Chapter 2
TWO
MATT
Seven months later
“Again,” the photographer said. “But meaner.”
Of fucking course.
I circled back without answering, no helmet, stick loose in one hand, and dug my blades in near the face-off dot hard enough to send up a sharp spray of ice. Across the rink, somebody from social gave me a thumbs-up like we were all having a great time. We were not.
They’d told us this would be quick. A few clips for the season-launch dinner screens, some sponsor content, maybe one or two shots for the team accounts.
Instead, I’d been trapped in a loop for the last fifteen minutes—skate in, stop, glare at the camera, reset.
Hockey reduced to a series of expensive-looking poses.
Usually, the ice knocked all the noise right out of my head.
Even on bad days, especially on bad days.
There was something honest about moving that hard, that fast, no thought left for anything but the next pass.
But this wasn’t that. This was hockey skinned and polished so the public could gobble it up in thrilling little pieces.
“Matt,” the woman by the boards called. “Can we make this one a little more intense? Not angry, exactly. Just… commanding.”
Cole, alternate captain and friend, barked out a laugh. He was leaning on the glass in partial gear while he waited to be dragged into whatever group shot was coming next. “Channel your inner gladiator, Matt. C’mon, man, we believe in you.”
Right. Gladiator, warrior, all that jazz. Men as force. Men drawn in straight, solid lines, with clean appetites and simple stories. Easy to market and easier to live if you’d never looked at someone you shouldn’t want.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I told him, and Cole grinned.
“You’d miss me if I was gone.”
“Debatable,” I said, even though I absolutely would. He was one of the few guys who could needle me without it scraping, knew how hard to push and when to leave me alone.
The photographer clapped. “Perfect. That’s the energy. Let’s use it.”
Yeah, why the hell not. If he wanted energy, I had plenty. None of it good.
It wasn’t his fault, though. I knew that—these people were simply doing their jobs, same as the rest of us. Still didn’t mean I had to enjoy being turned into a poster boy for controlled aggression.
I skated the line again, slower this time, shoulders squared, eyes on the lens.
Around me, the rink was all bright light and empty seats, underlaid by the familiar smell of shaved ice and damp gear that meant home.
In theory. Except today, it all felt a little off, like I was wearing my own skin inside out, far too aware of myself and the performance.
Captain. Face of the franchise. Reliable and marketable, manly in a way nobody would ever even dare to question.
That last part had once felt easier. Not true, not exactly. But easier.
I’d spent years learning how to be the kind of guy hockey liked best—hard to read, easy to project onto, safe in all the obvious ways.
Talia had fit that picture beautifully. Poised, pretty, effortless at events.
Dating her had felt, for a while, like proof that I could actually live this life.
See? I’d told myself. There. Normal enough. Straight enough. Problem solved.
Then one hotel breakfast with the wrong man had cracked me open, and nothing since had fit quite right.
“Can we get the group back in?” the woman called. “Captain in front. Helmets on.”
I skated to the bench, grabbed mine, and jammed it back on harder than necessary. Just then, my phone lit up where it sat next to my gear.
Reid. Friend, manager, and professional pain in the ass.
Do not leave straight from the rink and “forget” the fitting, his first text said. Followed by: They’re keeping the shop open for you. Stylist’s name is Simone. Also, wear decent underwear.
What.
I stared at the screen right as it lit up again.
And stop looking like you resent me for helping your public image. It’s highly unattractive.
I puffed out a small laugh. Cole glanced over while grabbing his own helmet. “New girlfriend? Glad you’re moving on from Talia.”
“No, it’s Reid,” I said.
“Ah.” Cole inclined his head. “Sorry for your loss.”
Ha.
I typed back, You talk too much, then shoved the phone away and stared out across the empty rows of seats.
This weekend’s season-launch dinner would be the same promo bullshit in a far more glamorous setting—handshake line, sponsor logos, cameras, people in expensive clothes making speeches about partnership and grit.
I’d stand there polished and polite because that’s what they’d paid for, because I’d been learning that trick since I was a teenager.
Show up sharp for early practices in the dark, school squeezed in between road trips.
Make it easy for people to invest in you, never mind the bus rides, the missed normal-kid years, the way hockey had eaten up almost everything else before I was old enough to make the choice.
The photographer waved us back onto the ice. “Ready, everyone? Matt?”
No. Not at all. I wanted a real shift, wanted the burn in my legs and the clear head that came after. Wanted, for about half a second, to be less the brand and more me.
Instead I shoved off, gliding into position while the lens found me again.
Ready or not, I knew how to do this part.
The sun had dipped past the horizon a little while ago, early October turning Seattle into moody street scenes, a bar leaking warm light and muffled live music. Coat weather. Perfect for a guy with… what had it been? Great coat posture—right.
Funny.
Not.
Anyway, I wasn’t here for a coat, but a suit.
My destination: a restrained storefront, windows lit in just enough of a glow to make the fabric look tastefully expensive without screaming in price tags.
The kind of place my dad would’ve taken one long look at and then called “nice if you’ve got money to burn. ”
Jesus. Not my scene.
The shop was closed. Just not for me: the stylist was already waiting, doors sliding open in one smooth, near-silent glide to invite me in.
“Matt,” she said, with a firm handshake and the kind of professional smile that felt practiced but not fake.
Subtly fitted dress, a scarf that added color. “Glad you could make it. I’m Simone.”
“Thanks for doing this after hours,” I said.
“Your manager was pretty clear that you’d want privacy.” Her mouth twitched like Reid had been a full experience. “Minimal fuss, low light, no sudden movements.”
That drew a snort from me. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
She led me through a shop that was all hush and dim lighting, racks arranged like museum exhibits. Belts. Shoes. Shirts that smelled like pressed linen. My footsteps felt uncomfortably loud in the quiet.
“I’m not actually a diva,” I said. “For the record.”
“Of course,” Simone said with all the smoothness of a salesperson.
“Really. I just don’t love causing a spectacle when I’m off the ice.”
That part sure was true. On the ice, being watched was the job. Off it, I liked to pretend I could put that version of myself down somewhere with my skates and gear bag. It mostly didn’t work.
We reached a private fitting suite. Mirrors on three sides, a changing area, a low leather chair. A stand with garment bags already hanging. And…
And Stellan.
Water rushed in my ears. No. What the fuck.
What the actual fuck?
The room narrowed and dropped into silence, my heartbeat the loudest thing around. Stellan. Memory sharp like the blade of a skate: marble under my shoes, Chicago skyline, fast words and a smile that roped me in inch by inch.
Then Talia, her voice flat as she turned her phone toward me. “So this is it, then. This is what you actually want.” The shot had been clear, professionally framed. A camera that had caught the exact moment Stellan had tripped into my arms, the way I’d wanted him plain to see.
A setup. Embarrassing, expensive, the kind of image that could make people start looking backwards through every version of me I’d ever handed them.
And now… here he was again. Hands clasped loosely, silver-gray shirt crisp, sleeves rolled up.
Brown hair styled into clean, gentle curls.
No grin, no easy sparkle. Like he belonged here—just like he’d belonged in that luxury hotel lounge, where I’d wanted him with the kind of clarity that now felt humiliating.
Who the fuck are you?
“This is Stellan,” Simone said, as if it were an answer. “He’ll be assisting.”
His gaze met mine, something flashing lightning-quick across his face before it smoothed over. Guilt, maybe. He better feel it. He’d cost me.
“Hi,” he said, a little too low and calm.
I needed to get the fuck out of here. No, I needed to stay and see this through, needed to prove he hadn’t left a mark. Wanted to see him squirm, knock him off-balance just the way he’d done to me.
Leaving would let him walk right back into the category of unfinished business. And—no. Couldn’t do that. Didn’t want to.
“Hi,” I said back. It came out even—captain voice, sure and controlled, the guy people looked to for instructions.
Simone’s eyes flicked between us, quick and assessing, as if she’d noticed a slight shift in the air. “All right,” she said, smiling. “Now, Matt. I pulled a few options based on what Reid told me you like. Effortless elegance, nothing trendy, nothing overly loud.”
Right. Suit.
I angled away from Stellan like he barely even mattered. “Sounds good,” I told Simone.
“Excellent,” she said. “Let’s start with just the jackets to narrow things down.”
At her nod, Stellan moved to the garment rack and unzipped a bag with careful hands. I forced my focus elsewhere, shrugged out of my own hoodie, and draped it over the back of an armchair. My movements were precise, as if performing calm could make it true.
Charcoal jacket. It settled on my shoulders, the fabric gleaming faintly under the light. Nice enough. Jackets were easy, though, while pants were always a negotiation—hockey thighs, narrower waist, story of my life.