Everything Me

The first drink had been harmless, a casual glass of wine with dinner after a long, miserable week that had left you feeling wrung out and restless. By the second drink, you’d convinced yourself you deserved a little fun, and by the third, the dull ache sitting beneath your ribs had softened into something warm and floaty, and suddenly sitting alone in your apartment sounded unbearable.

So you’d texted a friend, thrown on the tiny silver top you always swore you only wore for yourself, and stumbled your way into a crowded bar downtown where the music was loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t loud enough to drown out him. Mat Barzal had always had terrible timing, or maybe perfect timing, depending on how honest you wanted to be with yourself; every time you thought you were finally getting over him, something would drag him back into your head. A hoodie left at the bottom of your closet, a hockey clip showing up on your feed, someone wearing his cologne in passing.

It didn’t help that what existed between the two of you had never ended cleanly, there hadn’t been some dramatic breakup or screaming match; just two people pretending casual was easy until one of you cared too much and the other cared in ways he didn’t know how to admit.

Friends with benefits was supposed to mean boundaries. It was supposed to mean late-night hookups and easy goodbyes, not tangled feelings and jealous silences. But somewhere between sneaking into his apartment after Islanders games and falling asleep against his chest while reruns played quietly in the background, things had blurred.

You’d started memorizing the sound of his laugh, he’d started texting you for reasons that had nothing to do with sex. And then, like cowards, both of you had backed away before either of you could say what you actually wanted.

Now you were sitting at the bar with glossy lips wrapped around the straw of your fourth drink, staring at his contact photo on your phone like it had personally offended you.

“You are not calling him,” your friend said immediately, noticing the expression on your face, you looked up innocently. “Who?”

“Mat.” She replies immediately, looking at you with an incredulous expression. “I wasn’t even thinking about Mat.” You mumble.

“You’ve been thinking about Mat for twenty straight minutes.” She sighs, cocking an eyebrow at your frown.

“That’s an unlawful accusation.” You shake your head, looking at her pointedly, “It’s literally his contact open on your screen.” She counters immediately.

You glanced down. “Oh.”

Your friend groaned and reached for your phone, but you twisted away with a laugh, nearly knocking your drink over in the process. The alcohol buzzing through your system had turned every thought in your head into a brilliant idea, and right now the most brilliant idea of all felt painfully obvious; you missed him.

Not in the heartbreaking, crying on the floor way you had a month ago, tonight it felt softer than that. You felt lonely. The kind of loneliness that only appeared after midnight when the lights were dim and you wanted someone familiar to look at you like you were worth ruining your sleep schedule over.

You pressed call before you could think better of it, your friend made a horrified noise beside you. “Oh my god, hang up!”

Too late, the phone rang once, barely even twice, then his voice slid through the speaker, low and rough and devastatingly familiar. “Hello?”

Your stomach flipped so hard it almost sobered you up. For a second you forgot why calling him had seemed like such a good idea. All you could picture was him leaning back against his couch, the one you were too familiar with, sweatpants low on his hips, one hand rubbing tiredly over his jaw.

You remembered exactly how warm his apartment felt at night, remembered the lazy smirk he always wore when he opened the door for you like he already knew you’d end up tangled in his sheets before the night was over. “You answered,” you blurted.

A beat of silence passed before he laughed softly. “You sound surprised.”

“I honestly didn’t think you would.” He chuckles, and you can practically see him shaking his head, “You called me three times.”

You frowned at your phone screen. “Did I?”

“Yeah, baby. Back-to-back.” The nickname hit you straight in the chest, you swallowed hard and leaned your elbows onto the sticky bar counter, pressing your fingers against your forehead as the room tilted pleasantly around you. “Okay, well, in my defense, this is a very important phone call.”

“Oh, it is?” You nodded seriously even though he couldn’t see you. “Critical, actually.”

He laughed again, quieter this time, and the sound settled somewhere deep beneath your skin. God, you hated how easy it still was with him. Weeks without speaking and he could still pull a smile out of you within seconds,“You drunk?” he asked knowingly. You scoff, “No.”

“You’re slurring.” He follows, you can hear his smile as he talks. “I’m talking like this on purpose, it's a bit."

“A bit,” he repeated. You hum, “Yes. There’s nuance."

You heard movement on the other end of the line, like he was sitting up straighter now, suddenly paying closer attention. The noise of the bar faded around you while his breathing filled your ear, warm and familiar enough to make your chest ache. "Where are you?” he asked.

“At a bar.” You say, cupping your hand to the speaker of your phone as the song changes to something a bit louder. He huffs, “I can hear that, with who?”

You look around, like you forgot,“Friends.”

“You safe?” The question softened you immediately. It always did. No matter how casual things had been between you, Mat had always cared in quiet ways that snuck up on you. His hand on your lower back while crossing streets. Texts asking if you got home okay. Pulling your drunk body against his side in crowded rooms without even thinking about it.

“Mhm,” you murmured. “Very safe. Very hydrated too.” You nod again, still talking like he could see you.

“You’re holding a margarita, aren’t you?” He hums. You blinked down at the drink in your hand. “That’s actually terrifying.”

“I know you.” The words settled heavily between you. Your friend was openly eavesdropping now, mouthing don’t do it across the table while you ignored her completely. You twisted the straw between your fingers. “Are you in town?” You ask.

“Yeah.” Something warm curled low in your stomach at the answer, “Busy?”

A pause, “No.” Your heartbeat stumbled, you could practically hear the smirk forming on his face now, and you hated yourself a little for loving it so much.

“What’s this really about?” he asked softly.

You stared out at the crowd dancing beneath flashing lights, at strangers pressed together under neon signs and spilled liquor and music that rattled the floor. Everyone looked like they belonged somewhere tonight, everyone except you.

And maybe that was why you called him.

Because for all the ways things between you had gotten messy, Mat had always known exactly what to do with you. He knew how you took your coffee and how you looked when you were pretending not to be upset. He knew you got clingy when you drank tequila and quiet when you were sad. He knew how to make you laugh when you wanted to cry.

Most dangerously of all, he knew exactly how to touch you. “I don’t know,” you admitted honestly. “I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The line went quiet; not uncomfortable quiet, heavy quiet, the kind loaded with too many things left unsaid. “You miss me that much?” he asked eventually, his voice lower now.

You laughed weakly and tipped your head back. “That’s the embarrassing part, isn’t it?” You lift your glass to your lips again, like the alcohol is the only the reason you could be talking to him. “Could be worse.” He says.

“How?” Your eyebrows furrow, completely lost.

“You could be at my apartment already.” Heat rushed across your cheeks instantly. “Mat,” you breathed, half warning and half something else entirely.

“What?” he asked innocently. “You’re the one who called me.”

You bit your lip hard enough to hurt. This was exactly why staying away from him had been impossible. One conversation and suddenly every memory came rushing back at once; his hands gripping your waist in dark kitchens, lazy mornings spent wrapped in his sheets, the way he always looked at you like he knew something nobody else did. “I’m serious,” you said quietly. “I had a bad week.”

His teasing faded immediately, “What happened?”

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see it. “Just life. Everything feels annoying lately.”

“Mm.” You can hear him shifting on the other end, you bite your lip slightly, just wishing you were there.

“And I know this sounds terrible,” you continued, words loosening further with every sip of alcohol still lingering on your tongue, “but sometimes I think maybe being in your bed would fix at least forty percent of my problems.” A choked laugh escaped him. “Forty percent?”

“Minimum.” You add.

“You think very highly of me.” He laughs, letting out a slight huff. You shake your head,“I think very highly of your mattress.”

“Ouch, that’s cold.”

“You know what isn’t cold?” you asked, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Your apartment.” Smiling when you get the reaction you wanted; his laugh. “You are so drunk.”

"Yeah.” Another pause settled between you, warmer this time. You could hear traffic faintly in the background on his end, could picture him rubbing a hand over his mouth while trying not to smile. Then he sighed softly. “You want me to come get you?”

The offer wrapped around you like heat, your friend’s eyes widened from across the table as if she could somehow sense the shift in the conversation. You should’ve said no, every rational thought in your head knew this was a terrible idea, nothing good ever came from revisiting almost relationships after midnight, especially not when tequila and unresolved feelings were involved.

But then you imagined him walking into the bar in a hoodie and backwards cap, imagined his hand sliding around your waist while he leaned close enough for you to smell his cologne again. You imagined ending the night laughing against his shoulder in the backseat of a car, imagined the familiar warmth of his apartment, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin while neither of you acknowledged how impossible it was to quit each other. You were tired of pretending you didn’t want him.

This would be a small and easily managed fact about a person if Mat knew it. If Mat had received the information at some point in his life that his voice, while pleasant in conversation, in laughter, in the low register he uses when he's half-asleep and saying something only technically coherent — that voice does not translate to music. If someone had told him at any point in the past that when he sings, the note he aims for and the note he hits are rarely in the same zip code. If any person who loved him had sat him down and said: Mat. Buddy. No.

No one had. And so here you are.

"I'm not doing karaoke," you say, from the backseat of the cab.

"You literally already agreed," Mat says. He is looking out the window with the satisfied expression of someone who has won something.

"I agreed to come to karaoke. I didn't agree to do karaoke."

"Those are the same thing."

"They are genuinely not."

He turns from the window and looks at you with the specific expression he reserves for moments when he finds you unreasonable, which is an expression you find unreasonable. "Who goes to karaoke and doesn't do karaoke?"

"People who like their dignity."

"You have so much dignity. You can afford to spend some."

The cab stops. He's already out of the door, holding it open for you with entirely too much cheerfulness for eleven o'clock on a Thursday.

The bar is the good kind of karaoke bar, which means it has private rooms rather than a stage. You've been to the stage kind once and the memory still finds you at inconvenient moments. The private room kind is survivable. There's a couch, a coffee table with a laminated song binder that is somehow both enormous and sticky, two microphones, a screen, and a monitor that will show you the lyrics in a font that suggests the nineties never really ended.

Bo and his wife are already there, settled into the couch like they've been there long enough to get comfortable, which knowing Bo probably means they arrived fifteen minutes early. Anders is beside them with his arm stretched along the back of the couch, talking to Schaefer, who at twenty years old has the specific energy of someone who showed up ready to take karaoke more seriously than anyone else in the room and is trying not to let it show.

Mat drops into the space beside you with his arm immediately behind your shoulders, the motion so automatic it probably doesn't register to him as a decision. He reaches across you for the song binder before you've even fully sat down.

"I'm going first," he announces.

"You don't have to do that," Bo says, which is a kind thing to say and also technically a warning.

"I want to set the tone," Mat says, already flipping pages with the focused energy of a man who has a vision.

Bo's wife looks at you. You give her a small, helpless shrug. You have been in this relationship long enough to know that there is no intervention available at this stage. Mat has the binder. The tone is going to be set.

He picks a Celine Dion song.

You know the moment you see it on the screen, the specific tightening in your chest that is half-affection and half the anticipatory secondhand embarrassment of someone who loves a person very much and is about to watch them do something irreversible.

"Mat," you say.

"I've got this," he says. He says it the way he says everything — with total, unearned, completely sincere conviction.

"That's a big song."

"Big songs are better," he says. He adjusts the microphone.

Schaefer leans over to you. "Has he done this before?"

"God, no," you say.

Mat does not have it.

What he has instead is something that exists in confident parallel to the song — a version of it that lives entirely in his own head, melodically independent from the recording, delivered with the full physical commitment of someone who has never once doubted themselves in this or any other arena. He holds the microphone with both hands. He closes his eyes on the big moments. He points at you during the chorus with an expression of pure, earnest sincerity.

Bo's face is a controlled catastrophe.

Anders has turned to look at the wall, which you initially think is polite and then you realize his shoulders are shaking.

Schaef is completely still in the way of someone who has decided that stillness is the only safe option.

Mat finishes. He drops the microphone to his side. He looks around the room with the expression of a man waiting to receive what is rightfully his.

The room gives him what the room has, which is a complicated mixture of genuine warmth and barely-contained structural collapse.

"That's what I'm talking about," Mat says, satisfied. He sits back down beside you and puts his hand on your knee. "Your turn."

"Hard pass."

"You said maybe in the cab."

"I have reconsidered."

"Come on," he says. He nudges you with his shoulder, easy and familiar. "One song. Just one."

The thing is, you can sing.

This isn't something you lead with. It's not something you perform or announce. You grew up doing it, choir and then lessons and then just the accumulated years of loving music in a private, unhurried way, and it lives in you the way things do when you've had them long enough that they stop feeling like skills and start feeling like just part of how you're built.

Mat knows you can hold a tune. He's heard you humming in the kitchen, singing along low and absentminded to things playing in the car. He has never heard you actually sing, really sing, with intention and volume and the full weight of a song behind you.

You pick something you know completely. Something that fits your voice the way good shoes fit — without effort, without thinking about it. You put the number in and pick up the microphone and don't look at anyone while the intro plays.

When you start, you feel the room change before you see it.

It's subtle at first. The specific quality of silence that means people have stopped their side conversations. Then you hear it — the absence of everything else. No rustling, no ice clinking in glasses, no Schaefer scrolling through his phone. Just the song and your voice and the room holding very still around it.

You don't look at Mat until the second verse.

His face stops you for just a second, almost imperceptibly, before you find your place in the lyric again. Because Mat, who has never in your memory looked genuinely speechless, looks genuinely speechless. He's leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and he's watching you with an expression you don't have a clean word for. Something between stunned and undone. Something that has nowhere else to be.

You finish the song.

Bo says something loud and appreciative. Anders whistles. Schaefer starts clapping with an enthusiasm that confirms he had been taking this very seriously all along and simply waiting for an appropriate outlet.

Mat doesn't say anything immediately.

You set the microphone down and look at him. "Okay?"

"You—" He stops.

"Mat."

"You can sing," he says. Like this is new information that requires complete reprocessing. Like you have handed him a document that changes the meaning of several prior documents.

"I told you I could."

"You said you could hold a tune," he says. "That is not holding a tune. That is—" He gestures at the space where you were just standing, apparently at a loss for what it is.

"It was one song."

"Do another one," he says immediately.

"No."

"Please."

"Mat—"

"That was genuinely—" He shakes his head. He looks at Bo. "Did you know she could do that?"

"I had an idea," Bo says diplomatically, with the expression of a man who has learned to be careful around Mat's enthusiasm.

"How did I not know she could do that," Mat says, to no one in particular, which is a question with a clear answer — that you have been the quiet keeper of this specific thing for the entire length of your relationship — but he seems to be asking it of the universe rather than of you.

You sit back down beside him. He looks at you like you have done something remarkable, which is a look that would be easier to receive if it didn't make your chest do what it's currently doing.

"Sing another one," he says, softer this time, less demand and more genuine wanting.

"Later," you say.

He accepts this in the way he accepts most of your terms, which is to say immediately and without negotiation, and puts his arm back around your shoulders, and you feel him watching you slightly differently for the rest of the night, like something has been rearranged in his understanding of you and he's quietly delighted by the rearrangement.

At some point around the third round of drinks, Mat's relationship with the music binder becomes less strategic and more impressionistic.

He does a Bon Jovi song that is genuinely no better than the Celine and approximately three times as committed, complete with a moment where he turns his back to the room and then spins around on the final chorus with an expression that can only be described as dramatic. Anders, who has been steadily undermining his own composure all evening, fully loses it. Matthew buries his face in his hands with the exhausted fondness of someone much older than twenty.

Between songs, Mat is loose and warm beside you, his weight comfortable against your side, laughing easily at things, telling a story about practice that is probably funnier to him than it actually is but becomes funnier because of how funny he finds it. He's had enough that the careful architecture of public-Mat has gone soft at the edges. The version of him that is unguarded, unpolished, operating entirely on genuine feeling.

You've always preferred this version. It is your favorite thing that most people don't get to see.

You sing one more song, late in the evening, partly because Mat has been asking with the patient persistence of someone who is drunk enough to have lost track of how many times he's asked. You pick something slower this time, and the room does the same thing it did before — settles, attends, holds still.

This time you watch Mat the whole way through.

He has both hands around his glass. He's watching you with an expression that is open in a way that would probably embarrass him tomorrow, undefended and completely concentrated, like there is nothing else in the room worth looking at. Like he is doing the specific math of loving someone and repeatedly arriving at the same answer.

When you finish, he says nothing for a moment.

Then, simply: "God, I love you."

"You're drunk," you say.

"Both things are true," he says.

By midnight, Mat is adorably, comprehensively useless.

Not sloppy — he's not that kind of drunk, never has been. He's the other kind. The warm, slow, sincere kind where everything is a little funnier than it is and the world is a soft and wonderful place and he wants to tell you about it at length. He's steady on his feet, mostly. He just requires slight steering.

You say goodnight to Bo and his wife, to Anders, to Schaefer, who shakes your hand with great seriousness and tells you that your voice was genuinely exceptional, which makes you like him a lot. Mat attempts to have an extended goodbye conversation with everyone individually and you gently navigate him toward the door across two or three minutes.

Outside, the air is cold and clear, the city doing its nighttime thing around you, and Mat puts his arm around your shoulders and tips his face up toward the sky for a moment like he's checking on it.

"Good night," he says, approvingly, to the sky.

"Great night," you agree. You steer him toward the curb and pull out your phone for a cab.

"You were so good," he says. He says it the way he's said it three times since you finished your second song. Each time with the same fresh sincerity, like it hasn't occurred to him that he's said it before.

"You were very committed," you offer.

"I was," he agrees, without irony. "I fully committed." He considers this. "You were better though."

"High bar you set."

"Very high," he says seriously. "You cleared it."

The cab arrives. You get him in with minimal incident.

In the cab he holds your hand with both of his and looks at your profile while you watch the city go by, and you can feel it without looking — the particular quality of his attention, the way he's watching you right now versus the way he watches you ordinarily.

"I didn't know that about you," he says.

"You knew I could sing."

"Not like that." His thumb moves across your knuckles. "Not like it was just — part of you. Like you weren't thinking about it." He pauses, searching for the sentence. "Like it was just how you talk."

You turn to look at him. His face in the moving light from the windows is open and honest and slightly glassy in the specific way of someone who means every word they're saying and is additionally too far gone to consider not saying it.

"You're full of things like that," he says. "Things I find out and they just — fit. Like I should've known and somehow it still surprises me."

"What kinds of things," you say, because you want to hear him say it, because he doesn't often talk like this and when he does you want to keep it.

"The way you read the end of books first," he says immediately, like the list has been queued. "The way you know the names of all the plants but pretend you don't care about them. The way you laugh at things before they're funny because you see where they're going." He thinks. "The way you sang tonight like no one was watching even though everyone was watching."

"You were watching," you say.

"I'm always watching," he says simply. "That's not new information."

The cab stops. You pay, because Mat is currently operating below the threshold required for financial transactions. You get him out of the cab with his arm slung across your shoulders and walk him into the building, into the elevator, down the hall, him cooperative and warm and occasionally commentating on things.

"Cold floor," he observes, shoes off in the doorway.

"Come on," you say.

"Our apartment smells nice."

"Mat."

"It always smells nice. I don't know why I don't say that more." He looks around the hallway with the appreciative expression of someone encountering it for the first time. "We should talk about that."

"Tomorrow," you say. "Come on."

You get him to the bedroom. You get him to sit on the edge of the bed. You pull off his jacket while he watches you do it with the expression he's been wearing since the karaoke bar, attentive and unhurried and soft around the edges.

"You didn't want to go tonight," he says.

"I went."

"You always go," he says. "Even when you don't want to." He says it without accusation, just as an observation, something he's noticed and is only now saying out loud. "I like that about you. That you go anyway."

"I like going," you say. "I just like complaining about it first."

He smiles, slow and warm. "I know," he says. "I know that."

You go to get water from the kitchen and when you come back he's lying down, shoes off, shirt gone, staring at the ceiling with the peaceful expression of a man whose thoughts have slowed to a very manageable pace.

He takes the water and drinks most of it and sets it on the nightstand with the careful precision of someone who knows they need to be precise right now. You change and climb in beside him. He rolls toward you immediately, arm coming around you, forehead dropping to your hair.

"Schaefs said you were exceptional," he says, into the top of your head.

"Matthew was very serious about the whole thing."

"He's right though." His arm tightens slightly. "You were exceptional." A pause. "You're exceptional at a lot of things."

"Go to sleep, Mat."

"I'm just saying."

"I know you are."

"I think about it sometimes," he says, quieter now, voice going slow at the edges the way it does when he's almost there. "How you just — have all these things in you. And I get to know about them."

You close your eyes.

"Like the singing," he continues, mostly to himself now. "Like tonight I found out my girlfriend sings like—" He stops, searching. "Like something. I don't have the word."

"You don't need the word."

"I'll find it tomorrow," he says agreeably. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

The apartment settles around you. Outside, the city does its quiet late-night version of itself, smaller and further away than it was an hour ago.

"Marry me someday," he murmurs. Not a question exactly. More like a thought he forgot to keep inside, something that has been sitting in him long enough that in this state it simply surfaces, easy and inevitable as anything.

You open your eyes in the dark.

"Ask me when you're sober," you say.

"I'll ask you every day until you say yes," he says. He says it with his eyes already closed, voice soft and trailing toward sleep, like it is the most reasonable plan he's ever made, like there is no version of the future he's considered where this isn't exactly what happens. "Don't think that's not the plan."

You lie there and listen to his breathing slow into something even and deep, his arm heavy and warm across you, the space between you shaped like both of you and no one else.

The plan, you think. Of course he has a plan.

The first time Mat Barzal slept over at the Martins’ house was not romantic.

There was no carefully planned invitation, no long dinner that ran late, no awkward excuse not to drive back. There were no candles, no confessions under the soft glow of a bedroom light, no perfect scene where they both pretended they didn’t want it to happen.

It was after a game.

And it was because of a concussion.

Maddison could still hear the hit.

Not literally, because from where she was sitting in the family section, the sound had gotten lost in the murmur of the arena, the scrape of skates against the ice, and the collective reaction of the crowd. But she had felt it. She had felt it in her stomach, in the way her whole body tensed before she could even understand what had happened.

Mat had taken the contact near the boards. It wasn’t the most brutal hit Maddison had ever seen in her life, nor the dirtiest, nor the kind that made everyone immediately rise from their seats. But something in the way he fell, in the way it took him one second too long to get back up, made her blood run cold.

Sydney, sitting beside her, noticed right away. “Mads,” she said quietly.

Maddison didn’t answer, her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ice.

Mat got up, that should have calmed her, It didn’t.

Because he stood with that strange expression, too still, as if he were trying to convince his own body that everything was fine. A trainer came over. Mat nodded at something. Then he went to the bench and, shortly after, disappeared down the tunnel.

Maddison stopped hearing the game.

For the next few minutes, everything happened as if she were behind glass. People applauded. Someone yelled. The players changed. Matt was still on the ice. The puck moved back and forth.

But Mat did not return, Maddison took out her phone with cold hands, she had no messages, Sydney rested a hand on her arm. “He’ll be with the doctors.”

“I know.”

“That’s good.”

“I know" But her voice came out tense, sharp, small. Sydney didn’t push.

By the end of the game, Maddison couldn’t clearly remember the score. She knew the Islanders had won, because the arena had that sound of relief and celebration that came after a home victory. But to her, the night didn’t feel like a win.

She waited in the family area with Sydney, still, too still, Matt came out of the locker room first, and one look at his face confirmed everything.

He didn’t look relaxed, he didn’t have that tired smile after a win, he looked serious, his hair damp, his suit only half put together, his jaw tight.

Maddison stepped toward him. “Where’s Mat?”

Matt exhaled through his nose. “With the doctor.”

“What did they say?”

“Mads—”

“Matthew.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if he had known he wasn’t going to get away with a half-answer “Probable concussion. They’re doing the evaluation. He’s not driving tonight.”

The sentence landed in her chest like ice, Sydney stepped closer too. “Is he conscious? Is he talking?”

“Yes,” Matt said quickly, looking at Maddison. “He’s conscious. He’s talking. He’s annoyed they pulled him from the game, which probably means he’s still Barzy.”

Maddison didn’t smile. “Does he have anyone staying with him?”

Matt hesitated, and that hesitation was enough. “No,” Maddison said.

“Mads—”

“No.”

Matt ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to say the team can figure something out.”

“Something out like what? Leave him in his apartment and have someone call? No.”

“Maddison.”

“He can’t stay alone.”

“I know.”

“Then bring him home.”

Matt looked at her, Sydney said nothing, but Maddison could feel she was on her side, Matt lowered his voice “I am not bringing Barzy to our house so he can sleep with you.”

Maddison opened her mouth, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t start.”

“He has a concussion and that’s what you’re thinking about?”

Matt tensed. “I’m not thinking about that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m thinking about the fact that you’re my sister.”

“And I’m thinking about the fact that Mat needs someone to wake him up during the night, check if he gets worse, pay attention if he gets dizzy or throws up or stops responding properly. I’m thinking about protocol, Matt. You should be thinking about the same thing.”

Matt went quiet, the hardness in Maddison’s face wasn’t anger, it was fear, That was what disarmed him.

Because Maddison could be intense, dramatic, sarcastic, stubborn. But in that moment, she was none of those things. Just raw fear, hidden behind a voice that was trying too hard to stay steady.

Sydney spoke calmly. “We can set alarms. You’ll be there too. I’ll be there too. He won’t be alone.”

Matt looked at Sydney, then at Maddison, Then toward the hallway leading back to the locker room. “Fine,” he said finally.

Maddison let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding “Thank you.”

Matt pointed a finger at her, still serious. “But under my rules.”

Maddison almost laughed, but couldn’t. “Fine.”

“Door stays open.”

“Fine.”

“I sleep nearby.”

“Fine.”

“And if the doctor says he needs to go to the hospital, he goes to the hospital.”

“Obviously.”

Matt looked at her for a few more seconds, then he nodded and went back toward the locker room, Maddison stayed there with Sydney, feeling her legs shake just slightly.

Sydney wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Breathe.”

Maddison swallowed. “I am breathing.”

“Not well.”

“I’m trying not to go in there and start demanding information like a crazy person.”

Sydney hugged her against her side. “I know.”

Almost twenty minutes passed before Mat appeared and Maddison, who had tried to prepare herself, was not prepared.

He came out with Matt at his side and a staff member behind him. He was wearing his suit, but his tie was loose and his coat was slung over his arm. He was walking on his own, but more slowly. His eyes looked tired, his face pale, and he had that annoyed expression of someone who hated being watched.

When he saw Maddison, he tried to smil, it was a small smile, too weak for him, that broke something in her.

“Hey,” Mat said.

Maddison stepped toward him immediately, but stopped herself before touching him, as if she didn’t know what she was allowed to do. “Hi.”

Mat looked at her gently, noticing everything she was trying to hide “I’m fine.”

Maddison let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That sentence just made me worry more.”

Matt stepped in. “The doctor said he shouldn’t be alone tonight. There are clear instructions. He needs to be woken up at intervals and monitored for symptoms.”

Mat looked at Matt. “Marty, you’re saying it like I’m dying.”

“I’m saying it like you got pulled by protocol and can’t drive.”

“I’m fine.”

Maddison looked at him. “Mat.”

He closed his mouth, because when she said his name like that, with no teasing and no irony, he knew there was no room to argue.

Sydney stepped closer with a soft smile. “Let’s go home. You can complain in the car.”

Mat looked at her, a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to be a problem.”

Maddison answered before anyone else. “You’re not a problem.”

He looked at her. “I didn’t want to ruin the night.”

“The night?” Maddison blinked, incredulous. “Mat, you hit your head.”

“I know, but—”

“No.”Her voice came out firmer, Mat went still, “Don’t do that,” she said, quieter. “Don’t minimize this just so the rest of us can feel comfortable.”

There was a short silence, Matt looked at his sister with something close to pride, though he would never say it out loud.

Mat lowered his gaze. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

The drive back to Long Island was strange.

Matt drove, Sydney sat in the front, and Maddison sat in back with Mat, though Matt had hesitated for exactly three seconds before allowing it. Mat was by the window, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed but not asleep. Maddison kept her hands clasped in her lap, fighting the urge to ask him every two minutes if he was okay.

Sydney twisted slightly in her front seat.“Nausea?”

Mat shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Dizziness?”

“A little, but manageable.”

Maddison tensed, Mat opened one eye and looked at her “Maddie.”

“What?”

“Don’t make that face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“Yes, you are. It’s your ‘I’m about to sue someone’ face.”

Matt muttered from the driver’s seat “That face exists.”

Maddison ignored him “Does your head hurt a lot?”

“A little.”

“How much is a little?”

Mat sighed “Maddison.”

“No, seriously. One to ten.” He looked at her for a few seconds. “Four. Matt spoke immediately, “You sure?" Mat closed his eyes again. “Five.”

Maddison leaned toward him. “Mat.”

“Five and a half, but only because everybody is interrogating me.”

Sydney shot Matt a look. “Let him breathe.”

“I’m driving,” Matt said.

“You’re interrogating through the rearview mirror.” Despite her fear, Maddison almost smiled.

Mat did too.

When they got to the house, everything moved with quiet efficiency. Sydney went straight to the kitchen for water. Matt carried Mat’s bag and checked the instructions they had been given. Maddison ran upstairs quickly to clear off the bed.

She didn’t think about the fact that Mat Barzal was going to sleep there, not at first, she only thought about moving the books off the comforter, straightening the desk, transferring her Riverdale notes to a chair, pulling out an extra blanket, leaving a bottle of water on the nightstand, and finding a more comfortable pillow.

But when she stopped in the middle of the room, hands resting on the blanket, the reality hit all at once, Mat was going to sleep in her bed, in her room, under the same roof as her.

With a concussion.

The combination was so absurd she almost felt like laughing and crying at the same time, her room, which was usually her little refuge, suddenly felt too personal. There were photos on the walls. Underlined books. A NYU hoodie hanging over the chair, even though she hadn’t officially started yet. A pair of sneakers by the closet. The book Mat had given her for her birthday on the nightstand.

Just Mercy.

Maddison picked it up and moved it to the desk, as if that could somehow make the room feel less vulnerable.

Sydney appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea and a careful expression, “You okay?”

Maddison nodded too fast “Yeah.”

Sydney walked in and set the cup on the desk. “Matt’s downstairs pretending he isn’t worried about Mat and you at the same time.”

“He must be having a terrible time.”

“Very.”

Maddison smoothed the blanket for the third time, “Do you think it’s okay that he sleeps here?”

Sydney looked at her gently, “It’s the most comfortable, quiet room. And you’re going to be watching him.”

“Matt thinks…”

“Maddison.” Sydney cut in kindly. “Tonight is not about that. And Mat is not going to turn it into that either.”

Maddison lowered her eyes. “I know.”

“Then there you go.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m scared.”

Sydney stepped closer and took her hand. “I know.”

“I didn’t like seeing him come out like that.”

“Nobody did.”

“But when I saw him…” Maddison swallowed. “He looked so pale. Sydney squeezed her fingers. “He’s here. He’s conscious. He has instructions. We’re going to take care of him.”

Maddison nodded, though the knot in her throat didn’t fully go away.

Downstairs, Matt helped Mat up the stairs even though Mat insisted three times that he could do it himself. “Marty, I’m walking, I’m not broken.”

“Shut up and go up slowly.”

“What hospitality.”

“I’m two seconds away from putting you in the guest room with the hard mattress.”

“Matt,” Maddison called from upstairs, stepping out into the hallway, both of them looked up at her, she crossed her arms. “Don’t threaten him with the hard mattress when he has a concussion.”

Mat lifted a hand toward her. “Thank you.”

Matt pointed at her. “Don’t take his side.”

Mat put a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

“Yes,” Maddison said seriously. “That’s why we’re here.” The humor faded a little, Mat lowered his gaze, like he had remembered everyone was worried about him. “Sorry.”

Maddison softened her voice. “Don’t apologize.”

When they stepped into her room, Mat stopped in the doorway for a second, as if he didn’t want to invade.

Maddison noticed. “You can come in.” He looked around with a tired smile. “So this is the famous headquarters.”

“Famous?”

“Your brother talks about your desk like it’s an academic war zone.”

Maddison glanced toward the desk piled with books and half-organized papers. “It is an academic war zone.”

Matt dropped Mat’s bag next to the chair. “You need anything else?”

Mat shook his head.“No. Thanks.” Matt looked at him too closely “Pain?”

“Five.”

“Nausea?”

“No.”

“Blurred vision?”

“No.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Mat sighed. “In Maddison’s room, being interrogated by my teammate and possibly judged by my girlfriend.”

The word hung in the air.

Girlfriend.

Maddison went still,It wasn’t that they weren’t that. By that point, they basically were, in every way except having said it in some formal conversation with carefully assigned labels. But hearing it like that, in her bedroom, with Matt present and Mat half pale from a concussion, was so unexpected she felt heat rise up her neck.

Matt heard it too, His eyes moved from Mat to Maddison, Sydney, from the doorway, pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

Mat seemed to realize it one second too late. “I… I mean…”

Maddison looked at him. Despite everything, despite the fear, despite how strange the night was, a small smile appeared on her face “Girlfriend?”

Mat looked at her with something vulnerable in his eyes. “If you want.”

Matt opened his mouth, Sydney put a hand on his arm without looking at him. “No.”

Matt closed his mouth, Maddison took one step toward Mat. “I think we can officially discuss the title when you don’t have a concussion.”

Mat nodded, but smiled a little. “That’s fair.”

“But I didn’t mind.” His smile turned more real. “Good.”

Matt took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling as if asking some higher power for patience. “Okay. Great. Very cute. Now, protocol.”

Maddison let out a quiet laugh, Sydney gave Matt a light smack to the chest. “Thank you for your sensitivity.”

“I’m being sensitive.”

“Sure.”

They organized the night like a military operation, Matt set alarms on his phone, Sydney set others on hers.

Maddison set three, with different labels: check pain, wake Mat, water / symptoms, Matt looked at her when he saw the screen. “Three alarms?”

Maddison lifted her eyes. “Would you like me to make it four?”

“No.”

“Then don’t criticize.”

Mat, sitting on the edge of the bed, watched the whole scene with a mixture of exhaustion and fondness. “I do not need three people taking care of me.”

Maddison looked at him immediately. “Yes, you do.”

“Okay.”

Matt pointed to the door. “I’m staying in the room next door.”

“Matt, that’s the guest room.”

“Exactly.”

“You sleep with Sydney.”

“Not tonight.”

Sydney crossed her arms. “Excuse me, did you decide to switch rooms without consulting me?”

Matt looked at her. “It’s for safety.”

“It’s for drama.”

“It can be both.”

Maddison shut her eyes. “I’m going to lose my mind before Mat does.”

Mat let out a small laugh, but immediately winced and put a hand to his temple, Maddison stopped smiling. “Pain?”

“Laughing was not a brilliant choice.”

“Then don’t laugh.”

“It’s hard around you.”

Matt muttered “Terrible taste.” Maddison shot him a glare, Sydney stepped in again, gentler this time. “Okay. Everyone breathe. Mat needs to rest.”

Matt nodded. “Door open.” Maddison didn’t argue. “okey, door open.”

“Lights low.”

“Yes.”

“And none of—”

“Matt,” Sydney said.

Matt stopped.

Mat raised a hand from the bed. “I promise I am far too concussed for whatever you’re imagining and even if it wasn't, your house would be in the last place where it would happen.”

Maddison covered her face. “Oh my God.” Sydney pushed Matt toward the door. “Goodnight, Mat.”

“Goodnight. Thanks, Syd.”

Matt pointed at Mat one last time. “I’m waking you in two hours.”

“I’ll wait with excitement.”

When they finally left, leaving the door cracked open, the room settled into a strange calm, not fully silent, because there were footsteps outside, the house settling, Sydney and Matt talking quietly in the hall. But between them, inside Maddison’s room, there was a different kind of stillness.

Mat was still sitting on the edge of the bed, Maddison was standing in front of him, not knowing what to do with her hands. “Do you want to change?” she asked, pointing toward the bag. “Matt brought your things.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“I can step out.” Mat nodded. “Thanks.”

Maddison stepped into the hallway, closing the door almost all the way but leaving a gap like she had promised. She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms.

Matt was a few steps away, pretending to check something on his phone. “I’m fine,” Maddison said before he could ask.

Matt looked up. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Yes.”

Sydney came out of their room with an extra blanket. “Mads, where are you sleeping?”

“In my room.”

Matt looked up sharply. “No.”

“In the chair, Matt.”

“No.”

“Then where? In the hallway?”

“You can sleep with Sydney.”

Sydney raised an eyebrow. “And where would you sleep?” Matt hesitated. “In the hallway.”

Maddison looked at him. “This is absurd.”

“All of this is absurd.”

“He needs someone watching him.”

“I can watch him.”

Maddison lowered her voice. “Matt, I need to be the one watching him.”

That stopped him, Honesty, again, got through where the argument could not, Matt looked at her for a few seconds.

He saw his younger sister, yes. But he also saw an eighteen-year-old girl who was in love and scared, trying to make herself useful with that fear.

Finally, he exhaled.

“Chair.”

“i know.”

“Door open.”

“Door open.”

“If you fall asleep, my alarms are set.”

“So are mine.”

Matt nodded. And then, quieter, he said “You’re doing good.” Maddison blinked. “What?”

“Taking care of him.” She swallowed. “Thanks.”

Matt stepped closer and kissed her forehead, brief, like he used to when she was younger. “But I still hate this.”

Maddison smiled weakly. “I know.”

When she went back in, Mat had changed into a comfortable T-shirt and sweatpants. He was under the blanket, propped against the pillows, eyes half closed.

Maddison turned off the overhead light and left only the bedside lamp on. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

She pulled her desk chair closer to the bed and sat down, folding one leg underneath her, Mat opened his eyes. “Are you really going to sleep there?”

“Yes.”

“Maddison.”

“Mat.”

“That is not comfortable.”

“You have a concussion. This is not the moment to compete over comfort.”

He looked at her with exhaustion, but also with something soft. “You can sleep in the bed. There’s room.” Maddison felt her heart jump, but shook her head. “Matt is three feet away and probably developed bat hearing for tonight.”

Mat smiled a little. “Fair.”

“Besides, I need to see you when the alarm goes off.”

His expression changed. “Mads…”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No guilt face.”

“I’m making a normal face.”

“No. You’re making your ‘I feel bad for worrying everyone’ face.” Mat went quiet, Maddison rested her elbows on her knees. “I do not care about losing sleep. I do not care about sitting in a chair. I do not care that Matt is acting like this is an FBI operation. I care that you’re okay.”

Mat looked at her, the low lamp light sharpened the exhaustion in his face, but his eyes were clear. “I got scared when I saw you go off the ice,” she admitted, her voice cracked slightly at the end.

Mat stretched his hand out over the blanket, Maddison hesitated for only a second before taking it. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing for hitting your head.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t say you’re fine if you’re not.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t try to be brave with me.”

Mat squeezed her hand gently. “Okay.” Maddison lowered her gaze to their joined fingers, the silence that followed was no longer awkward. It was heavy, but intimate. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filling because both people are too tired to pretend.

The first alarm went off at one in the morning.

Maddison woke with a start, even though she had barely dozed in the chair, her head tipped back against it and one of Sydney’s blankets over her legs. She silenced the alarm quickly and leaned toward Mat.

“Mat.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Maddison’s heart stopped. “Mat.”

He opened his eyes slowly. “I’m awake.”

She exhaled.

“Do you know where you are?”

“In your room.”

“What day is it?”

“After the game.”

“Mat.”

“Friday. Well, technically Saturday.”

Maddison nodded, trying not to show how relieved she was. “Pain?”

“Four.”

“Nausea?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“Less.”

“Blurred vision?”

“No.”

Matt appeared in the doorway, hair messy, hoodie on. “Everything okay?” Maddison turned her head. “Yes.”

Matt looked at Mat. “Name?”

Mat blinked. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours.”

“Mathew Barzal.”

“Team?”

“Islanders.”

“Who’s unbearable?”

Mat looked at Maddison. “Can I say both?” Maddison let out a quiet laugh, and Matt, against his will, smiled. “He’s fine,” Matt said. “I’ll be back in two hours.”

“I can’t wait,” Mat muttered.

Matt pointed at Maddison. “Wake me if anything changes.”

“I know.”

When Matt left, Maddison picked up the water bottle and handed it to Mat. “Drink a little.” He obeyed. “You’re very bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I like it.”

Maddison raised an eyebrow. “You’re injured. Don’t use that to flirt.”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He smiled, though carefully this time so it wouldn’t worsen the pain, Maddison took the bottle back and set it on the table. “Sleep.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“I’ll try.”

Mat looked at the chair. “Maddison.”

“Don’t start.”

“Just… come here for a second.” She looked at him suspiciously. “What for?”

“So you don’t destroy your back in that chair.”

“Mat.”

“I’m not trying anything. I just want you to be comfortable. And honestly, it calms me down having you close.” That silenced her, because it was different when he said it like that. Not as a joke. Not as an excuse. As a truth.

Maddison glanced toward the open door.

The hallway was dark, but she knew Matt was nearby. She knew Sydney was too. She knew the whole night was being held together by alarms and worry.

Then she looked back at Mat, pale and tired, looking at her with a vulnerability he didn’t usually show. “Just for a little while,” she said.

He nodded. “Just for a little while.”

Maddison got up from the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, over the blanket, careful not to jostle him too much. She didn’t lie down next to him at first. She just stayed there, close.

Mat took her hand again and closed his eyes. “That helps,” he murmured. Maddison felt something inside her soften so much it hurt.“Good.”

After a few minutes, she ended up lying on her side, still on top of the blanket, with enough space that Matt wouldn’t have a heart attack if he walked in, but close enough that Mat could keep holding her hand.

The second alarm went off at three, this time Matt got there before Maddison even finished silencing it.

He stepped in, saw Maddison lying on the bed, and froze, Maddison lifted her head immediately. “I’m on top of the blanket.”

Matt looked at her. “I can see that.”

“The door is open.”

“I can see that too.”

“He’s holding my hand because it helps him sleep.” Matt opened his mouth. Mat, half awake, muttered “Marty, I have a concussion. Please let me at least have her close to me.”

Sydney appeared behind Matt, hair loose, sleepy expression “Everything okay?” Matt was still looking at Mat and Maddison’s joined hands, Sydney saw it Then she looked at Maddison. Then at Mat.

And her face softened. “Matt,” she said quietly. “Leave them.”

Matt took a deep breath.

“Questions first.”

Maddison nodded.

“Yes.”

Mat opened his eyes with effort.

“I’m in Maddison’s room. It’s Saturday. My pain is four, maybe three and a half. No nausea. No blurred vision. Matt is still intense.”

Sydney covered her mouth to hide a laugh. Matt looked at him. “You’re too fine to make jokes.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

Matt stayed in the doorway for one more second. His gaze fell on Maddison,she looked tired, messy-haired, worried-eyed, her hand still caught in Mat’s. There was nothing irresponsible in the scene. Nothing that justified his instinct to pull her away from there.

Just his sister taking care of someone, just Barzal letting himself be taken care of, Matt swallowed, uncomfortable with the tenderness that crept into his chest. “Wake me anyway,” he said finally.

“I will,” Maddison replied.

Sydney took his hand and gently led him away, when they were alone again, Mat cracked one eye open. “I think I survived.” Maddison whispered “Don’t push it.”

“He’s scared of me.”

“Mat.”

“Okay. I’m scared of him.”

“More realistic.”

He smiled faintly, At five, Maddison woke him again. This time the pain was down to three. Mat answered all the questions well, drank some water, and fell back asleep almost immediately.

Maddison couldn’t sleep after that.

She lay there staring at the ceiling of her room, listening to Mat’s slow breathing beside her and the tiny sounds of the house in the early morning. She had never imagined the first time he would sleep in her room would be like this: with the door open, her brother nearby, alarms every two hours, and a list of symptoms on the nightstand.

Mat shifted slightly without fully waking and tightened his grip on her hand, Maddison turned her head toward him. “I’m here,” she whispered, even though he hadn’t asked.He didn’t open his eyes, but his body seemed to relax.

When the light began to filter through the curtains, Maddison finally fell asleep, Not for long.

She woke to the smell of coffee and Matt’s voice in the hallway. “Are they alive?”

Maddison opened her eyes slowly, Mat was awake beside her, looking at her with a tired smile. “Morning,” he said.

She blinked, disoriented. “How do you feel?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Mat.”

“Better. Pain’s a two. No nausea. No dizziness. I know where I am. I know who I am. I know your brother is standing outside like a royal guard.”

From the hallway, Matt said “I heard that" Mat shut his eyes.“I know.”

Maddison sat up quickly, moving a little farther away and fixing her hair with one hand. The door was still open, Matt walked in with two cups of coffee and a less harsh expression than the night before. Sydney came in behind him carrying a tray of toast “Coffee for Maddison,” Matt said, handing her a cup. “Water for Barzy. Don’t argue.”

Mat accepted the bottle Sydney handed him “I wasn’t going to ask for coffee.” Matt looked at him “Lie.”

“Yeah.”

Sydney set the tray down on the desk and smiled. “How are you feeling, Mat?”

“Better. Thanks for… everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Matt leaned against the doorframe. “I called the staff. They’re going to check you again later.” Mat nodded. “Okay.”

Maddison looked at him “And you’re going to follow the instructions.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going to say you’re perfectly fine just to try to come back early.” Mat opened his mouth. Maddison pointed at him. “No.” He shut it.

Matt laughed. “Welcome to my life.” Mat looked at Maddison with a small smile.“Your sister is terrifying.”

Matt took a sip of coffee. “Finally, someone admits it.” Maddison crossed her arms. “You’re both unbearable.”

Sydney, happy to see them arguing with something close to normalcy, sat down in the chair. “That means everything’s better.”

Breakfast was strange, domestic, and slightly awkward, Mat sitting on Maddison’s bed with a bottle of water, Maddison beside him with coffee and dark circles under her eyes, Matt at the door pretending not to look too much, Sydney acting like all of it was completely normal.

At one point, Matt had to go downstairs to answer a call.

Sydney followed after giving Maddison a look that said don’t overwhelm him, but don’t step away either if you need to stay.

When they were alone again, Mat looked around the room. “Sorry for invading your space” Maddison shook her head. “You didn’t invade anything.”

“I slept in your bed.”

“On medical instruction.”

“I think that is the least romantic excuse possible.”

Maddison smiled. “The first time you slept in my room was because we had to check whether you remembered your own name. Not everyone gets a story like that.”

Mat laughed softly, this time without wincing. “Memorable.” She looked at him more seriously. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

His smile faded a little. “Me too.” There was a silence.

Mat looked down at his hands. “Thank you for insisting Matt bring me here.”Maddison went still. “He told you?”

“I overheard. A little.”

She sighed.“I was worried.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want you alone.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t care if that sounded intense.”

Mat looked up. “It didn’t sound intense.”

“Lie better.”

“I don’t want to lie.” His voice dropped a little. “It sounded like someone who cares about me.”

Maddison felt her heart beat slow and hard, she said nothing, Mat held her gaze. "And I liked that. Not the part where you were worried. But… knowing it.” Maddison swallowed.“Of course I care about you.”

The words came out before she could stop them.

It wasn’t exactly some huge confession. It wasn’t “I love you.” But it wasn’t small either, Mat looked at her like those four words had done more for his headache than the whole night of rest.

“I care about you too,” he said, Maddison lowered her gaze, smiling shyly. “How convenient that you’re saying it with a concussion.”

“I can repeat it once I’m fully medically cleared.”

“Do.”

“I will.” Downstairs, Matt’s voice called for Sydney, and both of them shifted apart a little out of pure habit.

Mat smiled. “I think your brother has radar.”

“He does. It’s a disease.”

“Do you think I’ll ever stop being scared of him?”

“No.”

“Fair.”

Maddison stood and picked up her coffee cup. “I’m going to get more water.” Mat followed her with his eyes. “Maddison.” She stopped in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Thank you for staying awake.” The way he said it was so simple it almost hurt, Maddison rested a hand on the frame. “Always.”

When she went downstairs to the kitchen, Matt was standing by the island, talking quietly with Sydney. When he saw her, he stopped talking.

Maddison narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Matt.” He sighed. “Just… thank you.” She looked confused. “For what?”

“For taking care of him.” Maddison softened. “He’s your friend too.”

“Yeah.” Matt nodded slowly. “But he’s more than that to you, "Maddison lowered her gaze, Sydney smiled softly, but said nothing.Matt stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to say I love it.”

“What a shock.”

“But last night…” He paused, searching for the words like it irritated him that he needed them. “Last night I saw the way you look at each other.” Maddison felt her chest tighten. “And?” Matt exhaled. “And I trust you.”

Maddison smiled faintly. “Thank you.” Matt leaned down and kissed her forehead “But the door stays open.” Sydney laughed. Maddison rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

That morning, when Mat drifted back to sleep for a little while longer in her room, Maddison sat down in the chair again, this time with hot coffee and less fear in her chest. She watched him rest, his face calmer, his breathing even, one hand on top of the blanket still seeming to search for hers even in sleep.

You had been too nervous to ask, not wanting to press him with questions when you saw the stiffness he held in his shoulders as you packed the last of your things and headed back to New York. In a way, you could tell he was still thinking and processing even two days later. He wasn’t sulking, but he was quieter, moving slower, lingering on decisions before acting on them.

The microwave hummed behind you, the scent of reheated Indian takeout rising as you leaned against the counter, watching him. He sat on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers hovering over the trackpad. A bottle of water remained half empty on the coffee table, positioned perfectly just at the tip of his outstretched fingers when he leaned forward. With his schedule free for the foreseeable future, he was spending a large chunk of his time just like this: studying the chessboard onscreen. Though he played pretty extensively during the season he hadn’t been this immersed in months.

The microwave beeped, pulling your gaze away from Mat’s intensely focused expression. You grabbed your plate, the warmth bleeding into your fingertips immediately as you balanced the steaming Malai Kofta and the garlic naan you chose to heat up first. For a moment, you considered eating at the counter and giving him space to play in peace. But a whispered huff of frustration under his breath made you change course.

You padded across the hardwood floor, bare feet just barely whispering against the grain. The glow from the screen painted his face in soft blues and grays, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the dip of his lower lip where he was biting it absently. You crossed the living room and slid onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his. Without looking up, he shifted slightly, making room for you, and you took the invitation for what it was; to scoot closer.

You settled into his lap sideways, your legs draped over his thigh, your head finding the familiar dip of his shoulder. His free arm curled around your waist automatically, turning his head in your direction just long enough to press his lips against your temple before he returned his attention to the game. You balanced your plate on your knee, tearing off a piece of naan with your fingers before dragging it through the creamy sauce.

“Did I forget something?” His voice was low, distracted, the question half-formed as his thumb tapped against the trackpad.

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you chewed. “No. Why are you asking me that?”

“You were staring at me pretty hard over there,” he murmured, his eyes still locked on the screen as he moved a knight. The click of the trackpad underscoring his words. “Thought I was in trouble.”

You leaned back just enough to catch his profile, the faint furrow between his brows, the small quirk of a smile as he decided his next move. “No,” you said, dragging another piece of naan through the sauce. “I just think you’re pretty. I love looking at you.”

You offered him a piece of naan, holding it just beneath his nose until he relented and took it with his teeth, his lips brushing your fingertips in a fleeting warmth that sent a tingle up your wrist. He chewed slowly, eyes still trained on the chessboard, but the tension in his jaw softened just enough for you to notice.

“Stop that,” he muttered, his voice grainy as he finally glanced at you, his hazel eyes catching the glow of the screen. “I’ll get hard.”

You froze, blinking at him for a second before letting out a sharp, startled laugh. “You—what?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your face warming as you watched his smile develop.

Mat sighed dramatically, tilting his head back against the couch cushions like he was martyring himself. “You heard me,” he grumbled, using his free hand to push his hair back from his face. “Sitting in my lap, feeding me, telling me I’m pretty. What else am I supposed to do with that?” His fingers tightened around your waist, pressing into the soft curve of your hip.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips pulled into a smile anyway. “You’re so badly behaved,” you said, shaking your head as you tore off another piece of naan. “Like a bad little kid.”

Mat scoffed. “You knew that when you signed up,” he said, nudging his nose against your temple before stealing another bite of naan straight from your fingers. You let out a breathy laugh, shifting in his lap. He groaned. “Dude. See? You’re doing it on purpose now.”

“Doing what?” you teased, dragging another piece of the flatbread through the sauce. “Eating? Existing?” You tilted your head, watching the slight shake of his head, immediately regretting a move he’d just made onscreen.

“You know what you’re doing,” he muttered, turning his face into your hair as if to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“Can I eat in peace without being accused of seduction?” you asked, popping the last bite of naan into your mouth with a light groan. You could feel the rumble of his laugh against your back and heard him click away from the game, closing the laptop lid, and setting it aside.

Mat leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “No,” he said, making your stomach flip when he settled further into the couch and wrapped both arms around you. “You lost peace privileges when you sat in my lap.” His lips brushed a path over the line of your jaw, humming softly between kisses.

You managed to free yourself long enough to set your plate down on the coffee table and rub a paper napkin between your fingers before falling back into Mat’s arms. His satisfied sigh vibrated against your shoulder blades as he caught you, sealing you tightly against his chest. You didn’t bother resisting when he tugged you closer, just sighed, tipping your head back to rest against his chest, your hair spilling over his shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet,” you murmured, turning your face toward his neck. His pulse was steady beneath your lips, a slow thud that matched the lazy rhythm of his fingers brushing up and down your ribs. “Not in a bad way. Just different for you.”

Mat hummed, a noncommittal sound that resonated through your back. His thumb traced the hem of your shirt, catching on the loose threads where you absentmindedly picked at it last week. “Different how?” he asked, his voice soft.

You pressed your lips to the hollow of his throat, exhaling against his skin before answering. “Different energy,” you said, using the side of your thumb to draw loose shapes on his forearm where it curved around your waist. “Usually you’re singing dumb songs right in my ear, telling me about weird hockey stuff I don't understand.” You began to play with his fingers.

Mat’s took in a shallow breath when you laced your hands together, his grip tightening reflexively before relaxing again. He turned his face into your hair, his nose brushing the crown of your head as he inhaled deeply. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your coils, “just haven’t been in a singing mood.” The words were half-hearted, his sarcasm muted beneath something heavier.

You traced the calluses on his knuckles before pressing your palm flat against his. “You don’t have to be,” you said quietly, feeling the way his fingers felt against yours. “But you don’t have to brood either. I know it was tough to walk away.”

“Couldn’t risk making it worse,” he admitted, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh at the base of your palm. “It was the right decision. But it still feels like shit.”

“I know it does. I’m sorry,” you said, your voice steady.

Mat sighed through his nose, the warmth of it ghosting over your temple. His fingers flexed around yours, squeezing once before loosening again. “Yeah,” he said. “But it’s whatever. Gotta rehab it properly now.”

You nodded, lifting his knuckles to your lips and pressing a kiss to each ridge of bone. “When was the last time we were both unemployed for more than a week?” you murmured against his skin.

Mat laughed softly. “Never. We can do cheesy couple shit now,” he mused, shifting beneath you, his hands sliding up to frame your waist. “Picnics in Central Park. Pretending to be tourists at the Met. Buying weird-ass overpriced groceries just because we can.”

“Sitting in your lap while you lose at chess,” you teased, curling your fingers around his wrist, feeling the faint thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You turned your face toward his, catching the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks as he blinked down at you, his hazel eyes softened by the dim glow of the surrounding mid-afternoon light.

“Okay… well... I wasn’t losing until you knocked me off my game,” he corrected, his voice lilted with mock offense. You rolled your eyes but said nothing. “Can I at least get a kiss to make up for it?” he murmured, nudging your chin upward with his knuckle. The moment you lifted your gaze, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours.

You chased him instinctively, smiling into the kiss when he deepened it.

“Yeesh,” Mat murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to wrinkle his nose. “Let me grab you a mint before you breathe on me again.”

You scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back into the couch cushions. “You literally just ate half my food,” you pointed out, twisting to grab your plate from the coffee table and holding it up as evidence. The remnants of garlic-laced sauce clung to the porcelain. “You don’t get to complain.”

Mat grinned, unrepentant, and caught your wrist before you could pull away and stand on your feet, dragging you back against his chest with a playful growl. “Someone told me there’s mints in your bedroom,” he murmured, nosing along your jawline, his breath warm and teasing. “Maybe we should go get one. Share it.”

Simple—matter of fact. I slid my glasses to the top of my head.

She frowned, not yet reaching for the clipboard as she looked at me from over her desk, “why? He’s being discharged—athlete, he’s got physical therapists and specialists out the wahoo, it’s the easiest discharge plan we could have gotten today.”

I dropped the chart on the desk, elbows coming to rest on the table as I folded my arms and looked at her, “Exactly. I want something exciting—come on, give me something dramatic today. Like…” I said, waving a hand to encourage her, “psych, court ordered to take urine tests and regular medication. Something.”

She shoved the chart back in my direction, “Theo Anders. Date of birth, December seventeenth, nineteen-ninety-nine. Being discharged following a concussion and minor spinal injury.”

“You hate me, don’t you?” I asked, snatching a pen from the bedazzled cup, Evelyn’s stupidly fluffy pen leaves feathers on my fingers as I retrieved it. She grinned, already looking back at her laptop, only giving me a brief glance before looking back to the screen.

“Your words, not mine.”

I flicked my fingers in her direction, watching as a purple feather awkwardly floated onto her desk with a look of disgust, “Oh hey, did Michael mention if he sent that referral for Mr. King? We really can’t keep sending him home without outside support—he and Camille are just getting too old to care for themselves alone at home.”

I glanced down, brushing off my top to make sure none of her feathers had clung to me, “Yeah, someone from the community outreach team is going to connect with them this week and help them arrange for at home support from an agency that’s covered under their benefits,” she said, bringing the tip of her pen to my mouth to gently chew on the end, “see what their options are.

“alright,” I sighed, “he’s been in hospital three times since the start of the year already and it’s only April.”

Her mouth twitched, turning downwards, “Yeah, I mean—unfortunately, their options for coverage are limited unless they start paying out of pocket for at home care,” she explained, the same spiel we circled back to regularly, retrieving a binder of resources from her desk to flip through. “Could their kids step in and help with at home care?” She asked.

“Janette spoke with them last week—their oldest son lives in Nova Scotia and their daughter has young kids. Single parent—says she just doesn’t have time between work and the kids, dad isn’t in the picture so child care options are limited,” I explained, taking a deep breath and scratching my eyebrow.

She forced a sympathetic smile, eyebrows furrowing as she seemed to contemplate the conversations, “Yeah. I mean—I guess it’s the same routine again—

I blinked, mouth pursing.

“Don’t make that face at me, I know, I know—just…offer resources for now, outreach will connect and we can go from there for discharge,” Evelyn said.

“I’ll drop by on my way, where’s that chart for the concussion patient?” I asked, looking around the contents of my desk again.

“Leave Mr. King for me, I’ve got it,” she insisted.

Her hand lifted, holding it up while I slid my glasses back onto the bridge of my nose to look over the details, quietly reading over its contents as I stood. I gathered my notepad and the chart under my armpit, my left hand reaching out to squeeze Evelyn’s shoulder as I walked past her and towards the elevator, waiting impatiently as I pressed the button.

I hated the elevators—they took forever because there was always a constant flow of patients and staff going in and out of them, resulting in a several minute wait. My feet restlessly tapped, rocking on to my heels before stepping in after what felt like eternity.

The ride down to gen surg was brief—quiet and sterile smelling, the air stale as I leaned against the left wall. The dinging indicating my arrival felt obnoxiously loud, and the brief break from the chaos of being on the floor felt far too short, sighing before I stepped off the elevator.

I immediately forced a smile as I approached the front desk to the floor, the nurse there lifting his head, “Hello, just looking for a mister Theo Anders for discharge?”

“Room three,” he softly replied with a nod in the direction of the room, glancing at the board behind him briefly to double check.

I mouthed a soft thanks, turning to follow the signs on the wall towards room three.

The privacy curtain had been drawn, obscuring my view into the room besides the sliver of his foot at the end of the bed. The lights had been turned off, the room filled by the constant hum of his monitor as I gently pushed the door open and pulled back the curtain just enough to see him finally.

“Hello?” He immediately said, rousing from the half asleep state and lifting his head from the pillow behind him. My right hand reached out, flipping on the light switch.

I watched as his eyes rolled, struggling to refocus as the light turned on, a little groan leaving him as his arm lifted to cover his face. I internally cringed, shutting the light off, “My apologies, Mr. Anders—

“Theo,” he slurred, yawning as his hand dropped back to his side and he closed his eyes. His head twisted, chin resting against his right shoulder, hair falling into his face, “s’fine…”

I hesitated, slowly entering the room and glancing towards the IV bags to his right as he rubbed his face, the wires and catheters clinking with each movement. I wasn’t even sure why they thought now would be the best time to meet with him—maybe it was a mix up. There was no fucking way this man could even understand—

“S’Kate here?” He asked, eyes rolling again as they opened to look at me.

I straightened my shoulders and looked at him, tentatively approaching his bedside chair, “No unfortunately, I’m sorry— we have contacted her,” I explained, my voice softening as I tilted my head to find his disoriented gaze, “My name is Claudia, I’m a social worker here at Presbyterian. I work with patients due for discharge to discuss transitional plans to return home soon. Does that make sense?” I asked, watching as his brows furrowed and lifting his head.

“I got hit,” he said, words bordering incoherent as his head flopped back into the pillow, “my—my neck…”

“I’m going to come by and talk with you and Kate a little later about at home care—

“Is Kate here?” he repeated, frowning still.

I felt my expression soften, letting out a soft exhale as I watched him for a moment, “No, Theo, unfortunately not yet,” I replied, “but I’ll have them bring her here as soon as she arrives, okay?”

His head rolled to the left, nuzzling into his own shoulder and breathing deeply, “Mmmph—mhm.”

—

I dropped the chart on Evelyn’s desk as I walked past her to sit, her eyes lifting as she listened to a message on the voicemail system, following me as I sat down with a dramatic huff.

“Who said he was ready for discharge? Who called?” I asked, head leaning back against the chair and sliding down into it.

She hesitated, letting out a long uh as she scanned through the paperwork once again and tilted her head to make out the scribbled handwriting, “Moreau according to his discharge paperwork. Why?” She asked, setting the phone back down on the receiver.

I sat up, looking at her and leaning forward with my elbows on the desk. My right hand lifted, reaching behind my head to remove the claw clip and let my hair down for a moment, “He isn’t anywhere close to being ready for discharge,” I stated, sighing, “he’s high as a kite on morphine in there right now. I kind of actually felt bad for the guy. I don’t think he even knows what planet he’s on right now.”

Evelyn paused, suddenly letting out a snort and staring at me with an open mouth, “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope!” I replied, emphasizing the p.

“What a fucking guy,” she muttered, pushing the chart aside for a moment, “has his emergency contact arrived?”

“His wife? No,” I answered quickly, shaking my head, “I told them to call as soon as she arrived. I’ll go over the paperwork with him once she’s here, see what kind of support he has at home,” I explained while running my fingers through my hair and combing it out.

“You’re done at five, right?” Evelyn asked, leaning back in her chair.

“Yeah,” I answered, hand lifting to check my watch—4:47, “As long as Janette doesn’t decide to keep me back again tonight. I was here until seven last night.”

“Because you’re such a good worker,” she teased, joking.

“I think if she fired me today, I’d be fine with that,” I half-seriously replied, hands gripping the armrests of my chair as I twisted back and forth.

She snorted, “I really doubt Caroline would be thrilled to hear you couldn’t pay rent this month.”

I waved my hand dismissively, “Caroline would just have to make do with it for a bit. She’s a strong, independent girl.”

“Her friend still crashing on your couch?” She asked, smiling as she raised her eyebrows.

“God—no, thankfully. They broke up again,” I explained, squinting at her.

“Is his stuff actually gone this time?”

“No, I’m still finding his shit all over the place—it’s like it never ends,” I said. “I think I’ve packed it all up and I find more stuff, I do not understand how he has so much stuff.”

My phone rang, reaching out to mindlessly bring it to my ear, “Claudia speaking.”

I noticed it first when in my rookie season after a bad hangover, the result of a party hosted after my first National Hockey Federation goal; a complete fluke if you’d asked me—it hadn’t even been on purpose. Just a blind shot as I fell face first over someone’s skate in a scramble to get the puck as it flew down the rink. The goal had also been paired with my first broken nose of my career. Genuinely, it wasn’t even on purpose but I’d celebrated it nonetheless, bruised and sore still.

As I’d rolled out of bed that next morning, nauseous and praying to god for forgiveness and to just end my suffering as I threw up my life’s worth into the toilet that morning—I’d noticed it. Yes, it smelled like your typical city—that polluted city air that felt almost stifling, filled by the odd smell of grease from nearby restaurants, fumes from the constant flow of public transit that ran late into the night, but it had this edge. Like sewage, I’d assumed. Ever since, I noticed it during every morning run on my usual route; fuck, I hated that I noticed it too because there was just no not noticing and forgetting it once you did finally notice it. And it was only near Queen Street, I realized—partly why I had changed my route two years prior, all in an effort to avoid it, but somehow it just wafted its way into every crevice of the city.

My eyes lifted, glancing up along the jagged line of high rise buildings that towered over the downtown neighbourhood of Toronto. The low hum of early morning traffic as rush hour had started to pick up carried down the streets, even through my headphones. I dropped my gaze, glancing forward to dodge through the odd body of someone on their way to work, cheeks puffing with each sharp exhale—one, two, three steps.

My eyes shifted, looking down at my right wrist to check the time— five, six, seven. One, two, three—eight-sixteen a.m. I’d left five minutes late that morning, fighting for my life from a pinched nerve as I searched my apartment for ibuprofen. My eyes lifted again, legs tired but still pushing as I rounded a corner onto Front Street, Union Station coming into view; I sniffled, circling around another passing woman who was visibly frustrated by whoever she was speaking to on the phone.

Four, five, six.

I moved around her, running along the edge of the sidewalk, closest to the road; my right hand lifting to fix my AirPod back into my ear as it slid out of place. My pace slowed, the familiar yellow convenience sign coming up on my right, dodging a man in a suit who barely even gave me a second glance. I sharply exhaled, stopping out front and quickly swinging the door open, the familiar bell chime sounding overhead as I stepped inside into the quiet; the city going silent behind me as I tugged my right headphone out.

“Mornin’, Anders,” Oliver said, already sitting back down in his stool as I nodded at him.

“Morning,” I said, panting as I shuffled down the centre aisle towards the coolers in the back of the store.

I slowed finally, eyes scanning the doors before landing on the usual spot—a water bottle, a redbull. Circling down the right aisle, the can and bottle balanced in one hand and phone in the other as I approached the counter. I set the two items down, eyes looking out the window as Oliver scanned them, “Supposed to rain today,” he said.

I glanced up towards the sky through the tinted windows, “Again?”

“Uh-huh. Eleven-thirty five,” he said, reflexively turning the debit machine to me. “How’s your back?”

I shrugged, using my phone to tap my debit card and letting out a soft ‘eh’, “No better, no worse honestly. Back in pretty intense PT as of last week,” I admitted, looking up as he leaned against the counter separating us, nodding through the plexiglass shield.

“Take it easy, you’re only young once you know,” he added after a moment. “Only got one body—trust me. I probably could have made it into the big leagues too but you know,” he half seriously commented.

I grinned, the debit machine pinging as it approved. I took the drinks and nodded slowly, “Right—the offer still stands to show me up on the ice one of these days by the way.”

He snorted, beginning to sit back down as I withdrew from the counter and stepped back outside, drinks in hand as I paused on the sidewalk outside. I paused, replacing my headphone back into my ear before continuing the path back to my place—five minutes if I walked slow, but three and a half if I kept a brisk pace. I cracked open the redbull, finding a brisk pace as I weaved down the sidewalk, the traffic having already picked up more to my left as I scanned the road with my eyes and lifted the can to my mouth to take a drink.

I hadn’t even been sure if I wanted to do a run outdoors this morning—the weather forecast had said something about rain expected, following a week of twenty plus weather, reminding me just how bipolar the weather had been lately. To be frank, it was starting to piss me off lately—threw things off for me and I found I had more migraines lately compared to the usual.

My eyes lifted as I had approached my apartment, keys being fished from my pocket with my free hand in the mess of being jumbled in with my phone in order to retrieve the building fob to open the door. I watched as a neighbour whose face I recognized, but name I did not know passed—a girl near my age, nice and lived on the sixth floor—smiling at me as she walked outside with her dog. I glanced back over at her dog—a golden retriever named Hunter, watching as they disappeared into the city. I looked ahead, using my fob again to open the second door and entering the lobby.

I exhaled, walking across the communal lounge space to reach for the elevator button and press it. I readjusted an AirPod again, eyes lifting to watch the little sign above the elevator flip through numbers, lowering as it descended. I stepped inside once the doors opened with a ding, bringing the redbull to my mouth again for a drink while I used the hand holding my keys to press the twelfth button.

The building was otherwise silent—uninterrupted as I climbed the floors, leaning against the back wall and closing my eyes for a moment as I let the elevator drag me back up higher and higher until it dinged once more.

I stepped out, just in time as a gentleman appeared at the entrance of the elevator, reaching for the buttons with a trolley stacked with boxes. We made eye contact briefly, equally stunned to see each other as I awkwardly apologized and stepped out past him, deliberately going out of my way to circle him to prevent accidentally running into the guy’s shoulder. I looked back over my shoulder as I walked down the hallway, back towards the elevator just as style doors shut, looking ahead.

My head cocked to the side, visibly confused as I neared my front door to find it wide open, the soft lull of conversation inside drawing my attention besides the fact that the door was open; slowing in the doorway.

I watched as a second mover wheeled a trolley stacked with boxes out of the apartment, the subtle clinking of decorative pieces tinkering from inside them as he nodded politely to me as I pulled my right AirPod out, drinks in hand as I stepped into the open door. My eyes scanned the space, slowly being emptied of any final reminders of a past life that had been shared for the past five years—the counters felt emptier, the walls blank now, half the dishes even gone from the open glass cupboards. I held my AirPod, music pausing as I then noticed the familiar blonde haircut even from the back—stiff and straight as a board as she rambled into her phone, some legal jargon I couldn’t even be bothered to try and understand.

I kept my gaze low as I slowed to a stop in the kitchen, setting the water bottle down on the countertop near the stove before making a slight show of setting my keys down with enough noise to bring attention to my arrival. She suddenly turned, processing the sight of me for a moment visibly with parted lips, “Sorry, right. I’ll have to call you back—yeah, he’s here.”

I let out a breath, clearing my throat and setting the open can down as well, “I thought you were coming this afternoon.”

“Something came up,” Dana dismissed, earning a slow nod, “I tried to call and give you a heads up. You didn’t answer.”

“I…” I lifted my phone, turning it to glance over the notifications that had accumulated on the front screen before seeing the missed call, “right. Sorry. Didn’t see that.”

She forced a tight smile that bordered something pitiful, “I’ll try to be out of your hair as fast as I can be. I just assumed it would be better if we got everything out sooner rather than later,” she explained. She paused, mouth open like she was unsure how to approach the remainder of the unnecessary conversation, “How’ve you been?”

I shrugged, my right hand lifting to rub my eye with my index finger, “Busy. Playoffs are coming up quickly so…lots of training. PT has been kicking my ass.”

She nodded, “Right—physical therapy because of your back. That was almost a year ago now, wasn’t it?”

“Uh—yeah, March 16th,” I replied.

She hummed, a pause in the conversation finally happening as I tried to wrap my head around the situation just as she began to speak again.

“And your back—

“Look, we don’t gotta do this, Dana,” I softly said, voice quiet, resting a hand on my hip, “the small talk. I get it, yanno? This whole thing is weird for both of us.”

She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, giving a short, curt nod and pausing once again.

“Alright,” she said, her voice equally soft. She cleared her throat, her demeanour shifting as she lifted her hands and flicked some strands of hair back and away from her face, “Kate says she’s tried calling you but you haven’t been answering.”

I blinked, a tight smile coming to my face as I huffed out a breathy laugh from my nose, “No.”

“Why?” She asked.

I opened my mouth, stammering for words, “I—I don’t really think there’s much to talk about…I guess? I packed up everything, covered the moving expenses, even offered to pay for storage—

“That’s not what I mean. I’m not talking about moving, I mean you two,” she quickly interjected.

“I still don’t think there’s much to say,” I admitted.

Dana sighed, her head shaking slightly as she moved to stand by the opposite end of the island counter to mirror my stance, her gaze only leaving me as she stepped out of the way of a mover who carried two stacked boxes with him from the bedroom, “you guys were together for five years. That’s a lot to just throw away,” she said, her arms folding as I fidgeted with the AirPod in my hand. “She’s only asking for a five minute conversation to talk about five years, Theo. You could at least give her that.”

“Five minutes to remind her she slept with my cousin after five years of trying to make it work,” I pointed out quickly, moving to pull out a stool from the island counter and sitting.

Dana’s expression softened—like she was torn because she morally knew what her sister had done was wrong; however she struggled to openly side against her.

“She made a mistake, Theo,” she finally said.

I hummed, tilting my head and squinting at her, “A mistake is getting oat milk instead of almond in my morning coffee, not…that,” I said, pausing.

“She’s had a rough year—

“Oh right,” I groaned, standing up and pushing the stool back. I paced towards the living room.

“Her partner pulled out of a huge deal and she lost her job,” Dana attempted to reason.

“That’s not something you do by accident, Dana,” I said, a quiet laugh leaving me as I turned to face her, hands settling at the back of my neck, “if she wanted her job back that badly, she had other options that didn’t involve my cousin, alright?”

She fell silent, staring back at me as I let out a breath and dropped my hands from my neck, sighing suddenly as a silence filled the apartment.

It was only disturbed by a second mover who briefly returned and appeared over my shoulder, glancing awkwardly between us before he intervened long enough to speak while I pivoted and away from the front door area while Dana walked towards us to take my place; pacing towards the windows that overlooked the city.

I turned away before I had to truly hear it, pacing toward the windows that overlook the city. I swung my arms at my sides, shaking out the tension, stretching my neck with a low breath. I inhaled deep, exhaled harder—so hard my cheeks puffed slightly—like I could force something out of my system if I tried hard enough. My head felt like it might have imploded, the early hint of a migraine beginning to throb behind my right eye as I squeezed my eyes shut, while their voices blurred into a dull hum as Dana finished arranging whatever’s left of her sister’s life.

“Bring them to the Queen Street address,” she quietly explained, “I’ll be there to let you up shortly. I’ll be right behind you. Thank you.”

Her tone shifted—formal, practiced. The kind I imagined she’d used with clients, signing off on something that had already been decided.

I glanced over my shoulder in time to catch a glimpse of the mover retreating, his bright uniform disappearing into the hallway.

I waited, looking away as I felt her gaze return to me, hands stilling by my sides and turning slightly; just enough to see her in my peripheral vision, but not be forced to make direct eye contact as she took a few steps forward and stopped against the island counter. Even she seemed unsure how to proceed with the conversation or what to say next as she watched me quietly, analyzing and picking me apart like a court case. Her nails tapped against the counter.

“Queen Street, huh?” I finally said, avoiding her gaze as I looked out the balcony again, “didn’t move far.”

“It’s close to the office,” she replied after a pause, her voice softer now.

“Mm,” I reply, beginning to mindlessly circle the living room. It’s strange. The room still felt somewhat intact, but something had shifted—the room felt emptier, but the only thing that had really changed is the lack of a picture frame from the tv stand, a few stray books that were purchased more as decorative pieces from the coffee table and some coasters I always thought were a bit too dramatic for the space.

I scratched the back of my head as my left hand propped against my hip, pausing as my eyes landed on a far corner by the balcony door, empty like there was something missing—and it dawned on me. I inhaled, “She took the bamboo tree?” I asked, confused.

I look over as Dana’s eyes flit towards the exact spot I referenced, “She purchased it,” she reminded.

I scoff, shaking my head as my hand dropped to my side, “Right.”

She waited, lingering on the exact spot in question before she quietly spoke again, “I figured it would be easier for the both of you just to take whatever she bought and leave whatever you purchased—logistics,” she stated, like it was the most common sense thing, pursing her lips. “For you, I figured you wouldn’t want reminders of her just lingering around, taking up space,” she added.

My hand rubbed over my chest, nodding as I slowly pivoted once more to face her slightly, “Gotcha. Thank you,” I sincerely replied, that same sympathetic smile returning to her face.

I glanced away, looking towards my bedroom as she continued to watch me before she nodded, “Yeah, of course. And you know if you ever need anything, I’m only ever a call away, right?”

I licked my lips, nodding as I glanced at her for half a second, “Yeah…yeah, I know,” I said, “I appreciate it.”

My arms swung again against my sides, turning to sit down on the couch abruptly because the thought of standing there just her gaze made me feel dizzy—overwhelmed and like I’d fall over any minute. But rather than some form of relief, Dana set her phone and keys on the counter and joined me on the couch; sat on the opposite end and stared at the black screen of the television on the wall. We were quiet, but I had the feeling she had a thousand things she wanted to say—but what do you even say to someone in that moment? Sorry my sister slept with your cousin, we’re cool though?

I mindlessly rubbed my chest again and took out the second AirPod; tossing both onto the side table.

“I’m sorry,” she said once I sat back, leaning towards me and raising her eyebrows at me, “It’s not fair of me to ask you to talk to her given the circumstances.”

My hand lifted, brushing through my hair and shrugging, “It’s fine, I get it. She’s your sister.”

I could see her nose scrunch in the corner of my eye, turning to look at her briefly—

“Yeah, but still—you don’t even owe her that,” she pointed out.

I was suddenly reminded of the resemblance between the two of them, the right corner of her mouth turning down as she pursed her lips and furrowed her eyebrows. I couldn’t count how many times I’d watched that same look come to Kate’s face as she argued over the phone or sent a particularly colourful email. I found myself blankly staring at her, blinking slowly and buffering for a moment before nodding slightly and having to force myself to look away again.

The only difference between them truly had been the hair—rather than blonde, she was auburn. I had started this ritual of every fall, I’d bring home a leaf that resembled closest to her hair each time I found one—stuffed them in the bottom of my duffle bag once or twice just to bring them back from Buffalo for her. She thought it was silly but over the weeks, those leaves would collect in her home office, stuffed into a drawer—it had taken me a while to even find out she’d been keeping them.

I rubbed my eye, scratching the inner corner as my migraine throbbed once again.

Usually, once they’d died and had begun to crumple apart as the season drew on, only then would she finally bring herself to throw them out. Her mom had thought it was sweet when Kate had told her about it one Christmas.

“Theo?”

“Yeah, no—sorry, just,” I said, sighing so hard I genuinely felt lightheaded. I frowned, looking at the wall underneath the tv, “I don’t think I’m ready to talk to her. That’s all. I don’t know what more there is to say at this point. Feels like a waste of time.”

“I get it,” Dana replied, glancing down at her lap and beginning to fidget with the oversized wedding ring and engagement ring duo she always wore, “I don’t know how I’d…deal if I was on the other side of this…”

There was a moment of silence that passed, her head lifting finally to follow my gaze.

“I think she just wants to remind you she loved you and she still does,” she said, pausing, “I don’t think this has changed anything for her. I mean, obviously things have changed but—I mean it hasn’t changed how she feels about you.”

My face scrunched up, head tilting as I shrugged and found myself staring at a chip in the paint by the baseboards, unsure how to reply. We’d done our best to talk the night it came out—talked three days later after she had spent a few days with her sister and her husband. And all of it just felt like we were talking in circles and going nowhere.

Dana lifted her hand, looking at her watch before sighing and planting her hands against her thighs to push up to her feet, “I should get going. The movers are probably on their way already,” she explained, turning to face me, “sorry to have to leave so suddenly. And I mean it. If you ever need someone to talk to, or anything to do with legal advice, I’m around…okay?”

I didn’t reply right away, my stare still focused on the chip in the paint—how the fuck did it even get there?

She crouched beside me, eyebrows raising as she tilted her head in an effort to find my eyes. I snapped out of my daze as she reached out to touch my hand, turning to look at her, “did you hear me?” She asked.

“Right—yeah,” I finally said, clearing my throat and forcing a nod.

“You going to be okay?” She asked, her gaze narrowing as though she was trying to read through me.

I nodded, swallowing, “Yeah. Just going to tidy up—take a shower,” I said, hands coming up to rub my face and standing up from the couch to pace again, “I uh—I have practice this afternoon,” I said, my tone softening.

Her eyes followed me, nodding after a moment in a slow way that suggested she didn’t believe me. But she didn’t say anything—paused, analyzed, picked her battle. Dana stood and slowly approached the counter, collecting her phone and keys in her hand and beginning to walk to the door before pausing. Her mouth pursed, lips pressing together as she scanned the apartment one last time, “Alright. Well…you take it easy, okay? Get some rest,” she said, gesturing to me, “you look exhausted.”

I smiled—genuinely smiled finally—looking at her and I laughed softly, nodding, “Sounds good.”

Her hand lifted in a wave, extending then to pull the door closed behind her. I stood in the middle of my living room, listening to her footsteps retreat down the hallway; the distant sound of the elevator dinging its arrival to my floor before fully succumbing to the silence. I waited only until I knew she was gone to sigh again, a little louder this time and tilting my head back to look up at the ceiling.

The first drink had been harmless, a casual glass of wine with dinner after a long, miserable week that had left you feeling wrung out and restless. By the second drink, you’d convinced yourself you deserved a little fun, and by the third, the dull ache sitting beneath your ribs had softened into something warm and floaty, and suddenly sitting alone in your apartment sounded unbearable.

So you’d texted a friend, thrown on the tiny silver top you always swore you only wore for yourself, and stumbled your way into a crowded bar downtown where the music was loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t loud enough to drown out him. Mat Barzal had always had terrible timing, or maybe perfect timing, depending on how honest you wanted to be with yourself; every time you thought you were finally getting over him, something would drag him back into your head. A hoodie left at the bottom of your closet, a hockey clip showing up on your feed, someone wearing his cologne in passing.

It didn’t help that what existed between the two of you had never ended cleanly, there hadn’t been some dramatic breakup or screaming match; just two people pretending casual was easy until one of you cared too much and the other cared in ways he didn’t know how to admit.

Friends with benefits was supposed to mean boundaries. It was supposed to mean late-night hookups and easy goodbyes, not tangled feelings and jealous silences. But somewhere between sneaking into his apartment after Islanders games and falling asleep against his chest while reruns played quietly in the background, things had blurred.

You’d started memorizing the sound of his laugh, he’d started texting you for reasons that had nothing to do with sex. And then, like cowards, both of you had backed away before either of you could say what you actually wanted.

Now you were sitting at the bar with glossy lips wrapped around the straw of your fourth drink, staring at his contact photo on your phone like it had personally offended you.

“You are not calling him,” your friend said immediately, noticing the expression on your face, you looked up innocently. “Who?”

“Mat.” She replies immediately, looking at you with an incredulous expression. “I wasn’t even thinking about Mat.” You mumble.

“You’ve been thinking about Mat for twenty straight minutes.” She sighs, cocking an eyebrow at your frown.

“That’s an unlawful accusation.” You shake your head, looking at her pointedly, “It’s literally his contact open on your screen.” She counters immediately.

You glanced down. “Oh.”

Your friend groaned and reached for your phone, but you twisted away with a laugh, nearly knocking your drink over in the process. The alcohol buzzing through your system had turned every thought in your head into a brilliant idea, and right now the most brilliant idea of all felt painfully obvious; you missed him.

Not in the heartbreaking, crying on the floor way you had a month ago, tonight it felt softer than that. You felt lonely. The kind of loneliness that only appeared after midnight when the lights were dim and you wanted someone familiar to look at you like you were worth ruining your sleep schedule over.

You pressed call before you could think better of it, your friend made a horrified noise beside you. “Oh my god, hang up!”

Too late, the phone rang once, barely even twice, then his voice slid through the speaker, low and rough and devastatingly familiar. “Hello?”

Your stomach flipped so hard it almost sobered you up. For a second you forgot why calling him had seemed like such a good idea. All you could picture was him leaning back against his couch, the one you were too familiar with, sweatpants low on his hips, one hand rubbing tiredly over his jaw.

You remembered exactly how warm his apartment felt at night, remembered the lazy smirk he always wore when he opened the door for you like he already knew you’d end up tangled in his sheets before the night was over. “You answered,” you blurted.

A beat of silence passed before he laughed softly. “You sound surprised.”

“I honestly didn’t think you would.” He chuckles, and you can practically see him shaking his head, “You called me three times.”

You frowned at your phone screen. “Did I?”

“Yeah, baby. Back-to-back.” The nickname hit you straight in the chest, you swallowed hard and leaned your elbows onto the sticky bar counter, pressing your fingers against your forehead as the room tilted pleasantly around you. “Okay, well, in my defense, this is a very important phone call.”

“Oh, it is?” You nodded seriously even though he couldn’t see you. “Critical, actually.”

He laughed again, quieter this time, and the sound settled somewhere deep beneath your skin. God, you hated how easy it still was with him. Weeks without speaking and he could still pull a smile out of you within seconds,“You drunk?” he asked knowingly. You scoff, “No.”

“You’re slurring.” He follows, you can hear his smile as he talks. “I’m talking like this on purpose, it's a bit."

“A bit,” he repeated. You hum, “Yes. There’s nuance."

You heard movement on the other end of the line, like he was sitting up straighter now, suddenly paying closer attention. The noise of the bar faded around you while his breathing filled your ear, warm and familiar enough to make your chest ache. "Where are you?” he asked.

“At a bar.” You say, cupping your hand to the speaker of your phone as the song changes to something a bit louder. He huffs, “I can hear that, with who?”

You look around, like you forgot,“Friends.”

“You safe?” The question softened you immediately. It always did. No matter how casual things had been between you, Mat had always cared in quiet ways that snuck up on you. His hand on your lower back while crossing streets. Texts asking if you got home okay. Pulling your drunk body against his side in crowded rooms without even thinking about it.

“Mhm,” you murmured. “Very safe. Very hydrated too.” You nod again, still talking like he could see you.

“You’re holding a margarita, aren’t you?” He hums. You blinked down at the drink in your hand. “That’s actually terrifying.”

“I know you.” The words settled heavily between you. Your friend was openly eavesdropping now, mouthing don’t do it across the table while you ignored her completely. You twisted the straw between your fingers. “Are you in town?” You ask.

“Yeah.” Something warm curled low in your stomach at the answer, “Busy?”

A pause, “No.” Your heartbeat stumbled, you could practically hear the smirk forming on his face now, and you hated yourself a little for loving it so much.

“What’s this really about?” he asked softly.

You stared out at the crowd dancing beneath flashing lights, at strangers pressed together under neon signs and spilled liquor and music that rattled the floor. Everyone looked like they belonged somewhere tonight, everyone except you.

And maybe that was why you called him.

Because for all the ways things between you had gotten messy, Mat had always known exactly what to do with you. He knew how you took your coffee and how you looked when you were pretending not to be upset. He knew you got clingy when you drank tequila and quiet when you were sad. He knew how to make you laugh when you wanted to cry.

Most dangerously of all, he knew exactly how to touch you. “I don’t know,” you admitted honestly. “I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The line went quiet; not uncomfortable quiet, heavy quiet, the kind loaded with too many things left unsaid. “You miss me that much?” he asked eventually, his voice lower now.

You laughed weakly and tipped your head back. “That’s the embarrassing part, isn’t it?” You lift your glass to your lips again, like the alcohol is the only the reason you could be talking to him. “Could be worse.” He says.

“How?” Your eyebrows furrow, completely lost.

“You could be at my apartment already.” Heat rushed across your cheeks instantly. “Mat,” you breathed, half warning and half something else entirely.

“What?” he asked innocently. “You’re the one who called me.”

You bit your lip hard enough to hurt. This was exactly why staying away from him had been impossible. One conversation and suddenly every memory came rushing back at once; his hands gripping your waist in dark kitchens, lazy mornings spent wrapped in his sheets, the way he always looked at you like he knew something nobody else did. “I’m serious,” you said quietly. “I had a bad week.”

His teasing faded immediately, “What happened?”

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see it. “Just life. Everything feels annoying lately.”

“Mm.” You can hear him shifting on the other end, you bite your lip slightly, just wishing you were there.

“And I know this sounds terrible,” you continued, words loosening further with every sip of alcohol still lingering on your tongue, “but sometimes I think maybe being in your bed would fix at least forty percent of my problems.” A choked laugh escaped him. “Forty percent?”

“Minimum.” You add.

“You think very highly of me.” He laughs, letting out a slight huff. You shake your head,“I think very highly of your mattress.”

“Ouch, that’s cold.”

“You know what isn’t cold?” you asked, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Your apartment.” Smiling when you get the reaction you wanted; his laugh. “You are so drunk.”

"Yeah.” Another pause settled between you, warmer this time. You could hear traffic faintly in the background on his end, could picture him rubbing a hand over his mouth while trying not to smile. Then he sighed softly. “You want me to come get you?”

The offer wrapped around you like heat, your friend’s eyes widened from across the table as if she could somehow sense the shift in the conversation. You should’ve said no, every rational thought in your head knew this was a terrible idea, nothing good ever came from revisiting almost relationships after midnight, especially not when tequila and unresolved feelings were involved.

But then you imagined him walking into the bar in a hoodie and backwards cap, imagined his hand sliding around your waist while he leaned close enough for you to smell his cologne again. You imagined ending the night laughing against his shoulder in the backseat of a car, imagined the familiar warmth of his apartment, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin while neither of you acknowledged how impossible it was to quit each other. You were tired of pretending you didn’t want him.

liked by barzal97, sydneymartin, matthew.schaefer48 and others

maddisonbarzal, did my husband make me a MILF? The last few months have been chaotic at the Barzal residence. Although at first Schaef was destined to live with my brother, I am grateful that Mat convinced me to let Schaef live with us.

To my adopted son: thank you for bringing joy to our home and for being excellent company. To my husband: thank you for giving me an extra worry. If I couldn't watch the games in peace before, now I can't even less because there are two people on the ice that I'm worried about.

tagged: barzal97, matthew.schaeffer48, nyislanders

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nyislanders: thank you so much maddison for taking care of our rookie 💙🧡

↳ maddisonbarzal:its a pleasure 💙🧡

sydneymartin: Matt still hasn't forgotten that you took his rookie away.

↳ barzal97: he's our child now

↳ mattymarts17 you're on thin ice barzal

“You know it’s my birthday, right? Why am I the one that’s handcuffed?” Mat asks, pushing back the hair tickling his forehead.

“Mmm,” you hum, tapping a finger along your chin in faux thought. “I like to keep you on your toes,” you continue with a single-shoulder shrug.

“What’re you hiding behind your back? Another surprise, maybe something non-constricting?” Mat juts his chin in your direction, moving his head as if he could get a glance of what’s hidden in your hand.

“Don’t worry, hotshot. I won’t be restricting you anymore- unless you ask.” A smirk twists your lips up as your husband grins. No eye roll, huff of annoyance, or pouting can hide the fact that you know he’s enjoying every bit of this.

“One hand cuffed is enough right now. You know I’m going to want to touch. You know I always want to touch you,” the man grits out, straining in his spot as everything in him craves for you to be closer.

Deciding to be a bit of a tease, you move towards the bed. His posture straightens at your movements- the anticipation makes his muscles tense. Another round of giggles dare to slip out when his shoulders fall in disappointment from you stopping at your side of the bed, and hiding the surprise for later.

“What color do you think?” You ask, hand gesturing to yourself. Now, Mat will most likely assume you’re referring to a lingerie set, and you are. However, unbeknownst to him, you’re completely bare.

“Last time it was white, so maybe blue. Or orange, if you’re feeling bold,” the hockey player responds, which just so happens to be his hockey team’s colors. You mentally roll your eyes at his laidback cockiness. Maybe you shouldn’t have made him so accustomed to your fangirl-ism, or maybe he deserves it because he’s the man of your dreams. Shaking the thought out of your head, you file it away for a later time and refocus on the man in front of you.

“Valid guesses, but you’re wrong.”

Mat cocks his head to the side, his eyebrow cocking in a sort of confused tick.

“Wrong? Baby-,” the words die on his tongue and his eyes widen.

“Yeah, wrong,” you confirm as you untie your robe and let it fall off your body.

“Cat got your tongue?” The tease comes out in your signature sultry lilt, and you finally make your way onto the mattress.

“No, but I know where I can put it,” he sighs, eyes eating up every naked inch of you.

Everything in your body short circuits, briefly halting your movements. A hot rush of lust flows through your veins, bringing warmth to your cheeks.

“Easy, Barzy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you chastise, crawling over to him.

Goosebumps break out on Mat’s skin after you peel off the sheet covering his bare bottom half. His length is already hardening, and you have to pat yourself on the back, because knowing that the mere sight of you gets him going is enough to feed your ego for weeks.

With wild eyes, you drag a finger over the prominent vein on his cock. Biting onto your bottom lip, you watch the way his entire body jumps- his hand going forward before snapping back to where it’s captured.

“C’mere,” he huffs, already fraying at his edges.

“Anything for the birthday boy,” you whisper and straddle his lap.

“Hi,” Mat murmurs once you settle on top of him with your hands on his shoulders.

“Hi.” The softness of his voice draws you closer; you press your forehead to his and he bumps your nose with his.

After a second of silence and enjoying each other’s presence, you get the ball rolling again. Every ounce of air turns thick with tension as you roll your hips, letting your pussy glide over his length. Shiny arousal coats him, allowing him to slide between your folds with ease. The head nudges into your clit and you practically fall back as pleasure races through you.

“Mmm fuck. You’re so wet, pretty girl,” Mat breathes into your ear, all low and raspy. His lips ghost against the shell, and his hands squeeze your hips, making your breath hitch in your throat.

Kissing your way down from his cheek to his jaw, you nibble on his skin, giggling at the purring it elicits. There’s nothing you love more than hearing him be vocal about his pleasure. To be fair, he’s never really deprived you of it.

“Come on, baby, I need to be inside of you,” Mat says as his body writhes with impatience.

Ignoring his request, you grip his shoulders tighter, and grind slower against his erection. Earthy eyes stare into your heated gaze, watching with an aching intensity that you unfortunately break when you slip off his lap.

“Where are you going?” Mat asks in a pained whine. The veins in his body are starting to bulge against his skin- the cuffs work overtime to restrain what little sanity he has left.

Crawling to the edge of the bed, you throw him a teasing grin from over your shoulder.

“Don’t worry-“ your words break off into a cry. A thick finger slides between your wet walls; the pad curling into your sweet spot. It catches you so off guard, your entire body could melt off the bed and onto the floor.

“Oh my god,” you say, words muffled from pressing your face into the sheets.

Distractedly, you reach for the can of whipped cream, and begrudgingly push his arm away with your foot.

“This is about you, not me,” you mutter and turn back towards him, hair already a mess from all the movement.

The man hums in slight defiance, turning his head with attitude, like your words cause him ailment.

“Then are you going to finally show me what you’re hiding?” He eyes you suspiciously once you’re upright again, still hiding the can behind your back.

Before you can even answer, Mat licks off your arousal from his finger, and you think if he did it one more time you’d be able to orgasm on the spot. Something so obscene should not be so fucking sexy. But then again, it’s Mat, and anything he does is sexy.

With a faux pout, you pinch his thigh, and then plant yourself back on his lap.

“TA DAAAA,” you giggle, holding out the canned sweetness.

“I can spray it on you?” He’s immediately sitting up, his cuffed wrist already forgotten. His eyebrows raise in delight, every image of you covered in the sweet treat flitting through his mind.

“You can do whatever you want with it.” The man takes it from your hands, inspecting it as if he’s never seen such a thing before.

“I only have one hand, though,” he complains, eyebrows furrowing.

“One hand is enough,” you deadpan, playfully pushing at his chest.

“Then how am I going to touch you?” Mat’s words are sincere. It genuinely pains him to not have at least one hand on you during sex.

“Take turns alternating. Now, relax,” you whisper, eyebrows raising in quiet demand as you push his upper body against the headboard.

The atmosphere of the room switches from easygoing back to being thick with need. The dominant prowess, in which you possess in your actions, reminds your husband that you’re the one in charge.

Reaching down, you stroke his cock; your fist tightening around him pulls shallow whimpers from deep in his stomach. Your core clenches around an angry nothingness, desperately needing to be filled. Guiding him to your entrance, you lift your lower half and let the head prod against your slit. It takes so much willpower to prevent yourself from slamming down on him, your thighs begin to shake.

“Don’t make me wait,” Mat groans, his free hand finding your hip.

“Only because it’s your birthday, baby,” you breathe out. Slowly, you sink down on him. Your pussy flutters around the intrusion as you grapple for something to keep you from tipping over. Metaphorically and literally.

“Holy fuck,” Mat moans, head tipping back with a dull thud. The sound sends another wave of arousal to douse his length.

“No, no, no, Barzy. Look at me,” you sigh, fingers tangling in his hair as you shift around on him. The adjustment period is your favorite part of sex. It allows you to pull each other close, enjoy the fullness of him sheathed inside of you without having to move.

Your hands cradle his face, bringing his lips to yours. Mat’s entire body deflates as a sigh of relief leaves his mouth, and you’re quick to inhale it. The kiss is gentle, lacking any tongue or teeth, yet it’s just enough to savor the intimacy of everything.

“I love your dick so much,” you moan as you lift off him and sink back down.

Mat smirks at you, making your flesh burn and tingle.

Baby pink nails lightly dig into his pecs with each bounce, subtly scratching down his torso until your hands are planted on his lower abdomen. Mat thrusts his hips up, hitting a deep spot within you, and forcing your body to lean into him. Your hair shades your closed eyes as you concentrate on controlling the pace of how fast your release builds.

The sound of something hitting the sheets gathers your attention, and you quickly realize your husband has the uncapped whipped cream in his hand, waiting expectantly.

An airy hiss breaks through the symphony of moans as a white trail is sprayed around one of your nipples. The color of Mat’s eyes darken significantly; he licks at his lips, and looks at you like devouring you is the only option.

“Fuck,” you shriek, body jolting under the path that his tongue takes to slurp up his dessert.

“You like that?” The words are syrupy sweet, pushing you closer to the edge. The quicker you unravel, the quicker he can fill you up. He knows what he’s doing.

More whipped cream is spritzed on your body, fluffy lines starting at your collarbones and going back to your boobs.

“I love it,” you moan, hands traveling back up towards his neck. The pace of your hips quickens.

“How much?” The hockey player’s mouth sucks at your flesh, lapping up every trace of the cream.

“So fucking much.” Each inch he lowers, he nips at you before soothing it with a languid lick.

“I love feeling you touch me everywhere- with your hands or with your tongue. I’m not picky,” you mewl, your hips rotating right to left and left to right- Mat drinks in the sight of your pussy drenching his cock. The wet smack of skin bounces off the walls, making your face twist up in pleasure as your fingers sew themselves in his sweaty locks.

“You gonna cum already? I can feel you squeezing the shit outta me,” Mat growls around your nipple. The sharp sting of his teeth closing around the bud has your body shivering, and your heat clenching.

“You feel so good,” you gasp, another wave of chills rolling through your body when your husband pulls at your hair, exposing your neck.

“Cum for me, pretty,” he moans, but you’re immediately shaking your head “no.” You’re nothing if not bratty, sometimes.

Leaning back, you plant your hands on the small area above his knees- keeping yourself sturdy. Eyes boring into his, you bite onto your lower lip to keep your devilish grin at bay, and you buck your hips teasingly slow. His cock almost slips out of you, but you make sure the angle makes it so he goes nowhere.

“You’re so sexy,” Mat groans, gripping your boob in his large hand, massaging the sticky, supple skin.

“Let go, baby,” he adds, his free hand moving to your ass, and guiding your hips into harder, faster rolls.

The pleasure knots into something fierce in your stomach, slowing your momentum and making your hips ache. You want to hold on just a little bit longer, though.

“Cum for me,” Mat begs, hand slapping your ass.

“No,” you groan, forcing your hips to rock despite your burning muscles and the way he continues to fuck into you.

With each thrust from Mat, the more you start to lose your grip on your climax. The thought of your husband still having control over you while partially constricted drives you insane in the best way possible.

“Oh,” you wail, hands tugging at your already tangled hair before moving down to fondle your breasts.

The view of his heaving chest littered with faint scratches and beads of sweat is too much. Without thought, you lean down and lick up the ridges of muscle lining his torso.

A reverent hum pierces your ears, and everything escalates quickly from there. Mat’s fingers press into the notches of your vertebrae, bringing your body upright from the zap of electricity his touch brings.

“Be a good girl and cum for me. I know you want to; I can feel you leaking all over me,” he grumbles into your ear.

This time you can’t even respond; lust has consumed all your senses, leaving you a babbling mess.

From the corner of your eye, though, you notice Mat pick up the whipped cream. Before he can bring the nozzle back to your body, you take the can from him and toss it away.

“Just touch me,” you whine, bringing his hand down to where you’re both connected.

A rough, thick finger thumbs at your puffy clit, making your entire body stutter. The knot in your stomach becomes taut, and all your nerve endings jump in your body with just a fraction of attention.

“Just like that, pretty girl. Cum for me,” Mat whispers, his hand going to the back of your neck. Your lips crash onto his, and he deliberately licks into your mouth.

Swift circles are massaged into your clit, and all the hair on your body stands. A blinding white clouds your vision, and your pussy contracts around his cock, milking him with every pulse of your walls.

“Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god, Mat,” you cry.

His kisses have moved down to your chin as your mouth falls open with your release.

“I’m gonna cum,” he announces, features pinched up as he sucks on your lower lip, letting it snap back into place as his orgasm shoots into you.

For good measure, he thrusts inside of you with rough strokes- just enough to ensure your orgasm was worthwhile. It always is.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out through a fit of laughs as you fall slack against his body in your own bout of laughter.

“That was too good,” you hum again his chest, lazily smooching the spot after.

“Best birthday present ever,” Mat cheers, wrapping his arm around your form.

Reaching under your pillow, you find the key to the cuffs and sluggishly reach over to unlock the confines.

“Ugh thank fuck,” Mat gripes as he stretches his wrist.

“My poor baby. Do you need me to kiss it better?” It’s like something awakens inside of you, removing the tiredness of your climax, and kickstarting another round of lust to fill the air around you two.

“Yeah, pretty. I want you to kiss it better,” Mat says with that same air of cockiness from earlier.

This time, he’s the one fully in control. There’s no struggle as he flips the both of you, so that your back is on the mattress. Crawling down the length of your body, his animalistic stare lets you know you’re not leaving the bed anytime soon. The wet kisses leading down south, and the way his tongue slurps at your mixed release are enough to ensure that you wouldn’t mind not leaving the bed.