Chapter 4
FOUR
MATT
No crowd, no chanting. Just the stripped-down honesty of skates carving sharp half-moons, edges biting in. Red line. Blue line. I caught a pass and sent it on. Pucks kept kicking off the boards and back out into traffic, sticks clacking, everybody moving too fast for anyone to get lazy.
Better than thinking. Better than fucking anything.
“Again,” Coach barked from the boards, and we reset.
Crossover drills at overspeed. Hard stop, spray kicking up white around my shins, lungs burning bright and good, shoving the rest of the world to the edges of my mind.
Simple.
Ice. Blades. Bodies.
A memory of rough outdoor ice caught me when I blinked—my dad’s glove catching my elbow before I tipped too far, cold air sharp in my nose, a frozen lake under a light-blue sky. The first time I’d felt it: that strange sense of release, motion turning my whole body light.
Pro hockey had piled a lot on top of that since. Systems, money, routine. The constant demand to be worth what people poured into me. But every now and then, when my edges hit just right, I could still feel the lake underneath.
Like now.
Someone behind me cursed when I stole the puck off his stick. “Try to keep up,” I called over my shoulder, and next to me, Cole laughed.
“Save the ribbing for opening night,” he called.
I jerked my chin at him to push wider on the next rep.
He did, fast at catching the cue, no ego about it because that was Cole, and half the time, he read me before I spoke.
The whole line snapped into place until Coach blew the whistle.
“Better,” he said. “That’s the edge. Keep that for Saturday.
” He pointed at me. “They’ll follow your lead. Make sure it’s the right one.”
No pressure.
We ran the line again, cleaner this time, fast and crisp, a little more aggressive than our usual practice. The opener was close enough to sit under our skin. Saturday at home—full house, game one of many. But it would set the tone for the season.
Sweat had dried cool along my spine by the time practice ended.
Body coming down easy now, helmet loose in one hand as I headed down the tunnel.
Locker room. Guys half-dressed and talking over each other, the air heavy with the sour sting of gear peeled open after practice.
Music thumped from a speaker someone had shoved on top of a locker.
This was muscle memory—strip off tape, dig a towel out of my stall, keep my gaze moving. Don’t linger. Don’t look guilty either.
“Those sponsor dinner shots came out good,” Marco said from across the room, toweling his hair. “Jade said I cleaned up all right.”
Cole snorted. “Bet your wife was shocked by that.”
“Deeply.”
A couple of guys laughed. Someone else asked about plus-ones for the opener, who’d do dinner after, the usual shit, then someone lobbed a question my way. “What about you, Matt? New woman on the go, or are you still pretending celibacy’s a personality trait?”
Normal. Just the usual straight line the room drew without thinking, easy as breathing for the rest of them. I’d learned how to color inside it, but for half a second all I could feel was Stellan’s hand at my throat, his knuckles light against my skin. “I don’t want just fifteen minutes.”
Tape stuck a little as I unwound it from my wrist. “Nah,” I said. “Not really looking right now.”
“Bullshit,” Cole said, grinning as he got his T-shirt stuck halfway down his chest, abs and the sharp cut of his hip bones on display. “Guy like you? You’re probably hiding her from us. Afraid we’ll scare her off before you get a second date.”
“My wife says a face like yours is wasted if no woman gets to post it on her timeline,” Joseph threw in.
“Unless Talia’s still got her claws in you?” Wes asked.
I scoffed. “Fuck, no. It’s been months.”
And if I went much longer without being seen with a woman, the questions would start up for real. You gotta get laid, man. My wife’s got a friend who’s smoking. Want me to set you up? The kind of shit that sounded harmless until I ran out of excuses.
The thing with Talia had started like that. A charity event and a beautiful woman, teammates around who’d dared me into taking a shot. I’d wanted it to work. I really had.
Failed anyway.
“So no hot plans tonight?” Cole yanked his tee down properly. “You look kinda locked in. Thought maybe you had some fun lined up.”
Stellan.
I kept my face easy, my voice smooth. “Not really. Need to go through some video, probably call it early.”
Wes clapped me on the shoulder. “Captain Wholesome.”
“Brutal,” Marco said. “Have a chocolate bar, you sick fuck. You play hockey, you’re not a monk.”
“Just planning for elite aging.”
It got a laugh. The conversation moved on, and I bent to retie a shoe that didn’t need it.
Tuesday. Stellan had the day off, which meant no event pressure, nowhere else we’d have to be. Just time. Nothing to be nervous about, so I wasn’t.
Curious, maybe. A little excited. Definitely not nervous.
Just my heart beating a little too hard in my throat.
Music? No music?
Music. But no piano—too personal, too soft. No sexy beats either—too obvious. I settled on a low, steady R&B playlist that didn’t sound like I’d typed “songs for fucking” into a search bar.
Jesus Christ. I was twenty-six, not fifteen, and this was not a date. Not in the romantic sense, anyway.
I checked the time again. Any minute now, at least if Stellan bothered showing up on time. Or at all. Maybe he’d decided this was a joke. Maybe he’d decided I was a joke. Again.
No, stop.
I rapped my knuckles on the kitchen island, echoing the rhythm of the music, and synced my breathing to it. Outside, the afternoon had gone watery and pale, a weak autumn sun caught behind flimsy clouds. A faint smear of cobalt still sat under my fingernails, even though I’d scrubbed at it earlier.
Rules.
No bedroom, no phone. Definitely no feelings.
Right, yeah, as if that would be an issue. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t even like him, for fuck’s sake. But somehow it didn’t matter, because my body didn’t care. Just convenience, though. Or imprinting. Like “first guy I let myself really look at” kind of bullshit.
The buzzer sliced through my thoughts. My blood ran hot, breath catching, and yeah, okay.
Calm the fuck down.
I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and focused on the floor under my bare feet—smooth stone, solid and faintly warm. Then I went to let him in.
Stellan stepped out of the elevator as if places like this had always opened for him, tailored confidence draped around his shoulders like his open coat.
Dark jeans, dark sweater, curls mussed from the weather.
He’d made an effort. But it wasn’t the polished, curated kind I’d seen at the shop, wasn’t the luxury hotel version either. This… felt like him.
The idea snagged somewhere in my belly.
He shot me a small, quick smile. “Hey.”
All right, okay. Totally chill. I smiled back. “You were right.”
He huffed out a little laugh, the elevator sliding shut behind him. “Okay, cool. About what?”
“The suit helped.”
Something warm and real moved across his face. “Told you.”
“No need to sound smug.” I stepped a little closer and held my hand out for his coat. He handed it over, then kneeled down to unzip his boots—brown leather, his fingers sure and strangely elegant, nails short. They’d been on my skin already, would look really fucking amazing curled around my cock.
Fuck, I’d had years treating any pull toward a guy like something to bury. Felt like I was cracking apart at the seams.
Deep breath. Coat on a hanger. Hint of Stellan’s cologne.
“Just saying,” he told me, eyes a little too bright as if he’d caught an echo of my thoughts. “Any time you want help looking your absolute best? Give me a call.”
I snorted. “Trying to land ‘employee of the month’?”
“No.” He straightened and drew closer, reaching out to tug on the drawstring of my hoodie. My skin woke up like I’d ripped tape straight off it, fast and clean. “I’m not here to boost my commissions. Though I’m guessing the donation rack isn’t exactly where you shop.”
I glanced down at my hoodie that I’d picked up at some airport or another. “Maybe this is vintage.”
“Please.” His hand splayed out against the pale-blue fabric, one dimple pressing into his cheek. “You’re wearing a watch that could keep us afloat for a year.”
I raised a brow. “Us?”
“Not—no. Not that.” He shook his head, quick, almost urgent, like he’d leaped to correct a conclusion I hadn’t even made yet. “Not me personally, okay? Just a charity thing I do.”
Huh. Unexpected, that.
I covered his hand with mine and ignored the stupid flash of heat that shot through my veins. Just skin contact. Whatever, no big deal. “A charity thing?”
He glanced down, like I’d stepped onto private ground. “Helping some kids about to age out of the foster system dress for, like, job interviews.” His shrug was small. “Clothes are donated by people with money and designer wardrobes. Some financial support, too. Means we can shop to fill the gaps.”
It pinged like an echo of things he’d let slip before. Difficult time growing up. Predictable is sexy. In Chicago, he’d dropped it like a joke. Now it hit me differently, like maybe when he’d claimed that it hadn’t all been fake, he’d told the truth.
I’d gone silent, staring at him. His mouth softened. “Okay,” he said. “Stop thinking.”
He moved right into my space. Full-body contact, abrupt and hot. My back hit the wall, and suddenly all I knew was warmth and his weight solid against me, a trace of cologne too subtle to really place. Every nerve in me snapped awake.
Up close, his eyes seemed more blue than green, maybe a trick of the woolen afternoon light.
“You gonna kiss me this time?” I managed.
“Yeah.” He didn’t, though, eyes narrowing as if something had only just occurred to him. “My phone—uh. Just for transparency. It’s in my coat pocket. Brought it because my transit pass is on it, didn’t want to buy a ticket again. If you want, put it in the bathroom. Or I can power it off.”
No phone.