Chapter 11
ELEVEN
MATT
Rolled T-shirts. Jeans. Hoodie for travel days. The green knit Stellan had helped me pick. Chargers in the outer zip.
This was muscle memory, just about—travel-size stuff, backup of anything that kept me functional. Before hockey had looked like sleek hotels and league money, it had been bus rides, cheap shared rooms, and learning not to forget what got me through the next morning.
Five away games. Twelve days of travel.
I rose from next to my open suitcase and paused just to take in the view—not downtown and the Space Needle, not Puget Sound and mountains. No—Stellan. Stretched out on my bed in a T-shirt that hung slightly loose on him because it was mine.
He was flipping through an issue of Men’s Health, dropping occasional comments like “Why do they say ‘functional strength’ when they mean ‘hot in a health-adjacent way’” and “This man has nothing on you, and I say that after checking my unconscious bias.”
It made packing more entertaining. It didn’t exactly make me want to leave.
Next to him, his phone had stopped lighting up with Naomi’s messages about two donor meetings later.
I rolled another pair of sweat-wicking underwear and tried not to notice how the tee had slipped enough to show the angle of one collarbone.
Success? Well, mixed. Just like with all the other things I’d been trying not to notice lately, like how easy it could be to get used to him at my kitchen island and asleep in my bed, to his toothbrush in my bathroom.
How easy it would be to build a habit out of it.
Nope. Couldn’t risk it.
“You’re staring,” Stellan said without even looking up from the pages.
I devoted attention to tucking a pair of sweats into the right compartment. “I’m not.”
“Liar.”
“That’s bold from a thief.”
“Thief?” He glanced up lazily, a smile dancing around his eyes, muted green in the weak afternoon light.
“That’s my T-shirt,” I said.
“You used mine to clean us up earlier.”
Fair. Which was how it had ended up in my laundry basket, and I’d likely find it folded in my closet when I returned. “Mine was a Thom Browne tee that you made me buy,” I said, careful to keep it playful, and he laughed.
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Did it ever.
I zipped a packing cube shut and glanced at the wall behind him.
It was still the same as when I’d first shown it to him some days ago, storm-blue, rust-red dragged under new layers.
Only now, under my skin, something itched to paint it over again.
Brighter this time, orange somewhere between the cracks. A cleaner red.
“What time are those donor meetings?” I asked.
“Three and four thirty.” He rolled onto his side and propped his head on one hand. “Not glamorous, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know you athlete types do charity balls with champagne and caviar.”
He wasn’t fully wrong. And yeah, maybe in my head, I’d seen him talking fast over white wine and soft piano music, charming the kind of people who liked to discuss impact while wearing shoes that cost a fortune. Stellan in the middle of it all, keeping the room warm.
I sat back on my heels to look at him. “So how does it actually work?”
His full attention swung to me. “Suit Up Wednesdays?”
“Yeah.”
He sat up against the headboard and tucked a knee close to his chest, legs bare below his boxer briefs.
“Max four kids a month right now. Any more than that and we stop being useful. We’d end up rushing them through, and that defeats the point.
” His fingers curled into the blanket. “They don’t just need clothes, you know?
They need time. Someone to say no, that shirt’s too big, yes, those shoes work with the pants, no, don’t slouch like that in an interview. ”
I could picture it—Stellan coaching the kids, warm humor and strong opinions. Naomi, though? Yeah, maybe. Different style, though. Brisk but with a core of genuine caring.
“You and Naomi split it?” I asked. “Girls and boys?”
“Sort of.” He shrugged. “I tend to do more of the boys, she does more of the girls and nonbinary, but it’s not hard lines. If there’s a kid who clicks better with one of us, that’s what we do. It’s not really about gender, much more about reading what they need.”
Yeah. That felt true to Stellan. To Naomi as well, in a way she’d absolutely refuse to admit.
I curled two belts and fit them next to my sneakers. “All foster kids?”
“For now.” His mouth tilted into something thoughtful.
“We’ve talked about broadening it to kids from low-income households.
A lot of the problems are the same. Wrong clothes, no money to fill the gaps, nobody teaching them how to walk into a room without looking like they expect to be turned away. ”
He said it lightly, like it wasn’t personal at all. I didn’t point it out. “What’s stopping you?” I asked instead.
“Money.” He ticked it off on his fingers. “Clothes. Time. Structure. We can do scrappy. In fact, we’re great at that. But scaling without turning it into bullshit? Harder.”
You’re a good person. You know that, right?
I swallowed the words. A quiet beat opened up as I thought about how the Cascades did the whole foundation circuit—youth programs, school visits, community nights, all the sponsor-friendly stuff that let rich people with good intentions fund things that actually mattered.
Suit Up Wednesdays would fit right into that: concrete, hands-on, easy to sell to a room full of donors.
I reached for a couple more T-shirts. “The team foundation does some youth employment stuff. Not exactly this, but same ballpark.” I kept my tone neutral. “Might be worth exploring. At some point.”
Stellan went briefly still. “That’s…” He stopped and started again. “That’d be huge, obviously. But I’m not trying to—” He broke off again, mouth thinning. “You know.”
Take advantage. Use me. Turn this into an opportunity.
“I know,” I told him, holding his gaze. “And I didn’t mean now. Just…” I let it hang for a second. “It fits. In theory.”
He studied me, expression still a little too careful. Then he nodded, smiling, as if we’d both agreed to leave it there. And that… was good. It was. I wasn’t ready for his world to visibly crash into mine. I just saw how it might fit. No more than that.
“For now,” Stellan said, tone easier again, “we’re still a tiny operation held together by spreadsheets, donated blazers, and Naomi talking to the right people at the right parties.”
“Sounds efficient.”
“It is, for the most part.” He paused. “So. Road trip, huh?”
I glanced up. “What about it?”
“Nothing. Just…” He lay back down, hands tucked behind his head, looking at home in a way I didn’t care to examine. “I’m picturing private planes, lobster dinners. Groupies hiding in the bathroom.”
“Not exactly.” I barked out a laugh. “Sorry to burst your fantasy, but flights are chartered, not a fancy private jet with walnut décor. Hotels are nice, yeah, but you’re still living out of a suitcase for almost two weeks, eating at weird times, trying to remember which sweater you packed and where. ”
He waved a hand at my suitcase. “Guess it helps being organized.”
“Yeah, well. I like knowing where my stuff is.”
A tiny smile played around his lips. “Which brings us back to how predictable is sexy.”
It hit differently now—an echo, yeah, only it had gained a whole new layer now that I knew how he’d grown up. I smiled back to mask the strange, heavy twist of my heart.
“Anyway,” I said. “By day six, everyone’s a little over it. By day ten, the guys with kids get especially twitchy.”
“How so?” Stellan asked.
I thought of Cole and their two-year-old, of Wes and the baby they’d just had.
“It’s the ones with little kids, mostly.
Their wives or girlfriends are very much not amused by then.
Sleep regression, daycare bugs, nanny trouble, some toddler refusing all food except peeled apple slices.
Whatever’s happening at home, they get an earful. ”
His mouth curved. “Seems only fair.”
“Mm-hmm. But trust me, nothing says road-warrior glamour like hearing a grown man mutter, ‘No, babe, you’re right. I really should have rinsed out the dinosaur lunchbox.’”
It got a real laugh from him, head tipping back into my pillows. “Okay, that’s not what I had in mind.”
“Live and learn. And as the captain, I’m the one who has to step in when the room starts getting snippy. So that’s fun.”
He watched me for a second too long, amusement fading into something quieter, more restrained. “I guess that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about—home life.”
His tone was casual, just a throwaway line that shouldn’t snag in my gut.
Because sure, yeah, he was right. No partner at home.
No kids, no lunchboxes. No woman waiting up wondering why I wasn’t texting her back, not anymore.
Just me, a suitcase, and a schedule Reid still liked to print for me even though I knew how phones worked.
Easy.
“Yeah,” I said, looking at the wall instead of Stellan. The itch to repaint flared under my skin. “Fewer reasons to hate the road.”
He didn’t immediately reply, silence stretching in a way that wasn’t bad, just a little thoughtful.
Twelve days. Stellan here without me, maybe out with Naomi, maybe at some club.
Maybe meeting a guy with nice arms and no complications who offered to buy him a drink.
Plenty would be willing. They’d be idiots not to because Stellan was impossible not to notice. Quick smile, pretty face, great body.
There was no reason for him to decline.
Absolutely no reason it should bother me.
I bent to close my suitcase, zipping it up a little harder than necessary. The mattress shifted as Stellan propped himself up on his elbows. “Hey. Matt. You okay?”
“Yeah.” I inhaled and shook my head. “Just don’t love road stretches. Everyone gets tired, you eat dinner at eleven in Columbus and breakfast at six in Winnipeg, and by the end of it, your body doesn’t know what’s what anymore.”