Chapter 8
EIGHT
MATT
My phone buzzed while I was peeling tape off my wrists, gear half off and the locker room loud around me with post-practice laughter, bitching, and an argument about the relative merits of protein shakes.
I angled my screen so no one could catch a glimpse before I checked the message. Stellan. Sorry, he’d written. Got to cancel.
That was fine. It happened. No reason for the harsh twist in my gut.
“Bad news?” Cole asked as he unlaced one skate, glancing over.
I slapped something close to normal on my face. “No, all good.”
“Very convincing,” he said dryly.
I ignored him and typed back. Everything all right?
Joseph, passing by naked with a towel around his neck, gave me a grin. “Cap can’t even make it to the shower before checking his phone? Whoever she is, she’s got you whipped.”
A couple of guys snorted. I huffed out a laugh that sounded normal enough and shoved my phone back into my bag.
“Fuck off,” I said, easy.
“Touchy,” Joseph sang.
I hit the shower before anyone could keep going. By the time I came back, Stellan still hadn’t replied.
Okay. Fine. It was.
Except he still hadn’t replied when I made it home, and that… could mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. Or it could mean exactly what I’d expected—eventually.
Fuck.
I was in the closet. Stellan was not. He’d grow tired of twisting himself into a shape that suited me, and yeah, I got it. I really fucking did. But… already? It didn’t make sense. Not with the way he’d looked at me after the game last night, warm and bright, almost surprised.
Just too soon.
I should let it go. Instead, I typed another text. What’s going on?
Still nothing an hour later, and fucking hell, I really, truly should let it go.
It wasn’t my place to insist. Only my stomach had gone oddly heavy, tight with something I couldn’t name.
This just… felt off. Wrong for him. Wrong for the guy who’d walked into my apartment and dropped to his knees as if it didn’t rearrange my world, who kissed me like time had lost all meaning, who took one long look at me and then found clothes that sat exactly right on my shoulders.
Not yet. Not like this.
I pulled up Reid’s name. What’s Stellan’s address?
Reid’s answer came almost instantly, and oh, look, my phone still worked. Good to know. What makes you think I have it?
The NDA you had him sign. Also, you wouldn’t have let him walk into my place otherwise.
This time, it took a couple of minutes. Wow, Reid wrote then, paired with a wide-eyed emoji. It’s almost like you know me. It was followed by an address in Capitol Hill.
Showing up on Stellan’s doorstep just because he’d gone quiet?
It wasn’t my style. It wasn’t smart either, especially not with the way I’d dragged him out into the open after the game just so I could see the look on his face.
Stupid. Absolutely idiotic. My life didn’t work like that, and especially not with him.
But also—fuck. The silence sat wrong in a way I couldn’t shake.
I downed a glass of water, grabbed my keys, and left.
I’d been to Stellan’s part of town once before, over the summer, after Reid had dropped an offhanded “Come have a drink with me.” He’d steered me here on purpose, parking his car like this was any other neighborhood, as if the rainbow crosswalks were artistic expressions rather than a statement.
I remembered it as packed patios, music leaking out onto the sidewalk, men casually holding hands.
Reid had picked a dim bar with good whiskey and no reason to look twice at us, then spent twenty minutes talking about a sponsor issue like this was normal.
Now, turning onto Stellan’s street on a sunny afternoon, I recognized the way it slanted uphill. The old brick, a couple of bars still readying themselves. It suited him—casually stylish, a little performative, and smarter than it strictly needed to be.
I straightened my shoulders before I pressed the buzzer to his apartment, then shifted in place, head ducked low under my baseball cap. A minute passed.
“Yeah?” a voice said from the tinny speaker—male, unfamiliar. Roommate? I didn’t remember Stellan mentioning that he lived with someone, but then, it hadn’t exactly come up.
“Is Stellan home?” I asked.
A pause. “Yeah. Who’s this?”
I hesitated, but what the hell. The guy would see me in just a moment. “Matt.” I glanced around to make sure no one was within immediate hearing range. “Harkins.”
Another pause, then a scoffing, “Sure, dude—whatever. Third floor.”
The door buzzed open, so I counted it as a win.
No elevator. I took the steps two at a time, blood thrumming in my fingertips, scuffed tiles under my feet.
Someone was frying garlic. When I made it to Stellan’s floor, a guy stood broad-shouldered and waiting—and, all right.
Seemed Stellan hadn’t mentioned me, because the guy’s whole face opened in awed recognition before he locked it down.
“You the reason he’s miserable?” he asked, eyes going narrow. They were the same shift of blue and green as Stellan’s, and there was a brother, wasn’t there? Younger.
Also, wait. Stellan was miserable?
The ugly weight lodged in my gut twisted sideways. I stopped a couple of steps away and shook my head. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”
Vague enough. Nothing that would count as a confession—no more, anyway, than the simple fact that I’d shown up unannounced as if I had a claim to Stellan’s life.
The guy studied me with the kind of attention that cut clean through to the bone, and that, too, felt familiar, as if maybe Stellan wasn’t the only one who’d learned to read a room at a young age.
Not a carbon copy, though. This guy was broader than Stellan, more physical, while Stellan was nimble wit and a presence built on charm more than big muscle.
“You better be right,” the guy said.
I moved a step toward him. “You’re the brother, I take it?”
“Ronan. Yes.” The tiniest spark of renewed awe before he got a grip on himself again. “And you’re Matt Harkins. Like, for real.”
Okay, so. Great. Protective brother, actual hockey fan, and me standing here on his doorstep like I’d come to claim something. Really fucking subtle.
But—miserable.
“Yeah. So can I just—” I jerked my chin at the apartment, not sure how to finish, and settled on, “Can I talk to Stellan for a moment? You said he’s home.”
“He is.” Another sharp glance, then Ronan finally stepped aside and held the door open for me. “Come on in. He’s in his room.”
I entered and took off my shoes. The place felt immediately crammed—slightly cluttered, mostly just small for two young guys with the usual amount of shoes and jackets, a Cascades scarf half-buried underneath.
I’d grown up cramped, too, but there’d been steadiness underneath, my mom’s voice in the kitchen and my dad’s boots by the door.
This felt different, less grounded and more like something built out of stubborn determination.
Ronan shut the door and pointed down a short hall. “First door on the left.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah. For the record, if he tells you to get out, you get out.” He gave me a hard look that promised physical retribution if necessary, which, well.
I could take him. Hell, my whole career was built on taking on guys like him, and I was pretty sure he knew it, too. But that wasn’t the point at all.
“Noted,” I said.
His expression spelled doubt, but he let me pass.
Stellan’s bedroom door was closed. I knocked, and something inside shifted, followed by a grumble I couldn’t make out. Permission, I gathered, or at least something close enough to count. I pushed the door open and entered.
A small room with sunlight slanting in at a steep angle, mostly blocked by a neighboring building that crowded close outside. Tidier than I’d expected, decked out in an eclectic mix of colors: orange blanket, navy curtains, yellow walls. A stark contrast to my restrained, slightly impersonal space.
It felt like Stellan.
Who was reading on the bed, propped against the wall with one knee bent. Surprise flashed in his eyes and quickly settled into something much more remote and a little tired, frayed around the edges.
“You the reason he’s miserable?”
No, I didn’t think I was. But it seemed my presence wasn’t necessarily helping. I closed the door behind me and stopped right there, then realized it could look like I was blocking his escape route. Christ. I shifted a step to the side and leaned a shoulder against the wall instead.
Silence stretched, brittle like old rubber. He stared at me for a beat, then back down at his book. A half-angled glimpse of the cover showed blocks of red, blue, and yellow, some pretentious design title on the front.
I squinted. “You’re reading about color theory in your spare time?”
His lips thinned into a flat line. “It’s interesting.”
Right. My bedroom wall would agree. Just… what the hell, though? He’d canceled on me to read about colors? Calm face, a little distant, as if he was already halfway to somewhere else. Thanks, that was fun.
My breath wouldn’t fit quite right into my lungs.
“Right,” I said, slightly flat. “Must be. More interesting than seeing me, anyway.”
It came out tight and mean, just a little hurt.
I hated it, hated that I hadn’t been able to filter myself in time.
I knew this couldn’t last, right? I wasn’t an idiot.
Yeah, I had a nice body, sure. It came with the territory.
But over time, that kind of appeal would fade, crowded out by my reality.
I just hadn’t expected the appeal to fade this soon.
Stellan cleared his throat and looked away, down at his book. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you,” I said, as if I had the right.
He blew out a harsh breath. “I’m not a wayward toddler.”
“No.” I paused. “But looks like you’ve got the communication skills of one.”
Brief annoyance sat hard around his eyes, then faded into something softer, almost sad. He shut it down so fast I might have imagined it. “Whatever,” he said, which, case in point.
Only it felt off.