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For your mbf series could you do like ex-fwb with mat Barzal for go go juice
Go Go Juice
Mat Barzal x female reader
mbf series masterlist
wc: 1.6k
How's you's been, what's ups!
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.
“You know,” you said slowly, smiling into your drink, “I think that might be exactly what I’m calling about.”
kink? fetish? just sexual preferences alphabet with mat barzal.
warning : idk what to say but i know hardly anyone's gonna agree but…… i'm shy ??
pt. 1
a — abduction seduction
not a fan of intense bdsm or long sex storylines, mat still likes testing where boundaries fade, with a partner he simply wants to have fun, pure joy n wants every hidden desire to surface. truth is, this fantasy lives in his head for a while now — not only turning it toward his partner, but alsooo wishing to become the victim himself one day.
b — bareback
he's :) mildly :) unbothered :) ngl :) earlier he'd give weird explanations like condoms are awkward or whatever but being honest… he just needs to feel a bit of excitement in his routine sex life ? yeah even if it means risking infections. kinda odd.
c — collar
he'd enjoy it either way. being on the receiving end of a collar would get him just as worked up as putting it on someone. that role swap thing is strangely attractive, especially with a tight leather collar and a thick lead. for daily use ? not sooo much.
d — dirty talk
oh for sure, that's his absolute favorite. he would go on and on nonstop ( unless a decent gag is within reach )
while doing the deed he keeps blurting out dumb things — sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's painfully secondhand embarrassment. he'll whisper shit like “you like that baby?” in the most breathless tone while literally shaking and five seconds later he's asking “am i doing okay?” mid-thrust like it's a performance review.
sometimes he just starts narrating what's happening like a depraved sports commentator — “oh fuck yeah i'm about to — i'm gonna — oh shit oh fuck “ n then just finishes his sentence with a whimper. sometimes he laughs mid-thrust cause he said something ssoo ridiculous even he can't take himself seriously. "imma rearrange your guts, baby" and then he giggles.
fucking giggles….
e — edging
he's obsessed with the moment right before. it's pretty clear by now that he enjoys pushing his own boundaries. studying how his body reacts and managing the timing of his finish is top tier for him — edging literally does the job better than actual sex sometimes. he'll slow down right when that first pulse of pleasure hits just to feel the ache settle deep in his gut. mat keeps chasing that edge until his whole body is oversensitive and twitching, cock leaking, completely useless for anything except one more stroke, one more denial.
sometimes he'll beg himself out loud. the mess he makes is almost secondary.
f — face slapping
he always clears it with his partner first bbbuuut barzy definitely wants it and fucking loves when it gets just a little painful on top of him already being way overstimulated. he's obsseeeessed with hard slaps n when the other hand hesitates, he just pushes his cheek into their fingers until they give him another one. it goes both ways again.
g — groping
in semi public places it's kinda embarrassing. and that's so barzyyy — just randomly reaching out, touching his partner real slow like feeling them up under the table in some fancy ass restaurant. he's not really bothered by the setting, especially when the other person is vibing with it.
h — handjob
you need jeweler's hands to handle him :)))) at least mat barely has any boundaries around someone he actually trusts, n he tries to feel as free as possible so having the right hands on him is everything. he's sensitive. yas.
i — intoxication
sometimes it's just roleplay where either barzy or whoever he's with acts drunk. wouldn't necessarily involve any illegal stimulants or anything like that. alcohol though.… that's different. he probably just needs to double down on that feeling of vulnerability during sex. make it more raaawww.
j — joi (jerk off instructions)
ughhh there's so much to say abt this. barzy started with simple sexting, but for him nothing feels more intimate than reallife joi — with his partner right there in front of him r when he follows orders directly. he's never opposed to different kinds of psychological triggers in that space including however much control he wants over his own body. take praise or compliments used to delay an orgasm, for instance. or the complete opposite — rigid rules with clear restrictions, counting down from ten to one, coming only when he's told to.
k — kneeling
well. if we're talking about his favorite position it's definitely doggy style, also basically anything that involves a partner — maybe even himself — being on their knees. deepthroating, giving head, just foreplay in general. that's definitely it.
l — loving cruelty
yes the main thing — he'd never actually hurt someone on purpose or force anything for real. like that whole rough stuff can totally be part of those freaky little games he loves playing in bed. still, none of that would ever cross into actual violence against a partner. sure sometimes he's a complete fucking brat. even then, every shitty thing he does comes from a place of care and love thaaatttt's what drives him ! he listens closely, always looking for the right balance inside himself too.
m — morning sex
he's a freak. a fucking freak. you fall asleep next to him in the same bed, wake up in the morning — there he is, already licking, kissing, making out right after sunrise. sometimes it fucks with your head in such a weird way. barzy got so deep into this whole thing he actually started researching it. like full-on reading studies just so he could get laid at dawn. not even kidding.
n — nipple play
he's fucking intense about it. pays so much attention it gets kinda awkward. mat loves temperature contrast — picks the biting side most of all. drags his teeth over a nipple real soft, pulling it slow. doesn't shy away from other stuff either, same light fingertip grazing, barely touching. all of it with that same weird focus ! honestly makes you feel watched. not in a creepy way like the kind of attention that makes you forget to blink. yeah. that.
Could you write something about mat barzal and being jealous because she’s close to Willy I know irl they’ve interacted
I know they met somewhere but idk where, was it the AllStar Game?? Also this turned more angsty than I imagined lol
Jealousy, Jealousy – Mat Barzal
You noticed it the first time like a small, sharp feeling that didn’t quite belong.
At first, it didn’t even mane sense.
You had been sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, while Mat moved around the apartment getting ready for practice.
Your phone buzzed on the counter, lighting up with a name you recognized instantly.
Willy🇸🇪🫶🏼
You hadn’t thought anything of it at first because why would you? William Nylander had been part of your life long before Mathew Barzal ever was.
Sweden felt like a lifetime ago sometimes, but certain people from that time never really left you.
William was one of them.
You picked up the phone out of habit and glanced at the message.
It was something simple. A joke. A reference to something from when you were kids that had you smiling without thinking.
“What´s so funny?” Mat asked from across the room.
You looked up, still smiling. “Willy just sent something stupid. Remember that story I told you about –“
You stopped mid-sentence because Mat wasn’t smiling back. He was watching you too closely instead.
That was the first moment something shifted.
----
You told yourself it was nothing.
Mat had always been a little intense. Focused. Emotional in ways that weren’t obvious but showed up in small things – like the way he reacted to games, or how quiet he got when something bothered him.
You had learned to read those moods and to give him space when he needed it.
So, you brushed it off.
You texted William back quickly and set the phone down. “Just Willy being Willy,” you laughed lightly.
Mat nodded, but it felt like he didn’t really let it go.
----
It didn’t become a real issue until later.
You were in the kitchen, making dinner, when your phone started ringing. The name on the phone had you answer immediately.
“Hey,” you said, leaning against the counter.
Mat was in the living room, but the apartment wasn’t that big. He could hear everything.
“Yeah, I saw that,” you laughed. “You´re so dramatic.”
You paced slowly as you talked, slipping easily into the familia rhythm you had with William.
It was effortless, like no time had passed at all. You didn’t have to think about what to say. You didn’t have to filter yourself and neither does he.
That was just how it had always been.
After a few minutes, Mat joined you in the kitchen.
He didn’t interrupt. He just leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and listening.
You noticed him, but you didn’t think much of it. “Hold on,” you said into the phone. “Mat´s staring at me.”
William laughed into your ear. “Tell him I said hi. And that we´ll destroy them next week.”
You laughed. “He says hi.”
Mat didn’t smile.
“That´s not everything I said,” William laughed.
“Yeah, okay,” you said, your voice softening. “I´ll call you later? I need to hear that story about Pablo and Banksy, Ella texted the group chat about.” A pause. “Okay, talk later.”
You hung up and set your phone down.
The silence stretched longer than it should have. “What´s up?” you finally asked.
Mat shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “You talk to him a lit.”
You frowned slightly. “I mean, yeah? He´s one of my best friends.”
“I know,” Mat said. “I just didn’t realize it was that…close.”
You tilted your head. “You knew we grew up together.”
He hesitated, like there was something he didn’t want to say out loud. “You know what never mind.”
But it didn’t feel like that was it.
----
It became more obvious after that.
Not all at once. Not in a dramatic way. It was small things that kept adding up.
The way Mat´s jaw tightened when your phone lit up with William´s name.
The way he asked questions that sounded casual but weren’t.
“You guys talk every day?”
“How long have you known him again?”
“Did you ever date?”
That one caught you off guard.
You blinked at him. “No. Never.”
“Why not?”
You let out a short laugh. “Because he´s basically my brother.”
Mat didn’t look convinced.
----
The truth was simple to you.
You and William had grown up together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same group of friends.
You had spent countless hours together as kids – running around outside, sitting in each other´s houses, talking about everything and nothing.
There had never been anything romantic about it.
Not even close.
He was family in every way that mattered and that was exactly what made it hard to understand why Mat couldn’t seem to see it the same way.
----
The tension didn’t explode but it built.
One night, you were curled up next to Mat, half-watching something on TV, when your phone buzzed again.
You didn’t think twice before picking it up.
Mat shifted beside you. “Is that him?” he asked.
You hesitated for half a second, almost taken aback by the question. “Yeah.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to stay calm. “Can you not answer right now?”
You looked at him, confused. “Why?”
“Because we´re spending time together,” he argued. “And it feels like every time we do, he calls.”
“That´s not true,” you argued back, even though you weren’t completely sure.
Mat didn’t argue. He just looked at you.
You shifted and declined the call. “Happy?”
He didn’t answer.
----
The next day, you called William back. “Sorry, I missed your call.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied easily. “You sounded busy.”
You hesitated. “Mat didn’t want me to answer.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Oh.” After a few seconds.
“It´s not a big deal,” you added quickly. “He just – he gets weird about it sometimes.”
“Weird how?”
You leaned against the wall, lowering your voice even though you were alone. “I think he thinks there´s something going on.”
William let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Between us?”
“I know,” you sighed. “It´s ridiculous.”
“Have you told him nothing´s ever happened?”
“Of course I have.”
“And?”
“I don’t think he believes me,” you admitted.”
----
Mat didn’t bring it up again that day. Or the next.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
If anything, it got worse.
----
It came to a head a week later.
You had just gotten off FaceTime with William.
It had been long – longer than you realized because you had lost track of time, caught up in old stories and easy conversation.
When you walked into the living room, Mat was sitting on the couch, staring at his phone.
“You done?” he asked without looking up.
You stopped. “What does that mean?”
He set his phone down slowly. “It means you´ve been on the phone with him for almost two hours.”
You blinked. “I didn’t realize it was that long.”
“Yeah, you didn’t realize.”
His tone made your stomach tighten. “Mat…”
“You FaceTime him all the time,” he continued. “You text him constantly. You drop everything when he calls.”
“That´s not true.”
“It is,” he insisted. “And you don’t even see it.”
You crossed your arms. “He´s my best friend.”
“I´m your boyfriend.”
The words hung in the air.
“I know that.”
“Then act like you know that too.”
Your chest tightened. “I do.”
“No,” Mat said, his voice sharper now. “You act like he comes first.”
“That´s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
You stared at him, frustration building. “You´re making this into something it´s not.”
“And you´re acting like it´s normal to be that close to another guy.”
“He´s not just another guy,” you snapped. “William and I have known each other for over fifteen years.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Mat shot back.
You shook your head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” he said, leaning forward. “Because form where I´m sitting, it looks like you´re in a relationship with him too.”
“That´s insane, Mat, and you know that.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you said, voice rising. “He´s like my brother!”
“People don’t FaceTime their brothers for hours every day,” Mat said.
“Some people do!”
“Not like that. Not with the way you look when you talk to him.”
You froze. “What does that mean?”
Mat hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it.
“Say it with your chest Mathew,” you pushed.
He met your eyes. “You look happier.”
The words hit you harder than you expected. “That´s not true,” you muttered.
“It is,” he insisted. “You light up when it´s him and you don’t even realize that you do it.”
You shook your head again, but your confidence wavered. “You´re imagining things.”
“I wish I was,” Mat muttered.
----
The next few days were different.
You still talked to William regularly, but you were more aware of it now. More careful.
You didn’t answer every call right away. You kept your conversations shorter. You told yourself it was a compromise. That it was fair.
But it didn’t feel right.
----
Mat noticed the change.
At first, you though it would make things better.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made him more tense.
“Why didn’t you answer him?” he asked one afternoon.
You looked up from your phone. “What?”
“He called, I saw it.”
“I was busy.”
He studied you. “Since when?”
You frowned. “What´s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you always answer him.”
You felt a flicker of irritation. “You wanted me to stop?”
“I didn’t say stop,” he sighed. “I just-“
“You just what?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just don’t like it.”
“That´s not a solution, Mat,” you muttered.
“I know,” he sighed again. “But it can´t help it.”
----
That was the first time he said it like that.
I can´t help it.
And for a moment, you saw something underneath the jealousy.
Something closed to insecurity.
----
Later that night, you sat next to him on the couch. “Can we talk about this?” you asked quietly.
Mat nodded, but he looked wary.
You took a breath. “You have to trust me, Mat. There´s nothing going on between me and William. there never has been, there never will be.”
“I´m trying,” he said quietly.
“Then why does it feel like you don’t believe me when I tell you this?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Because I see the way you are with him,” he muttered. “And I feel like I don’t have that with you.”
Your chest tightened. “That´s not true.”
“It is,” he insisted. “With him, it´s easy. Effortless. With me, it feels like I´m always competing.”
“You´re not competing,” you insisted.
“It feels like I am.”
You shifted closer to him. “You´re my boyfriend,” you said softly. “He´s my friend, my brother. Those aren’t the same thing.”
“But he´s been in your life longer,” Mat sighed.
“That doesn’t matter, at least not to me.”
“It does to me.”
You sighed, trying to find the right words. “I chose you,” you tried. “I´m with you.”
Mat looked at you, his expression conflicted. “Then why does it feel like I´m second?”
The question stayed with you even after the conversation ended.
----
The truth was complicated.
You loved Mat. That wasn’t the issue.
But William was part of you in a way that was hard to explain to someone who hadn’t been there.
He knew your past. Your childhood. The version of you that existed before everything changed.
With him, you didn’t have to explain everything because he already knew.
And maybe…maybe Mat was right. Maybe that showed more than you realized.
----
A few days later, you called William.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied. “You sound serious.”
You exhaled. “Mat and I had another argument.”
“About your relationship with me?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause.
“Do you want me to back off?” he asked.
That question caught you off guard. It hadn’t been something you considered at all. “What?”
“I mean, if it´s causing problems –“
“No,” you shot that down quickly. “I don’t want that.”
“Then what do you want? Because you can´t keep going like this.”
You hesitated, then a quiet. “I don’t know.”
----
That night, you sat down with Mat again.
“I need you to meet me halfway.”
He looked at you, tired but listening.
“I´m not going to cut William out of my life,” you announced. “I can´t. He´s too important to me.”
Mat´s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But I also don’t want you to feel like you´re second.”
He looked at you, searching your face, before he spoke. “So, what does that mean?”
“It means I´ll be more aware. More present when I´m with you, but you have to trust me when I say there´s nothing going on and that there will never be anything going on.”
Mat was quiet for a long moment. “I´m trying,” he repeated.
“I know.”
----
It wasn’t perfect after that.
Mat was still jealous. You still talked to William.
The tension didn’t disappear overnight, but it shifted, slowly.
----
Sometimes, you still caught Mat watching you when your phone lit up.
Sometimes, he still asked questions that felt a little too pointed.
And sometimes, you still felt caught in the middle of something you never meant to create.
But you also saw the effort.
The way Mat bit back comments he might have made before and the way he tried to trust you, even when it was hart.
You met him there.
Not by giving something up, but by making sure he knew, without a doubt, where he stood in your life.
Still, every now and then, when your phone rang and William´s name popped up on the screen, you felt it again.
The small, sharp tension. Not because of what you felt, but because of what it meant to Mat.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Mathew cant help but fall in love with Matthew Martin's little sister
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Mathew Barzal x Maddison Martin! (Matt Martin sister)
𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦: Lucila Ferrato
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Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.
Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.
Taglist: @ashloveshockey
Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist
The car door opens before you’re ready.
It always does.
“Y/N, over here!”
Flashbulbs hit first. White, blinding, relentless. Your name follows half a second later, pulled apart and thrown back at you from every direction like it belongs to everyone but you.
You step out anyway.
Because that’s the job.
Because Mara said Saturday, and Saturday turned into the Vanier Gala, and the Vanier Gala turned into this, standing under lights that make everything sharper, harsher, more visible.
Chin up. Shoulders back. One hand smoothing over the fabric of a dress that fits perfectly and still feels like armor.
You smile.
Not too much. Not too little.
Controlled.
Effortless.
Fine.
You are very, very good at being fine.
“Y/N, how are you feeling tonight?”
You turn automatically, smile already in place.
“Good,” you say easily. “It’s a beautiful event. I’m really happy to be here.”
It sounds real.
That’s the trick.
“Any comment on everything that’s been happening lately?”
You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering it.
“I think people love a story,” you say, light, almost amused. “Sometimes more than they love the truth.”
A ripple of laughter. Pens moving. Cameras flashing like you said something clever instead of something tired.
“Do you have any upcoming projects?”
“I’d love to,” you say, smiling just enough, “but I enjoy having a job, so I probably shouldn’t.”
More laughter.
God, you’re good at this.
“Y/N,Sebastian was seen earlier this week,”
You step back before the sentence finishes.
“Thank you so much, guys,” you say smoothly. “Enjoy the night.”
You don’t rush.
You never rush.
You move like nothing touches you.
Even when everything does.
Inside the Vanier Gala, the lighting softens.
Golden. Expensive. Intimate in a way that feels staged.
It’s quieter here, but not really. Conversations overlap. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls like it’s being performed for the room.
People look at you.
Then look away.
Then look back when they think you won’t notice.
You notice.
You always notice.
You take a glass of champagne from a passing tray, lifting it to your lips just to have something to do.
It tastes like nothing.
Or maybe that’s just you.
Across the room, a couple stands too close. Her hand rests on his chest like it’s always belonged there.
You look away.
Your fingers tighten around the stem.
You could leave.
The thought is sharp. Tempting. Immediate.
You’ve done enough. You showed up. You smiled. You gave them something to write about that isn’t you falling apart.
You could disappear. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere dark. Somewhere,
“Don’t.”
Mara.
You don’t look at her.
“I wasn’t going to,” you say.
A lie.
“Mm.”
She lets it sit.
“Give it ten minutes,” she says. “You’ve already done the hard part.”
You let out a breath.
“This is the hard part.”
“Not if you play it right.”
Of course.
“You see him yet?” she asks.
Your stomach drops.
“No.”
“Good,” she says. “He’s here.”
Of course he is.
Your gaze drifts, slow, reluctant, and then, you find him.
He’s not where you expect.
Not front and center. Not orbiting attention.
He’s off to the side, talking to someone older, nodding along, one hand loose around a drink he hasn’t touched. His tie is slightly undone, collar just open enough to look like he stopped caring ten minutes in.
He laughs.
Head tipping back slightly.
And it’s,
easy.
God.
It’s so easy.
Not rehearsed. Not curated. Not trying.
Just… him.
You stare a second too long.
“That’s him?” you ask quietly.
Mara follows your gaze.
“Yes.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because now that you’re actually looking,
really looking,
He’s,
Right.
Okay.
That’s,
That’s not what you expected.
Because Mara said safe.
Mara said clean image.
Mara did not say,
that.
Because he’s,
annoyingly,
really hot.
Not in a polished, camera-ready way. Not in a look at me way.
Just,
effortless.
Like he doesn’t know.
Or worse,
like he knows and doesn’t care.
Your stomach does something traitorous.
“Okay,” you murmur. “That’s… not terrible.”
Mara glances at you.
That’s all it takes.
She’s gone.
You’re left standing there, staring at a man who is about to become part of your life for reasons that have nothing to do with either of you.
Your pulse picks up.
You tell yourself it’s the room.
It’s not.
It happens quickly.
Of course it does.
“Y/N, good to see you.”
A hand. A smile. A name you half-remember.
You play along.
“Of course, yeah, you too.”
“I don’t know if you’ve met,”
You turn.
And,
he’s there.
Closer now.
Close enough that you don’t have the distance to observe safely.
Up close, he’s,
You blink.
Oh.
That’s,
worse.
Because somehow he’s even better looking up close.
There’s something about him that doesn’t photograph the same. Something sharper. Warmer. Real in a way that cameras flatten.
His eyes flick over your face, not lingering, not assessing.
Just… taking you in.
Like a person.
Not a headline.
Not a problem.
Not something already explained to him.
“I know who she is,” he says, easy.
His voice is lower up close.
That’s also a problem.
You smile, because that’s what you do.
“Good,” you say. “That would’ve been a really awkward introduction.”
His mouth lifts, just slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Would’ve been tough to come back from.”
There’s a beat.
And it’s,
not awkward.
Not forced.
Just… there.
You feel it settle.
You don’t like that you feel it settle.
Up close, he doesn’t feel like a plan.
He feels like someone you could accidentally like.
Which is worse.
“So,” you say, tilting your head, slipping into something safer. “Do you usually get set up at charity events, or is this a Vanier Gala exclusive?”
There’s the edge.
The test.
He doesn’t flinch.
“If I say no, does that make this better or worse?” he asks.
You let out a quiet laugh.
“Depends,” you say. “Are you lying?”
He thinks about it.
Actually thinks about it.
“No,” he says. “But I feel like I should be.”
You blink.
That,
lands.
“Why?” you ask.
He glances past you briefly,toward where Mara disappeared,then back at you.
“Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t a coincidence,” he says. “And I’m not usually this lucky.”
Your brain stalls for half a second.
Because it’s not smooth.
It’s not rehearsed.
It’s not even particularly clever.
It’s just,
honest.
And for some reason, that hits harder.
Okay.
Okay, this might not be so bad.
The thought slips in, quieter this time.
Followed immediately by,
He’s really hot.
You almost laugh.
God.
You are unbelievable.
“Hey, can we get a photo?”
The moment snaps.
You turn.
Cameras.
Of course.
This is it.
This is the point.
You glance at him.
A question.
He catches it.
And instead of stepping in,
instead of assuming,
he pauses.
Just enough.
Like he’s giving you the choice.
It’s small.
It’s everything.
You nod.
He steps closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
His hand settles at your waist, light but steady.
Warm.
You feel it instantly.
Your breath catches,just slightly.
You hope it doesn’t show.
“Over here!”
“Together!”
You turn into him, your hand resting against his chest like it belongs there.
Like this is natural.
Like this is easy.
Like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
His hand doesn’t tighten.
Doesn’t pull you in.
Just stays.
Grounded.
For a second,
it feels real enough to forget it isn’t.
The flashes slow.
“Perfect, thank you!”
You step back first.
Of course you do.
Space returns.
You feel it more than you should.
“This part always this weird?” he asks, glancing at the cameras.
You let out a breath that turns into a soft laugh.
“Only when people care,” you say.
He looks at you.
“And they care a lot?”
You glance around the room. The watching. The whispering. The story already being built.
“Tonight?” you say. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
He nods, like that makes sense.
Like you didn’t just admit something heavier than it sounded.
“Okay.”
Simple.
No follow-up.
No performance.
Across the room, Mara is watching.
You don’t need to look.
You can feel it.
Everything is working.
Exactly how she planned.
And yet, when you look back at him, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re just, you, not something broken, not something to manage, not something temporary, something shifts.
Because this was supposed to be easy.
Fake.
Controlled.
But standing here, with your pulse still slightly off and his hand still a phantom warmth at your waist, you realise, quietly, that this might be the first time in weeks that something hasn’t felt like damage control.
Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.
Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.
Taglist: @ashloveshockey
Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist
The car door opens.
Flashbulbs hit immediately.
“Y/N! Over here—!”
“Mat! Look this way!”
Your name and his name, tangled together like they’ve always belonged in the same sentence.
You step out.
He’s right there a second later.
And then—
his hand.
Light. Steady. At the small of your back.
Not grabbing. Not pulling.
Just—
there.
Grounding.
“Are you two together?”
“When did this start?”
“Is this official?”
You smile.
Of course you do.
“We’re just here to support the event,” you say smoothly. “It’s a great cause.”
You feel him glance down at you, amused.
“Yeah,” he adds. “What she said.”
You move together.
Not perfectly. Not like you rehearsed it.
But it works.
It looks—
convincing.
Inside, the noise softens into something warmer.
Less sharp.
More contained.
You exhale, just slightly.
His hand drops from your back.
You notice.
Immediately.
“Well,” you say, glancing at him. “That was subtle.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I thought we really sold the ‘we just met five minutes ago’ vibe.”
You smile.
“Very organic.”
“Very natural.”
You fall into step beside him.
And for a while, it’s easy.
That’s the part that throws you.
You move through the room together, stopping when you have to, slipping away when you can. People talk to you. To him. To both of you.
He’s good at this.
Not in the polished, media-trained way you’re used to.
Just… normal.
“So what is this event actually for?” he asks quietly as you both escape another conversation.
You blink.
“You don’t know?”
“I was told to show up,” he says. “That’s about as far as I got.”
You laugh.
“Yeah, that tracks.”
You grab two drinks from a passing tray, handing him one.
“Some kind of foundation thing,” you say. “Rich people feeling better about themselves.”
He nods.
“Love that.”
You take a sip.
“You’re doing really well, by the way.”
“At what?”
“Pretending to be into this.”
He shrugs.
“I’m having a decent time.”
You glance at him.
“…you are?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“You’re funny.”
You choke slightly on your drink.
“Wow,” you cough. “That’s bold of you to admit out loud.”
“Just being honest.”
“Careful,” you say. “People might think you like me.”
“Would that ruin the narrative?”
“Completely.”
You’re still smiling when it happens.
It’s not loud.
Not obvious.
Just… a shift.
Your eyes catch something across the room.
And then you see him.
Sebastian.
It’s like someone pulled the floor out from under you.
Sudden.
Sharp.
He’s standing near the bar.
Laughing.
She’s next to him.
Hand on his arm.
Leaning in like she belongs there.
Your chest tightens.
Hard.
Because it’s not just seeing him.
It’s seeing him like that.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Like nothing happened.
Like you didn’t matter.
“You okay?”
Mat’s voice cuts through it.
You blink.
Force your face back into something neutral.
“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I’m fine.”
You’re not.
You’re absolutely not.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” he says after a second. “You want anything?”
You shake your head.
“No, I’m good.”
He hesitates.
Just slightly.
Then nods.
“I’ll be right back.”
You watch him go.
And the second he disappears—
“Hey.”
You freeze.
Of course.
You turn slowly.
Sebastian stands there like this is casual. Like this is fine.
“Hey,” he says again.
You stare at him.
God, he looks the same.
“Hi,” you reply.
Your voice is steady.
You don’t know how.
He smiles.
Like he always does.
Like it still works.
“You look good,” he says.
You almost laugh.
It comes out sharper than you mean it to.
“Thanks,” you say. “You too.”
Your eyes flick to her.
Then back.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Yeah,” he says. “This is—”
“I know,” you cut in.
You don’t need the introduction.
You really don’t.
There’s a beat.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says.
You tilt your head.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Funny how that works.”
He shifts.
Like he’s uncomfortable.
Good.
“I was gonna call you,” he says.
You let out a short laugh.
“You didn’t.”
He exhales.
“I just thought—”
“What?” you cut in. “That I’d see it online like everyone else?”
Because you remember.
The message.
Not meant for you.
A name that wasn’t yours.
A timeline that made you feel sick.
The confrontation.
Your voice shaking.
His… not.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“That’s funny,” you reply. “Because you absolutely did.”
A pause.
“It wasn’t serious,” he says.
That what does it.
You stare at him.
“Wow,” you say softly. “That actually makes it worse.”
“I just think you’re making it a bigger deal than it was,” he adds.
There it is.
You let out a breath.
Shaky.
“Right,” you say. “Because getting cheated on is famously not a big deal.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“Look, we were both busy, things got complicated-”
“Don’t,” you cut in.
“Don’t rewrite this like it was mutual.”
There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression now.
“You’ve clearly moved on,” he says, glancing past you.
You follow his gaze—
Mat.
Standing a few feet away.
Watching.
You look back at Sebastian.
“Oh my god,” you say quietly. “Is that what you think this is?”
He shrugs.
“Looks like it.”
You laugh.
It sounds hollow.
“Yeah,” you say. “Because God forbid I don’t sit around crying over you forever.”
His jaw tightens.
“You’re making a scene,” he says.
There it is.
Not what he did.
Not how he hurt you.
Just how it looks.
You swallow hard.
Your eyes sting.
And then—
“Hey.”
Mat.
He steps in beside you like it’s nothing.
Like this isn’t loaded.
Like he didn’t just read the entire situation in half a second.
“Sorry,” he says easily. “I stole her for a second.”
His hand settles at your back again.
Steady.
Familiar.
Sebastian looks between you.
Mat smiles.
Polite.
Friendly.
Just enough edge underneath it.
“You good?” he asks you quietly.
You nod.
Too fast.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“Cool,” he says anyway.
Then, to Sebastian—
“Nice to meet you, man.”
Sebastian nods stiffly.
“Yeah,” Mat adds, like it’s an afterthought, “we were just heading out.”
You weren’t.
Not technically.
But you don’t correct him.
Sebastian glances at you.
Then at him.
“Right,” he says.
Mat’s smile doesn’t change.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Have a good night.”
There’s something in the way he says it.
Not aggressive.
Not confrontational.
Just final.
Sebastian doesn’t push it.
He turns.
Back to her.
You watch them go.
Your vision blurs slightly.
“Hey,” Mat says softly.
You blink.
Hard.
“You wanna get out of here?” he asks.
No hesitation.
No we should stay.
No this is good for PR.
Just you.
You nod.
“Yeah,” you say.
And that’s it.
He doesn’t make a scene.
Doesn’t explain.
He just keeps his hand at your back
guides you through the room
past the noise
past the people
past everything
Until you’re outside.
The air hits cold.
Sharp.
You make it three steps.
And then you break.
It’s not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just your breath catching, your chest tightening, tears you can’t quite stop.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says quickly.
You shake your head.
“It’s so stupid,” you manage. “I’m fine, I just—”
You’re not.
He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t tell you to calm down.
“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get in the car.”
He opens the door.
Waits.
You slide in.
He gets in after you.
Tells the driver something low and quick.
The car pulls away.
You wipe at your face, frustrated.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “This is—”
“You don’t have to apologise,” he says.
You laugh weakly.
“Yeah, I do. I’m supposed to be, like, fun tonight.”
“You were,” he says.
That doesn’t help.
And also does.
There’s a beat.
“Who was that?” he asks, quieter now.
You stare out the window.
“My ex,” you say.
Simple.
He nods.
“He cheated on me,” you add.
Because apparently you’re just saying things now.
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I found out from a text,” you continue. “Not even a good one. Like if you’re going to ruin my life, at least be creative about it.”
A shaky laugh slips out.
“And then when I confronted him, he didn’t even fight for me,” you say.
Quieter.
“He just… ended it.”
You swallow.
“And then three days later he’s out with her,” you add. “And I get to find out about it the same way everyone else does.”
Public.
Clean.
Humiliating.
You let your head fall back against the seat.
“I looked like such an idiot,” you say.
There’s a pause.
“That’s not on you,” he says.
You glance at him.
His expression is steady.
A little tighter now.
“He didn’t even try,” he adds. “That’s on him.”
Simple.
No bullshit.
You exhale.
“I kind of lost it after,” you admit.
“Like, drinking, going out, doing dumb shit with people I didn’t even like.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“Really great coping mechanisms.”
He doesn’t judge.
“Then suddenly I’m the problem,” you say. “Photos, headlines, ‘spiralling actress’—all that shit.”
You shake your head.
“It’s just… exhausting.”
Silence.
Soft.
“You don’t seem like the problem,” he says.
You blink.
“That’s because you met me after the breakdown,” you reply.
He smiles slightly.
“I think I’d have the same opinion,” he says.
You look at him. Really look. And for the first time all night, you feel something shift.
Can you write mat barzal fluff? Maybe him meeting a girl at a karaoke bar or something fun?? I’ve had Man I Need by Olivia Dean stuck in my head all day and it makes me think of him
setting the tone | mb13
requests are open | navigation
a/n: is now a good time to mention that i genuinely don't know anyone on the islanders lol. also realizing now that i didn't read this req properly i'm so sorry lol i hope you still enjoy this
The thing about Mat is that he's good at a genuinely alarming number of things.
He's good at hockey, obviously, which isn't a small thing to be good at. He's good at reading a room. He's good at making people feel like the most interesting person in the conversation without appearing to try. He's good at parallel parking, which you've told him is not a flex and he has told you is absolutely a flex and you've agreed to disagree. He remembers the names of everyone he's ever been introduced to. He tips well. He knows how to pick a restaurant without spending forty-five minutes on Yelp.
These are facts. You've lived with them long enough to accept them as the furniture of your relationship, present and unremarkable, just the conditions of loving someone who happens to be good at things.
What Mat is not good at is singing.
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.
summary: After a game, a contusion forces Mat to spend the night at the Martins' house under Maddison's care, between alarms, worry and an overprotective Matt.
wc: 5.7k
masterlist // series masterlist
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.
⋆⠀author's note & warnings: heavily inspired by this cute concept. fluff (you/your), includes suggestive language. read more for #13⠀⋆⠀series masterlist.
If there was anything you might say was held in common whether dating an actress or dating a hockey player, it was that no two days ever looked the same. Your lives were marked by emergency flights, scratched plans, surprise celebrations, and unpredicted lulls. When you laid in bed thinking aloud, creating a plan for the beginning of an earlier summer than anticipated, neither of you expected that Mat would take the invitation for Worlds, make it all the way to Switzerland, and turn around to come home before the tournament even started.
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.”
You snorted, shaking your head as you let him reel your in, his hands sliding up your sides to settle at your ribs. “I need to train you better. This is a lot even for you,” you muttered, though the warmth in your voice betrayed your amusement. His grin widened, all teeth, boyish and unapologetic as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder blade. The weight of the afternoon pressed against you, a sort of drowsy, unhurried silence you weren’t blessed to indulge with often.
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I glanced over the chart, immediately pausing before shaking my head and extending it back to Evelyn, “Can’t take this one.”
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 listened to the quick ramble over the phone before setting it back on the receiver and sighing, quickly putting my hair back up with my clip, “Concussion patient’s contact is here. I’ll be back—looks like I’m doing overtime again.”
Toronto has always had this strange smell to it in the morning.
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.
For your mbf series could you do like ex-fwb with mat Barzal for go go juice
Go Go Juice
Mat Barzal x female reader
mbf series masterlist
wc: 1.6k
How's you's been, what's ups!
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.
“You know,” you said slowly, smiling into your drink, “I think that might be exactly what I’m calling about.”
Warnings: masturbation, suggestive content, emotional damage, Mat Barzal in compression shirts, unresolved sexual tension, one (1) hockey player causing workplace hazards
Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.
Taglist: @ashloveshockey
Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist
His hand slides up your stomach slowly, warm skin and heavy breathing surrounding you until the entire room feels smaller. Hotter. Like the air’s been stolen straight out of your lungs.
“Relax,” Mat murmurs against your neck.
His voice is rough. Sleepy. Heavy.
You feel his mouth just below your ear and your fingers tighten instinctively against his shoulders as he presses you deeper into the mattress.
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I’m not thinking,” you whisper.
“That’s a lie.”
You can hear the smile in his voice. Feel it.
His hand slips lower, and your breath catches hard when his fingers drag between your thighs, slow enough to make your entire body tense beneath him. You're already soaking. He circles your clit once, then twice, and he wastes no time in sliding two fingers inside of you.
“There,” he says softly. “That’s it.”
Your head falls back against the pillow.
The room is dark except for the faint glow spilling through the curtains, enough to catch the shape of him above you. Bare shoulders. Messy hair. The sharp line of his jaw as he looks down at you like he has nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
It feels terrifyingly real.
His fingers curl and you gasp.
“Mat—”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I got you.”
The praise in his voice nearly destroys you.
Your legs part further automatically, your body reacting before your brain can catch up, and he notices immediately because apparently dream-Mat is offensively attentive.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Your entire body goes molten.
You reach for him blindly, needing closer, needing more, your fingers catching in the back of his shirt as his mouth drags along your throat.
“Please,” you breathe.
“Please what?”
You whine softly.
He laughs under his breath. Low. Warm. Cruel.
“Use your words.”
You’re so gone you barely notice it at first. The strange disconnect. The angle. The fact his hand feels slightly wrong.
Different.
Your eyes flutter open halfway.
Dark room.
Empty bed.
Silence.
And then the horrifying realization hits you all at once.
Those aren’t his fingers.
They’re yours.
You freeze completely.
“Oh my God.”
Mortification slams into you at terminal velocity. You yank your hand away like you’ve touched a live wire, staring at the ceiling in absolute disbelief while your heart pounds hard enough to rupture something important.
No.
No, no, no.
Because not only were you dreaming about Mat Barzal fingering you into another dimension, you were apparently so committed to the experience that your body decided to participate.
“This is actually humiliating,” you whisper to yourself.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Which is a mistake.
Because immediately your brain supplies the memory of his hand at your back last night. Steady. Grounding. The quiet way he said you wanna get out of here? like it was the easiest decision in the world.
The way he looked at Sebastian.
The way he listened to you in the car.
No judgement. No impatience. Just there.
Heat coils low in your stomach again.
“Oh, fuck you,” you mutter weakly to yourself.
Unfortunately your body does not listen.
Your fingers slip back down before your dignity can stop them. You take turns circling your fingers around your swollen clit and pumping them in and out while you imagine his hands instead of yours. You come hard with his name trapped somewhere in your throat, thighs tightening as your back arches off the mattress for one embarrassing, catastrophic second before you collapse back against the bed breathing hard.
Silence.
Then:
“You have GOT to get a grip.”
You throw your arm over your eyes dramatically.
Because really.
Really?
You’ve known him for maybe ten days.
Ten.
And now your subconscious has apparently decided he’s the solution to all your emotional problems.
Fantastic.
Your phone buzzes aggressively from somewhere in the blankets.
Then again.
Then again.
With the exhausted resignation of someone being cyberbullied by their own career, you grab it.
Thirty-one notifications.
Texts from your publicist. Your manager. Your stylist.
One from your mother.
Mom: saw the photos
Mom: that man is built like a refrigerator
You bark out a laugh.
Traitor.
You open Instagram first.
Immediate mistake.
Your entire feed is you and Mat.
Photos from last night flood your screen. Him standing close behind you at the gala. His hand at your waist. The two of you laughing near the bar.
One photo catches your attention immediately.
You outside the venue, eyes glassy from almost crying while Mat leans down toward you with one hand shielding your head as he helps you into the car.
The comments underneath are absolute chaos.
@hockeyswifey: oh he is DOWN BAD
@ynnation: the way he looks at her??????
@matbarzalsgfreal: this is the first time she’s smiled in months omg
@nhlupdatesdaily: NHL men being emotionally competent wasn’t on my bingo card
@filmsandpucks: need him biblically actually
You stare at the last one for a long moment.
Honestly.
Fair.
Another notification appears.
A news article.
AMERICA’S NEW FAVORITE COUPLE?
You open it carefully. The headline alone makes you want to fake your own death.
But the article itself is… good.
Disturbingly good.
After months of concerning headlines following her breakup with actor Sebastian Hale, Y/N L/N appears happier and healthier than ever alongside New York Islanders star Mat Barzal.
The pair attended the Vanier Gala together Thursday evening, where onlookers described their chemistry as “effortless.”
“At one point he literally left with her midway through the event because she looked upset,” one source claims. “He seemed more focused on taking care of her than the publicity.”
You blink slowly.
Oh.
That one lands somewhere weird in your chest.
You keep reading despite yourself.
Fans online have already become obsessed with the unexpected pairing, praising Barzal’s seemingly protective nature and Y/N’s noticeably brighter demeanor.
Attached underneath is a compilation of tweets.
@puckbunny444: i fear this man likes her BAD
@celebwatchdaily: the hand on her back every five seconds???
@ynupdates: she actually looks safe with him :(
@sportsandstyle: this is either real or they deserve oscars
You drop your phone directly onto your face.
“This is a nightmare.”
Your phone buzzes again.
Mat.
Your stomach immediately betrays you.
Mat: u alive
Mat: pr people said u might wanna come to the game tonight
Mat: apparently it’s “good optics”
Mat: whatever the fuck that means
You: depends
You: are u gonna violently assault people on live television
Mat: almost definitely
You: tempting
Mat: wear my jersey so i know it’s u
You: this feels psychologically dangerous
Mat: probably
And somehow that’s worse.
———
The arena is loud.
Not regular loud.
Not gala loud.
Not Hollywood loud.
This is different.
Heavier.
The noise vibrates through the floors beneath your feet as thousands of people scream somewhere beyond the tunnel entrance.
You tug nervously at the sleeves of the Islanders jersey your stylist, Ava, forced onto your body an hour ago.
BARZAL.
Across your back.
You still haven’t emotionally processed that.
“You look hot,” Ava says, adjusting the collar of the jersey she forced onto your body twenty minutes ago.
You glance down.
White Islanders jersey.
Blue and orange stripes.
“I look insane,” you reply.
“You look invested,” she corrects.
“That’s worse.”
Ava ignores you completely.
“Remember,” she says as the arena doors open, “camera-friendly but natural.”
You stare at her.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means if they put you on the jumbotron, don’t look like you’re being held hostage.”
“Oh, perfect. Great note.”
The second you step inside, the noise hits you.
It’s overwhelming.
The arena practically vibrates beneath your feet, thousands of voices crashing together under bright lights and pounding music. Everything smells faintly like beer, ice, and adrenaline.
You follow security through the lower corridors toward the private suite, trying very hard not to think about the fact you are currently wearing another man’s name across your back after getting off to thoughts of him twelve hours ago.
The game is absolute chaos.
Loud. Violent. Freezing.
The arena shakes every time someone gets slammed into the boards hard enough to make you physically flinch, but everyone around you just cheers like this is a completely normal recreational activity.
Which apparently it is.
Unfortunately for you, Mat is horrifyingly good at it.
You try to be normal about the whole thing. You really do.
But then he skates onto the ice during warmups, hair curling slightly at the ends beneath his helmet, jaw sharp under the arena lights, and suddenly you understand why hockey fans behave the way they do online.
It’s less of a sport and more of a public health crisis.
And Mat?
Mat is a nightmare.
Fast hands. Sharp turns. Broad shoulders under all that equipment.
One second he’s laughing with a teammate by the bench. The next he’s slamming some six-foot-something guy into the glass with enough force to make your stomach flip embarrassingly hard.
“This should not be attractive,” you mutter under your breath.
A woman beside you hears.
“It gets worse,” she says sympathetically.
She’s right.
Because halfway through the second period, Mat scores.
The entire arena explodes.
People screaming. Lights flashing. Music blaring loud enough to rattle your bones.
And then, somehow, impossibly, Mat looks directly toward your suite.
Toward you.
His grin flashes quick and cocky as his teammates practically tackle him into the boards celebrating, and your stomach drops somewhere near your shoes.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper.
The Islanders win 4-2.
Mat gets first star of the game.
Which means they put his face on the giant screen while the crowd cheers like he personally ended world hunger.
Then the camera cuts to you in his jersey.
The crowd cheers louder.
You consider walking directly into the ocean.
You’re halfway through considering whether death by embarrassment is a medically recognized condition when your phone buzzes.
Mat: u still here?
You glance down at the ice.
Empty now except for arena staff and scattered equipment.
People are starting to leave the suites around you, the energy of the game fading into something looser. Messier.
You: unfortunately
Mat: come downstairs
Mat: tunnel by the locker rooms
Your stomach flips instantly.
You hate that your pulse speeds up the entire walk downstairs.
The arena corridors are quieter now. Distant voices echo somewhere behind concrete walls while staff move equipment past you, the cold air still lingering from the ice nearby.
You round the corner toward the private tunnel and immediately spot him.
And unfortunately.
Unfortunately.
He looks insane.
Game over now, gear gone, suit pants sitting low on his hips with a black compression shirt clinging damply to his chest and arms like the universe itself wants you dead personally.
His hair is wet from the shower, curling slightly at the ends.
You stop walking for half a second.
Mat notices immediately.
His mouth tilts.
“There she is.”
Your stomach does something deeply unprofessional.
“You look disgusting,” you inform him.
He snorts softly.
“Yeah?”
“Like objectively. It’s upsetting.”
“Appreciate that.”
You move closer before your brain can stop you.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
Because up close he’s all post-game warmth and expensive cologne underneath lingering sweat, cheeks still flushed slightly from adrenaline.
And all you can think about is the dream.
His hands.
His voice.
Good girl.
Catastrophic.
“You came,” he says.
“You literally texted me.”
“Still counts.”
You lean back lightly against the concrete wall beside him, crossing your arms mostly to stop yourself from touching him for reasons you’d rather not unpack.
“You’re very cocky for someone who spends his evenings willingly getting punched on ice.”
“We won.”
“You’re impossible.”
“But you had fun.”
It isn’t a question.
Which is annoying because he’s right.
You exhale a laugh.
“It was kind of insane.”
“Kinda?”
“Okay, fine. Watching you nearly kill people was apparently very entertaining.”
His grin widens slowly.
“That so?”
You immediately regret speaking.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You’re literally smirking.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Your face is a problem.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
The noise from the arena feels farther away suddenly.
Quieter.
And Mat’s looking at you differently now.
Not PR-differently.
Not cameras-around differently.
Just… you.
Your pulse stutters hard.
“You looked good up there,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches slightly.
“The jersey was a nice touch.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You knew exactly what you were doing with that text.”
His smile turns softer around the edges.
“Maybe.”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
And the thing is, you should step away.
Probably.
Instead you stay exactly where you are while tension thickens slowly between you until it feels impossible to breathe normally.
His eyes flick downward briefly.
Your mouth.
Then back up again.
Your stomach flips violently.
Dangerous.
This feels dangerous.
“You know,” he says softly, stepping closer, “the internet thinks I’m obsessed with you now.”
Your laugh comes out quieter than intended.
“Yeah? Tough break.”
“Mhm.”
His hand settles against the wall beside your head.
Not touching you.
Worse.
So much worse.
Because suddenly he’s close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him and your brain short-circuits entirely.
“You smell good,” he says absentmindedly.
You blink at him.
“That feels illegal after a hockey game.”
He laughs softly under his breath.
And then silence falls again.
Heavy.
Charged.
Your eyes drop to his mouth before you can stop yourself.
Big mistake.
Because he notices.
Immediately.
The expression on his face shifts almost imperceptibly.
Lower.
Hotter.
Your entire body tightens.
“You keep doing that,” he murmurs.
Your voice barely works.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Your heart slams hard against your ribs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s a lie.”
The words hit like a pulse low in your stomach because suddenly all you can think about is waking up tangled in your sheets with his name in your mouth.
Heat crawls up your throat.
Mat takes one slow step closer.
Now there’s almost no space left between you at all.
Your breathing turns embarrassingly shallow.
And then his hand touches your waist.
Just lightly.
Barely there.
But your entire body reacts instantly.
“Mat,” you whisper.
It comes out wrong.
Too soft.
Too breathless.
His eyes darken immediately.
“Yeah?”
You should move.
You don’t.
Neither does he.
For one suspended second the entire world narrows down to:
his hand on your waist
your back against the wall
the sound of both of you breathing too hard
Then his gaze drops to your mouth again.
And stays there.
Your brain stops functioning entirely.
He leans in slightly.
Slow enough that you could stop this.
Slow enough that it feels intentional.
Your eyes flutter halfway shut—
“BARZY!”
You both jerk apart instantly.
A teammate appears at the far end of the tunnel looking deeply confused.
“Oh,” he says slowly.
“Ohhhhh.”
You want the concrete floor to open beneath you.
Mat drags a hand over his face.
“For fuck’s sake.”
The teammate grins.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” both of you say immediately.
He looks delighted by this information.
“You owe me fifty bucks,” he calls to someone behind him.
Mat groans.
You stare at the floor because if you look at him right now you might actually lose your mind.
And the worst part?
The absolute worst part?
You know without a doubt that if his teammate hadn’t interrupted, Mat would’ve kissed you.
summary: Mathew and Maddison have only been married for months when Mat decides that it is a good idea for the new rookie of the Islanders to live with them
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.
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You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t actually sound amused.
Because of course.
Because obviously.
Because nothing about Mat Barzal has been “nothing spontaneous” since the moment he looked at you like you were something he couldn’t quite decide to behave around.
Your thumbs move before you overthink it.
You: so basically a photoshoot where we pretend to be in love
Mara: professionally speaking, yes.
Mara: do not phrase it like that in front of press.
A pause.
Then Mat again.
Mat: what’s “controlled narrative” mean
You stare at his message for a second.
Then the irony of it all hits you so hard you almost laugh out loud.
Because if anyone in your life needed “control,” it was absolutely not him.
You type back.
You: it means behave
Mat: no promises
You exhale slowly, setting your phone down.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, Mara’s voice echoes again:
clean image reset.
You glance at your reflection in the window.
At the version of yourself the world has decided to rebuild.
And then, almost against your will, you pick your phone back up.
You: we’ve got a shoot today
You: brand deal. photos. interview.
You: try not to embarrass me professionally
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Mat doesn’t make you wait.
Mat: no guarantees
Mat: but i’ll look pretty
You stare at that last message for a beat too long.
Then:
You: that’s unfortunately part of the problem
And against your better judgment,
You smile.
Just a little.
Before the day even starts to misbehave.
—
The studio is somehow worse than the hockey game.
At least at the arena there had been distance.
Glass.
Crowds.
Noise.
Here, everything feels close.
Too close.
“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately when you and Mat step onto the set together. “Oh, you two are disgustingly good-looking. This is gonna be easy.”
You nearly walk directly back out.
Mat laughs beside you.
“Good start.”
The studio itself is bright, all soft white backdrops and giant lights that make the entire room feel overheated. Stylists move around with steaming irons and makeup palettes while producers whisper near monitors already discussing social engagement like your lives are a military operation.
You’re trying very hard not to look directly at Mat.
Unfortunately, Mat exists directly beside you.
Which makes that difficult.
Very difficult.
Especially because he showed up wearing dark slacks and a black sweater pushed up to his forearms, hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it on the drive over.
Which feels targeted somehow.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
Your eyes flick toward him.
Big mistake.
Because now you’re remembering:
the tunnel
his hand on your waist
the almost kiss
the way he looked at your mouth before getting interrupted
Catastrophic.
“Totally,” you lie.
“That’s a lie.”
“You seem weirdly confident about that.”
“You get this thing right here,” he says, pointing vaguely toward your face.
“What thing?”
“This thing.”
“That clears it up completely, thank you.”
His mouth twitches.
And annoyingly, immediately, you relax.
“Okay!” the photographer claps loudly. “Let’s start simple.”
Simple.
Right.
Sure.
Five minutes later, Mat’s hand is on your waist while a stylist fixes your hair and you’re pretty sure your nervous system is beginning to short-circuit permanently.
“Closer,” the photographer says.
Mat’s hand tightens slightly.
You inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.
His thumb moves once against your side.
Tiny.
Absentminded.
Deadly.
“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately. “That tension right there? Gorgeous.”
Your soul leaves your body.
Mat coughs beside you like he’s trying not to laugh.
“You think this is funny?” you murmur under your breath.
“A little.”
“You’re evil.”
“Probably.”
The photographer circles around you both excitedly.
“Okay, now look at each other.”
Absolutely not.
Unfortunately, you do it anyway.
And there it is again.
That horrible, magnetic thing between you.
You don’t know when it started feeling less like pretending and more like standing too close to the edge of something.
But suddenly it does.
Mat’s eyes flick down briefly.
Your mouth.
Then back up.
Your stomach flips hard.
“Nice,” the photographer says. “Don’t move.”
You immediately move.
Mat laughs quietly beside you while you step back.
“I need everyone here to be less observant,” you mutter.
“Oh, sweetheart,” your stylist says from somewhere behind the monitors, “that ship sailed at the hockey game.”
Fantastic.
The next setup is somehow worse.
A couch.
You know.
For legal reasons.
To destroy you specifically.
“Sit,” the photographer says.
You sit carefully on one end.
Mat drops down beside you a second later, one arm stretching across the back of the couch behind you.
Too close.
Way too close.
“Relax,” he says quietly without looking at you.
“You saying that is starting to become threatening.”
His grin flashes quickly.
The photographer lifts the camera again.
“Okay, Mat, pull her in a little.”
You expect him to hesitate.
He doesn’t.
His hand settles against your waist easily, guiding you closer until your thigh presses against his.
And because the universe enjoys watching you suffer, his hand lands directly against bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly.
The contact burns instantly.
Both of you freeze.
Not visibly.
Just enough.
Enough that you feel it.
Enough that he feels it too.
His eyes cut toward yours immediately.
The photographer practically loses his mind.
“YES,” he shouts. “That. Stay exactly like that.”
You physically cannot breathe normally anymore.
Mat’s fingers flex once against your skin.
Tiny movement.
Massive consequences.
“You okay?” he murmurs quietly.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Peachy,” you whisper back.
His mouth twitches again.
God.
You’re starting to hate his mouth.
The interview somehow goes even worse.
Because apparently the producers decided what America really needs is a “couples compatibility segment.”
Which would almost be funny if it wasn’t actively ruining your life.
“Who’s more stubborn?” the interviewer asks brightly.
You and Mat point at each other instantly.
The crew bursts out laughing.
“Wow,” the interviewer says. “No hesitation there.”
“She’s terrifying,” Mat says easily.
You stare at him.
“You literally body-check grown men for a living.”
“Professionally.”
“Oh, my mistake.”
The interviewer grins.
“Who apologizes first after arguments?”
“He does,” you say immediately.
Mat looks genuinely offended.
“I absolutely do not.”
“You absolutely would.”
“You’ve known me for like two weeks.”
“And yet I’m correct.”
He stares at you for a second before laughing softly under his breath.
The crew collectively melts.
You can literally feel it happening.
“Oh my God,” one of the producers whispers near the monitors. “They’re insane together.”
Your heart does something deeply annoying at that.
Because the worst part?
You’re starting to think she might be right.
By the end of the shoot, everyone is obsessed with you both.
The photographer.
The makeup artists.
The crew.
The PR team.
Which is apparently fantastic news professionally.
Personally, you feel like you’re walking around with exposed wiring.
You and Mat stand together near the monitors afterward while the team reviews shots.
“Holy shit,” someone says behind you. “These are incredible.”
Photo after photo flashes across the screen.
His hand on your waist.
Your head tipped back laughing.
The two of you staring at each other like the room disappeared around you.
One photo stops you cold.
You hadn’t even noticed it happening.
Mat’s looking down at you softly while you’re already looking at him.
No cameras in your expression.
No performance.
Just something warm.
Real.
It hits you strangely hard.
Because for the first time since this stupid arrangement started, you genuinely cannot tell where the act ends anymore.
“You okay?”
Mat’s voice is quieter this time.
Closer.
You look up at him.
His expression shifts slightly when he sees yours.
Concern.
Softness.
Something else underneath it.
“Yeah,” you say softly.
Another lie.
And somehow, you think he knows that too.
—
You should go back to your room.
That’s the thing.
You know you should.
The shoot wrapped an hour ago.
You’re exhausted.
Emotionally unstable.
One accidental hand touch away from a complete psychological collapse.
And yet somehow you still end up standing outside Mat’s hotel room at midnight holding a bottle of champagne like a woman moments away from making deeply questionable decisions.
You stare at the door for one long second.
Then knock.
Footsteps approach almost immediately.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Grey sweats.
Black t-shirt.
Damp hair.
You hate him instantly.
“You know it’s midnight, right?” he says.
You lift the champagne slightly.
“You gonna invite me in or make this psychologically worse?”
His laugh is soft and surprised.
Then he steps aside.
“Come in.”
The room is warm.
Quiet.
No cameras.
No stylists.
No PR people.
Just him.
Which suddenly feels far more dangerous.
“You always carry emergency champagne?” he asks as you sit on the edge of the couch.
“Only during emotional crises.”
“Good thing we’re having one.”
You laugh quietly.
And then things settle.
Not awkward.
Somehow worse.
Comfortable.
You talk for what feels like hours.
About everything.
The shoot.
The internet.
His teammates.
Your terrible ex.
Hockey.
Acting.
At some point your shoes end up abandoned near the couch and Mat’s sitting close enough now that your knees brush every few minutes without either of you moving away.
“You know what’s annoying?” you say eventually.
“What?”
“You’re significantly more emotionally intelligent than I expected.”
He looks deeply offended.
“That’s crazy disrespectful.”
“You play professional hockey.”
“And?”
“And statistically?”
He laughs loudly enough that you smile immediately.
God.
That smile is becoming a problem.
“You know,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I almost kissed you yesterday.”
The air changes instantly.
Your pulse stutters hard.
You look at him slowly.
“I know.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Neither of you move.
“You didn’t seem very opposed to the idea,” he says carefully.
Your throat suddenly feels dry.
“That’s because I wasn’t.”
His eyes darken immediately.
The room feels smaller now.
Warmer.
You should say something smart here.
Instead:
“You’re very hard to pretend with.”
Mat goes very still.
Then:
“Good thing I stopped pretending a while ago.”
Your breath catches completely.
And after that, neither of you really stands a chance.
You don’t know who moves first.
Maybe both of you.
Maybe neither.
All you know is suddenly he’s closer, your heartbeat loud enough to drown out rational thought while his eyes flick down toward your mouth again.
Slowly.
Giving you time to stop this.
You don’t.
Neither does he.
“Tell me to stop,” he says softly.
You stare at him for one suspended second.
Then whisper:
“You first.”
That’s all it takes.
His hand slides into your hair as he kisses you and suddenly every almost moment, every look, every touch crashes together at once.
It’s not gentle.
Not messy either.
Just intense.
Like both of you have been holding this back for far too long.
You grab the front of his shirt instinctively, kissing him back hard enough to pull a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest that nearly ruins you completely.
And God.
His mouth.
Warm.
Slow.
Devastating.
The kiss deepens gradually until you’re half in his lap without remembering moving there, champagne abandoned somewhere on the table while his hand settles against your waist like it belongs there.
Like it’s always belonged there.
When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing too hard.
Foreheads pressed together.
Neither letting go.
“This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” Mat says softly.
And then he kisses you again anyway.
The second kiss is slower.
Somehow worse.
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt while his hand slides along your waist, warm and steady beneath your palms as the room blurs softly around both of you.
When he finally pulls back this time, neither of you moves very far.
You’re still close enough to feel his breathing.
Still half in his lap.
“This feels extremely unprofessional,” you murmur.
Mat huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth.
“Pretty sure we crossed that line at the tunnel.”
“Fair point.”
Silence settles again.
Not awkward.
Just charged.
Your eyes flick toward the abandoned champagne bottle on the table before drifting back to him.
“So,” you say carefully, “if we hypothetically start sleeping together…”
Mat’s eyebrows lift immediately.
“Hypothetically.”
“Obviously.”
His mouth twitches.
“Obviously.”
You try to ignore how warm your face suddenly feels.
“It technically helps the story,” you continue. “Better chemistry. Better press. We’d just be… committing to the bit.”
“Right,” he says solemnly. “Method acting.”
“Exactly.”
He looks at you for one long second before his hand tightens slightly against your waist.
“Sweetens the deal,” you say softly.
Something shifts in his expression instantly.
Lower.
Hotter.
“Dangerous thing to say to me right now,” he murmurs.
Your stomach flips hard.
“But you agree.”
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth again.
Then back up.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
Another pause.
Heavy.
“You’re trouble,” he adds softly.
You smile slightly.
“You kissed me first.”
“Pretty sure you showed up here with champagne on purpose.”
You could fucking giggle at the sight in front of you as you sashay into the room, silk robe loosely tied at your waist. Mat is partially propped up against the headboard, one hand cuffed to the rail and his free hand fiddling on his bare thigh. Tufts of his hair stand in different directions from your morning makeout session. A red flush still paints his skin from the sheer shock when you slapped the cuff around his wrist.
“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.
a/n: Enjoy!!!
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