Chapter 6
SIX
MATT
Straight lines and blackout curtains, an abstract painting in restrained shades of gray, and a bed too big for just one person. Just the usual kind of team hotel, with windows thick enough to support a healthy sleep routine.
Yeah. Not happening.
My skin still carried the cold bite of the rink, legs heavy and mind skating in useless circles.
Two wins to start us off—and then, tonight, we’d dropped one by a goal.
Didn’t matter that the season was barely out of the gate, that the road trip still had one more game left, that nobody sane read too much into a single loss.
People still looked at me for a reaction because being the captain didn’t stop off the ice.
Outside the locker room, a camera light had gone on in my face before I’d even cooled down properly.
Tough one tonight, Matt. What changed? How do you keep the room confident?
As if I had all the answers ready, even when my legs still held the game and my temper was one bad inch from the surface.
Even now, my face hurt a little from holding neutral.
Stop. Inhale for three, exhale for six. Again.
I unlaced my sneakers, hands steady, and left them sitting parallel by the door. Then I perched on the edge of the mattress and reached for the remote, flicked through a few too-bright channels and gave up.
Phone.
I pulled up the same piano playlist I listened to on flights when my body refused to come down—notes that rose and fell like waves.
Ludovico Einaudi. Keith Jarrett. Nils Frahm.
I’d stumbled across some version of it by accident after a road loss, flipping through noise in a hotel room until I hit a solo piano channel.
It had reminded me, faintly, of frozen lake air, of space and the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything.
Now I closed my eyes and listened for a minute, tried to empty my mind and focus on the music. Didn’t work.
On game days, my head narrowed to systems, matchups, first touch, next shift, keep moving.
Everything else just orbited until puck drop—food, texts, whatever room I was sleeping in that night.
Afterward was when the layers of the real world pressed back in, all hotel-room silence and leftover adrenaline with nowhere useful to go.
Phone again. Reid had written about a Sunday movie night earlier, less a question and more be there. Helicopter chase, apparently. An excuse to pause my nutrition plan and have some popcorn. Only, well. That was when I’d hoped to see Stellan.
“Text when you’re back.”
That’s what he’d told me, which meant Sunday. Not now, on a random Thursday from a hotel near Ottawa looking out over a golf club. I still unlocked the phone and tapped on his contact details. No thread of messages yet. I could start one. But what would I even say?
You up? Seemed like an opener to phone sex.
We lost. Pathetic.
You working Sunday? Too soon, and anyway, Reid would rip me a new one if I ditched him for what he called a highly stupid but somewhat understandable risk.
I confirmed the movie, then locked the screen and set the phone aside.
Fine. I’d text Stellan when I was back just like we’d said.
I’d wait as if I didn’t mind, as if I wasn’t sitting alone on a hotel bed with a loss still thudding behind my forehead, the feel and taste of Stellan’s mouth hot under my skin like a fever dream I couldn’t shake off.
Christ.
I got up for some water from the minibar, cold and still, and caught my reflection in the entrance mirror. Tired, hair recently trimmed, T-shirt hanging loose and shoulders still tense from the game.
Well, hi. This was me. Rinks, flights, hotels. Sponsor smiles and a body that belonged to the team calendar more than to me. Stellan didn’t fit into any of it—something that was mine alone in a life controlled by hockey since I was fifteen.
Maybe that was the exact reason he felt like relief.
You working today?
I’d sent it just before my flight took off, early enough it might have caught Stellan on his way to work. By the time I landed, he’d replied.
Yes, same as last week. Why?
I didn’t bother with a response, just dropped my suitcase at home before I went to catch him at the shop.
On the way over from where I’d parked, a guy in a Cascades hoodie stopped me for a quick selfie, all bright grin and “good game last night.” Two minutes, maybe.
Easy enough. Still meant that by the time I reached my destination, I already felt a little too visible.
The shop front glowed warm against the rainy day, mannequins wearing fall like they meant it—soft camel and auburn, a knitted scarf draped loose, a few fake maple leaves scattered across the floor.
I stood there for a second with my hands in my pockets. This was a line. Then again, he’d told me to come find him for a wardrobe upgrade.
I entered.
For a Sunday afternoon, the place didn’t seem too busy. I ducked my head all the same and went straight to a marble counter that promised answers. The guy behind it wore a slim black blazer and a retail smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” Normal, casual. I rolled back my shoulders. “Is Stellan free?”
A quick blink was the only sign the guy might have recognized me. “He should be,” he said. “He’s not in an appointment, just working the upper floor. Would you like me to get him for you?”
“Thanks, I’ll find my way.”
Didn’t take a genius, after all. I headed for a wide, gleaming staircase that took me upstairs. It felt quieter here, less foot traffic, the clothes less business and more sweaters and jackets, jeans, T-shirts. Mirrors expanded the space into infinity.
“Matt?” a voice asked behind me. I turned to find Simone crossing the floor in low heels, her silk scarf bright against a dark blouse, smile landing authentic. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
That made two of us.
“Yeah, no.” I shoved my hands into the pockets of a rain jacket that looked out of place here. “Stellan recommended some specific colors to try last time. Thought I’d follow up.”
“Oh, of course.” She nodded as if that all made sense. In her world, it probably did, while I was the kind of guy who wore black not as a statement but because it was easy to pair. “He’s just finishing up with someone. You want coffee, water?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Take a look around.” Her attention flicked over me—quick inventory, nothing invasive. “You shopping for anything specific?”
Stellan, apparently.
“Casual stuff,” I said. “Off-duty.”
“Great.” Another smile. “Stellan’s got an eye for that.”
Yeah, even when it was ten bucks at a thrift store, from what I’d gathered. Especially then.
“That’s the impression I got,” I said, and moved on while Simone went to help a man in his fifties who looked like he had opinions about Bordeaux. So did I, namely that it was something I was only allowed in the summer.
I kept walking until I found Stellan at the far end of the floor near a wall of casual layers, helping some guy in his thirties who looked like a programmer type with fleece as his comfort zone.
I stopped short of getting too close, pretended to consider a rack of jackets I absolutely did not need.
Last thing I wanted was to draw attention by looming like a creep.
Stellan stood half-turned, one hand on the sleeve of a dark overshirt he was holding up against the man’s shoulder, head tilted as he assessed the fit.
“No, see, this is the thing,” he said, voice energetic but relaxed. “You can absolutely do casual. We just want to avoid the athleisure vibe. Less couch-to-office, more comfortable-but-serious.”
The customer laughed. “Yeah, okay. That’s kind of what my comms guy said, just with a lot more swearing.”
Stellan smiled back, easy and quick, a little playful. “Well, here’s the good news: Your face can carry structure.”
Flirting? No. More like a compliment that wasn’t a lie, agile charm used with purpose.
It felt miles removed from the man who’d stood naked in my kitchen, quieter around the edges.
This version of him moved faster, smiled more, dropped words that landed like an irresistible hook and put people at ease.
Chicago. But evolved, something he carried with pride. And… fuck. I’d wanted his body all week. Watching him here made me want the rest of him, too.
Bad enough on its own. Worse with mirrors everywhere and a few shoppers drifting in and out of view, any of them capable of doing a double take because hey, don’t I know that face from all those posters?
Stellan handed the shirt over and reached for another option, glancing up just briefly—only to pause when he spotted me. Surprise, then warmth, almost instantly replaced with something cautious. He recovered before the guy could notice.
“Try this one as well,” he told the customer, angling in a way that made it less likely I’d be spotted. “Same shape, slightly richer tone. Less ‘I code in darkness’ and more ‘I’ve met the sun and I call him by his name.’”
“Perfect.” The guy laughed again and left for the fitting rooms.
Stellan waited until he’d disappeared, then walked toward me—unrushed, with a professional smoothness that suggested I was just another customer. His voice was a shade too low, though. “What are you doing here?”
I sent him a brilliant smile. “Shopping.”
His eyes narrowed. “What if someone sees you?”
“I do go out in public, you know.”
His face tightened—concern, not irritation, as if he worried I might give us up. Give myself up, more like. “I’m serious,” he said quietly. “I’m still pretty junior. Someone like you showing up for me could raise eyebrows.”
Good at secrets.
Of course he was. He’d uncovered mine, yeah, had triggered a controlled explosion of denial I’d built for years—but then he’d kept his mouth shut. No rumors. Not a single peep since Talia had walked out of my life.
“Your manager seemed to think it’s normal,” I said, and Stellan’s mouth tilted up into a lopsided curve.
“She also thinks that cashmere is a human right.”