
“And we’re done!” the photographer announced. “Great work, everyone!”
The players dispersed. Some heading to the locker rooms. Some lingering. Andrew was immediately surrounded by staff—the PR woman, a couple other people with clipboards and tablets.
I stayed where I was, trying to blend into the background.
“Matthew Quinn.”
I turned. Archibald was standing there, gear bag slung over his shoulder, that perfect face arranged into something that might have been a smile on someone else.
“Fuck off,” I said flatly, walking away.
“Hey, wait up.” He jogged to catch up to me. “I didn’t expect to see you here. But then again, you’ve been full of surprises lately, haven’t you?”
I didn’t respond.
“You know,” he continued, voice casual, “I reconnected with that mutual friend of ours. He had some interesting things to say about you.”
I immediately stopped walking. “You did what?”
But Archibald was already walking the other direction, that cryptic almost-smile still on his face. “See you around, Quinn. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”
I stood there, frozen, trying to process what he’d just said. Mutual friend? What the fuck did that mean? Could he be talking about Ben?
“Quinn.”
I turned. Andrew had broken free from the staff and was walking toward me, helmet under his arm.
“You saw that, right?” Not quite grinning, but close. “I looked fucking incredible.”
“You looked good,” I managed, and despite the weirdness with Archibald, I felt something in my chest ease. Just being near Andrew did that.
“Just good?” He stepped closer, lowered his voice. “I was inspired, thinking about the other night. You. Me. The locker room.”
I smiled. “You were supposed to be focusing on the shoot.”
“I can multitask.” His eyes were bright, then his expression shifted slightly. “You ready for tonight?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, me neither. These things are fucking torture.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But at least you’ll be there. You’ll look good in that tux I got you, and that’s all that matters.” He paused, seemed to read something in my expression. “You’ll be with me the whole time. Okay?”
“Yeah.” I took a breath. This was it. Time to stop hiding. “But—tonight, after, I want to talk to you about something.”
He studied my face, the humor fading into something serious, focused.
“Okay,” he said immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
“About. . . my ex. About all of it.” The words came easier than I expected. “I should’ve told you before. I want to tell you now.”
“Fuck yeah. Whenever you’re ready.” His hand found my arm, squeezed. “I’m not going anywhere, Matthew.”
And I believed him.
Andrew grinned, started to turn away, then looked back. “And Matthew? Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Together.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Together.”
He left, and I stood there for a moment, just breathing. Feeling okay. Better than okay.
I was going to tell Andrew everything. We were going to figure this out.
By the time I got home, I was almost looking forward to tonight. Not the event—fuck the event—but after. Talking to Andrew.
I’d just finished putting on the tux when my bedroom door slammed open behind me. Angelica stood in the doorway, phone in hand, face pale.
“Matthew.”
The way she said my name made me pause.
“Are you okay? What—”
She crossed the room in three steps and shoved her phone in my face.
A headline. A photo.
My brain took a second to process what I was seeing.
It was me. And Andrew. In his car. In the parking lot after the rink.
Kissing.
The photo was dark, grainy, shot from across the street through the windshield. But it was clear enough. Andrew’s hand on my face. My hand gripping his jacket. The angle, the body language—it was obvious what was happening.
The headline: Wardens Star Andrew Knox Spotted with Mystery Man
“Oh my god.”
“There’s more.” Angelica swiped. Another article. Another photo, different angle. Same moment. Same car.
Who Is Andrew Knox’s New Friend?
She kept swiping. More articles. More photos. All from that night. All showing me and Andrew in that car.
Knox’s Late-Night Hookup Sparks Speculation
The posts were everywhere. Sports blogs. Social media. Fan accounts.
None of the headlines explicitly said we were together. But they didn’t need to. The photos said everything.
Someone had been watching.