Chapter 43
Iwoke up in Andrew’s bed.
The realization came slowly. Expensive sheets. Morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. The faint smell of coffee from somewhere in the apartment.
Not my apartment. Andrew’s.
I sat up, ran a hand through my hair. The events from last night came back in fragments—Ben’s face, the broken glass, Andrew’s hand on my back, the ride home. Or not home. Here.
My phone was on the nightstand. I picked it up.
Eleven missed calls. Twenty-three texts.
Shit.
But when I opened the notifications, it wasn’t what I expected. No headlines screaming my name. No photos of me shoving Ben. Just:
“Actor Benjamin Harroway Escorted from Charity Event After Altercation”
“Harroway Removed from Sponsor Gala Following Incident”
“Sources Say Harroway ‘Visibly Intoxicated’ at Boston Event”
The articles were vague with mentions of an altercation, security involvement, that sort of thing. But no names beyond Ben’s. No mention of me or Andrew or what had actually happened.
I should have been relieved.
I was relieved.
But there was something else too. A low hum of anxiety that used to spiral into full panic. The old Matthew would be calculating right now, damage control, exit strategies, worst-case scenarios.
But I wasn’t spiraling. I wasn’t counting stats to ground myself, and I hadn’t in a while, I realized. I was just sitting there. Anxious, yeah. But not drowning.
I heard Andrew’s voice from somewhere else in the apartment. Muffled. Talking to someone.
I got out of bed and followed the sound down the hallway.
The office door was half-open.
From where I stood in the hallway, I could see Andrew sitting at his desk, phone on speaker, papers spread out in front of him.
He was showered. Dressed. Black T-shirt, jeans.
Hair still damp. But it was the focus that caught me off guard.
The complete absence of his usual restless energy.
He was shuffling through documents, making notes in the margins, eyes sharp and intent.
Off the ice, I’d never seen him like this.
“About the NDA,” he was saying, voice steady. “If he signed one years ago and the other party just made everything public, does that void the agreement?”
A pause. Andrew’s pen tapped once against the paper, then stilled.
“So the NDA likely has a clause about disclosure,” a voice crackled through the speaker. “But if the other party violated confidentiality first, it could potentially release your client from their obligations. Potentially.”
“What about damages?” Andrew asked, flipping to another page. “If the fucker violated the NDA by going public, can Matthew sue him for it?”
I froze.
“It’s. . . complicated,” the lawyer said carefully.
“Most NDAs include mutual non-disparagement clauses, but proving damages is difficult. Especially if the information disclosed was already known to certain parties or if there’s a public interest defense.
And frankly, these cases are expensive and drawn out. I wouldn’t recommend it unless—”
“But he could?” Andrew cut in. “Legally, he could pursue it?”
“Technically, yes. But I’d need to see the actual NDA to give you a real answer. There are usually carve-outs for—”
“I’ll get you a copy,” Andrew said, making another note.
Another voice cut in—different, sharper. Someone from the team. “Andrew, we need to talk about tomorrow.”
Andrew didn’t look up from his papers. “What about it?”
“The league’s aware of the photos from the sponsor event. Of you and. . . your companion.”
Companion. Like I was a fucking accessory.
“And?” Andrew’s voice was flat, but his pen stilled again.
“And they wish it had happened differently. The timing isn’t ideal. But it’s generated significant interest in tomorrow’s game. People want to see if he’ll be there. If you’ll acknowledge it publicly.”
My chest tightened.
“We’re drafting a statement,” the voice continued. “Something like, ‘Andrew Knox is focused on his return to play and grateful for the support of his family and close friends.’ Vague enough to not confirm or deny anything specific.”
I closed my eyes.
Here it was. The part where Andrew would agree. Where I’d become a problem to manage instead of a person to—
“I’m not fucking doing that,” Andrew said.
I opened my eyes.
“Andrew—”
“I’m not pretending like my boyfriend Matthew doesn’t exist.” His voice was quiet but certain, and he finally looked up from the papers, eyes hard. “I’m not putting out some bullshit statement that makes it sound like he’s just a friend.”
“The optics—”
“I don’t give a fuck about optics. He’s coming to the game tomorrow. He’ll be in my seats. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them exactly who he is.”
Silence on the other end.
Then: “Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
I stepped into the doorway.
Andrew saw me. His expression shifted—not quite a smile, but something warm broke through that intense focus. Something just for me.
“He’ll be there,” Andrew said, eyes locked on mine. “And that’s final.”
Andrew had already put most of it together on his own. I’d confirmed what he suspected and added the parts he couldn’t have guessed. That had been enough. My chest felt too tight and too full all at once.
“Andrew,” the voice was saying, “I really think we should discuss—”
“Gotta go. Bye.”
He tapped the screen. Just like that. Nothing more, no professional sign-off. Just done.
Then he stood and walked toward me, and I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face even if I’d wanted to.
“How much did you hear?” he asked.
“Enough.” My voice came out rough. “You were—that was—”
“Yeah.” He reached me and wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting me clean off my feet.
“What are you doing?” But I was laughing, my hands finding his shoulders for balance.
“Taking you back to bed.”
“Andrew, I can walk.”
“Yeah, but this is more fun.” He started carrying me down the hallway, and I should have protested more, but his arms were solid around me and I was grinning like an idiot and my heart felt like it might actually burst.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly, my face close to his. “Tell them all that.”
“Yeah, I did.” He looked at me, completely certain. “You’re not a secret, Matthew. Not anymore. Not ever.”
And god, the relief of it. The warmth flooding through me. The sheer fucking joy of being chosen like this—publicly, definitively, without hesitation.
He dropped me onto the bed. I started to sit up, but Andrew was already there, crawling over me, pinning me against the mattress.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He kissed me. Slow. Just his mouth on mine, his weight pressing me into the bed, his hand sliding up under my wrinkled shirt.
When he pulled back, I was breathing hard.
“You don’t have to talk to anyone today,” he said. “No press, no statements, no bullshit. You can stay here.”
“Andrew.”
“I’m not him.” His voice was quiet. “I’m not gonna make you take the fall for anything. I’m not gonna hide you. I’m not gonna act like you’re the problem.”
My throat was tight. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.” And I meant it. “I do.”
He kissed me again. Softer this time.
Then he rolled onto his side, pulling me with him. We lay there, facing each other, his hand still resting on my hip.
“Tell me,” he said. “About him. About what happened. If you want to.”
“I do. I did.” I took a breath. “It’s not pretty.”
“I don’t care.”
So I told him.
About working for Ben. About how it had felt professional at first, then shifted. About how we’d started sleeping together even though he was my boss.
Andrew flinched at that part.
I kept going.
I told him about New York. The hotel room. The drugs—Ben’s drugs—that had been found in my room because Ben had asked me to hold them. How the studio had panicked. How Ben had looked at me with those desperate eyes and said he couldn’t be associated with it.
How I’d volunteered. Signed the NDA. Taken the fall.
How Ben had blocked me from getting references. How every job I’d applied for had mysteriously fallen through. How I’d ended up here, in Boston, working for a temp agency because it was the only place that didn’t ask too many questions.
Andrew listened. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions. Just listened, his hand warm against my hip, his eyes locked on mine.
When I finished, there was silence.
Then Andrew said, quietly, “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at him. At the intensity in his blue eyes. The way he was looking at me like I was something worth protecting.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I do now.”
My phone rang.
Andrew groaned. “Ignore it.”
“It might be Angelica.”
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Checked the screen.
It was Angelica.
I answered. “Hey, are you—”
“Where are you?” Angelica’s voice was sharp. “You didn’t come home last night. I was worried.”
“I’m fine. I’m at—”
Andrew snatched the phone from my hand.
“He’s fine,” Andrew said into the phone. “He’s with me.”
Silence. Then I could hear Angelica’s muffled voice. “Is this Andrew Knox?”
“Who the fuck else would this be?”
I tried to grab the phone back. Andrew held it out of reach.
“You gonna be okay home alone this weekend?” Andrew asked her.
“Um. Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” I could hear her say.
“Good. You need money for food or something?”
“I. . . what?”
“I’m sending you delivery. Text Matthew what you want. Pizza, Thai, whatever. My treat.”
“Are you—are you offering to buy me dinner?”
“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
“No, I just—” I heard Angelica laugh. “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Get used to it. I don’t want your brother leaving my place, so you’re getting delivery. Deal?”
“I want food for tomorrow too.”
“Fucking-a, kid. Okay, fine.”
“Deal,” I heard her say. “Tell Matthew I said hi.”
“Tell him yourself.” Andrew tossed the phone back to me.
I caught it, brought it to my ear. “Angelica—”
“Oh my god, Matthew.” She sounded delighted. “I like him.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s kind of an asshole, but in a good way.” She paused. “You sound happy.”
“I am.”
“Good. You deserve it.” Another pause. “I saw the articles about last night.”
My chest tightened. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“I will be.”
“Good. Because if Ben comes near you again, I’m going to murder him.”
“You and Andrew both.”
She laughed. “I’ll let you go. Have fun. Text me later.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up. Set the phone back on the nightstand.
Andrew was watching me. “She doing okay?”
“Yeah. She likes you.”
“Good. I like her too. She’s got balls.”
“She’s seventeen.”
“And she threatened to fight me last night. Respect.”
I laughed. Actually laughed. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah, but you like it.” He pulled me closer. “What time do I have to be at the rink?”
“Two.”
“Good. That gives us—” He checked the clock on his nightstand. “At least four hours.”
“Four hours for what?”
His hand slid under my shirt again. “I can think of a few things.”
He kissed me and cut off whatever protest I was about to make. His mouth was warm, demanding, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
When he pulled back, I was breathing hard again.
“Tomorrow’s the big game,” he said. “First one back from suspension. Sentinels. Archibald. Everyone’s gonna be watching.”
“I know.”
“You gonna be there?”
“Do you want me there?”
“Yeah.” No hesitation. “I want you there.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
He kissed me again. Slower this time. Deeper.
We stayed like that for a while. Just kissing. His hands in my hair, mine on his shoulders, the morning light spilling across the bed.
Eventually, Andrew pulled back. Looked at me with something that might have been affection.
“You’re different,” he said.
“What?”
“Different from who you were when we met. Stronger.”
“I don’t feel stronger.”
“You shoved that asshole through a display case last night. Pretty sure that’s stronger.”
I laughed. “Fair point.”
“And you told him to fuck off. You stood up for yourself.” His hand cupped my face. “You’re not the same guy who showed up at my penthouse months ago.”
“Neither are you.”
“Yeah.” He kissed my forehead. “We’re both pretty fucked up. But we’re figuring it out.”
“Together?”
“Yeah. Together.”
He pulled me against his chest. I let myself relax into him, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, steady and real.
Tomorrow was the game.
Andrew’s first game back.