Chapter 40
Icalled Andrew before I could talk myself out of it.
He answered on the first ring. “You saw them.”
Not a question.
“Yeah. You?”
“Just did.” He sounded annoyed, but not panicked. “Fucking paparazzi. I should’ve been more careful.”
“Andrew—”
“I’m pissed at myself, not you. Just so we’re clear.”
I sat down on the edge of my bed, phone pressed to my ear. “What do we do?”
“Nothing tonight. I’ve got a meeting with Kellerman tomorrow morning. He’ll want to talk about the photos, the optics, all that PR bullshit.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No. This one’s just me.” He paused. “It’ll be fine. He’s not gonna do anything stupid.”
My brain was already spiraling. “What if they bench you? What if this affects your contract? You’ve worked so hard to get back on the ice and now—”
“Matthew. Breathe.”
I wasn’t breathing. I was calculating. Planning. Trying to figure out how much damage this could do to Andrew’s career. Hockey wasn’t like other sports. It was different. More conservative. More old-school.
“What if the team decides you’re a distraction? What if sponsors pull out? What if—” My voice cracked. “Andrew, what if I just ruined everything for you?”
“You didn’t—”
“We’ve been out before, but this is different. This is national news. This is your face, your career, your whole fucking life and I—” The tightness in my chest was getting worse. “The hockey world isn’t exactly known for being progressive. What if the fans turn on you?”
“Matthew, stop.”
“What if they trade you because of this? What if—”
“I’m at your door.”
I flinched. “What?”
“Open up.”
I stood, phone still pressed to my ear. “You’re here?”
“Yeah. And your sister already let me in, so you should probably get out here before she murders me.”
I hung up and walked out of my room.
Andrew was standing in the living room, hands in his pockets, looking weirdly out of place in my shitty apartment.
He was wearing a tuxedo—black, perfectly tailored, making him look like he’d stepped out of some magazine spread.
His blond hair was styled. His jaw was clean-shaven. He looked annoyingly good.
Angelica was standing between us, arms crossed, glaring at him.
“My brother is having a panic attack because of you,” she was saying. “So maybe you could, I don’t know, fix it?”
Andrew looked at her. “I’m working on it.”
“Work faster.”
“Angelica,” I said.
She turned to me. “He made you freak out.”
“He didn’t—”
“Yes, he did.” She looked back at Andrew. “You made out with my brother in a car like you weren’t a famous person who gets photographed all the time. That was stupid.”
Andrew shook his head. “No. Making out with him wasn’t stupid. Letting someone else break the story first—that was stupid. We should’ve controlled this. Put it out on our terms instead of letting some tabloid do it for us.”
Angelica blinked, some of the anger deflating. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Andrew’s jaw tightened. “I fucked up the strategy, not the kiss.”
“And now everyone’s talking about it and Matthew’s freaking out and you just. . . what? Thought you’d show up in a tux and everything would be fine?”
“No,” Andrew said. “I thought I’d show up and give him a choice.”
Angelica blinked again. “What?”
Andrew looked at me. “You can stay home, Matthew. If you want. I’ll go to the event alone. No one will expect you there. It’ll die down in a few days.”
“Or?” I asked.
“Or you come with me. We show up together. Make it clear this wasn’t a mistake or a hookup or whatever bullshit narrative people are trying to spin.”
My heart was pounding. “You want me to go.”
“Yeah. I want you there. But it’s your call.”
Angelica looked between us. Then she sighed. “You should go.”
“What?” I stared at her.
“You’ll be miserable if you stay here.” She walked over, adjusted my tie even though it was already straight. “And you’ll spend the whole night wondering what’s happening. So just go.”
“Angelica—”
“Go.” She pushed me gently toward Andrew. “And if anyone’s a dick to you, tell me. I’ll fight them.”
Andrew smirked. “Hell yeah.”
I looked at him. At the way he was standing there, calm and steady, like this wasn’t terrifying. Like showing up together at a public event hours after paparazzi photos dropped wasn’t the worst idea in the world.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The van was impossible to miss.
Black. Expensive-looking. Parked right in front of my building with the engine running and music blasting loud enough that I could hear it from the stairs.
Andrew opened the door, and noise spilled out.
“—telling you, Morrison, that’s not how percentages work—”
“Fuck your percentages, Searcy, I know what I—”
“Matty!” Kirk Chappell’s face appeared in the doorway, grinning wide. “Get in here!”
Andrew stiffened next to me. Just slightly. But I noticed.
I climbed in. The van was massive inside—leather seats, ambient lighting, a cooler packed with beer. Chappell, Searcy, Voss, both Morrisons, all in tuxedos, all looking like they’d already started the party.
“Holy shit, you actually came,” Searcy said, raising a beer. “Thought Knox scared you off.”
“Matty, you want a drink?” Chappell was already pulling a beer from the cooler.
“He’s fine,” Andrew said.
“I didn’t ask you. I asked Matty.”
Andrew’s brows furrowed. “Don’t call him that.”
“What, Matty?” Chappell grinned. “Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“Jesus, possessive much?” Dylan Morrison laughed. “Relax, Knox. We’re not stealing your man.”
I felt my face heat. But no one was looking at me like this was weird.
No one was treating me like a secret. Voss was scrolling through his phone.
The older Morrison brother had already moved on to talk with Searcy about shot percentages, while the younger Morrison snapped selfies.
Chappell was still grinning at Andrew like he’d just discovered something hilarious.
I sat down next to Andrew. The van started moving.
Andrew’s hand found mine. Not hidden. Not subtle. Just his hand wrapping around mine, right there where everyone could see.
Someone whistled. Morrison, probably.
“‘Bout damn time,” Searcy said.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. But no one was staring. No one looked shocked. Voss glanced up from his phone, saw our hands, and went back to scrolling.
This was normal to them.
Andrew’s thumb brushed over my knuckles. Once. Twice.
I looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, expression flat, but his hand tightened around mine.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I managed. “I’m good.”
The van pulled up to the Fairmont about twenty minutes later.
I could see the red carpet from inside. Cameras. Lights. Limos pulling up, people stepping out in gowns and tuxedos. Celebrities I vaguely recognized from movies or music or sports. The whole thing looked like something out of a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Boston Wardens’ longest suspension before Andrew Knox: six games, 2019, Brett Smith for a blindside hit.
My breathing was getting faster.
Wardens’ penalty minutes leader, 2022 season: Andrew Knox, 154 minutes. Second place: 89.
“Matthew.”
I looked up. Andrew was watching me, everyone else already climbing out of the van.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“Stats. I’m—” I swallowed. “I’m fine.”
He leaned in, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive. Clean. “Eyes on me.”
I focused on his face. Blue eyes. Sharp jaw. The small scar above his left eyebrow that I’d noticed weeks ago.
“Breathe,” he said.
I breathed.
“We’re gonna walk in there. Together. Cameras are gonna flash. People are gonna stare. And you’re gonna be fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re with me.” He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, like that alone made it impossible for anything to go wrong. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
He climbed out. Turned back. Offered me his hand.
I took it.
We stepped onto the red carpet together.
Just as he’d predicted, cameras flashed immediately. Bright. Blinding. Voices shouting names—“Andrew! Over here! Andrew, who’s your date?”—and I wanted to run. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be anywhere but there.
But Andrew’s hand was solid around mine.
He didn’t let go.
We walked toward the entrance, and the cameras kept flashing, and I kept breathing, and we kept moving forward.
Together.