#mb13

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” you say, the words a low groan as you stare out the Uber window. The familiar skyline of Manhattan shrinks in the rearview mirror, replaced by the endless, flat expanse of the Long Island Expressway.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Becca says, flicking a piece of lint off her vintage band t-shirt. “It’s Noah Kahan. You love Noah Kahan. We all love Noah Kahan.”

“I love Noah Kahan when he plays in a civilized venue,” you retort, gesturing vaguely towards the city behind you. “A venue that doesn’t smell faintly of desperation and poor life choices.”

Ana leans back from the front passenger seat. Her tone is the same one she uses when she’s about to dismantle a weak argument in your Torts study group. “Okay, let’s be rational. Fact one: Noah Kahan’s MSG dates sold out in thirty seconds. Fact two: We were all in a contracts lecture during that thirty seconds. Fact three: These were the only resale tickets under five hundred dollars. It’s simple logistics, Y/N.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” you insist, crossing your arms. Your Columbia Law hoodie feels like insufficient armor for the journey ahead. “UBS Arena. It’s … it’s their house. It might as well be built on the unholy ground of the Nassau Coliseum parking lot. Do you know how many times I had to hear my dad complain about the ice at the Coliseum? It was a running joke for fifteen years.”

Becca rolls her eyes so hard you can practically hear it. “Are we really bringing up the quality of the ice from a defunct arena as a reason to be miserable at a concert we’ve been waiting six months for?”

“It’s a metaphor, Becca. For the entire organization.”

The Uber driver, a man who has remained stoically silent for the entire theological debate, glances at you in the mirror. You can’t tell if it’s with pity or amusement.

“Look,” Ana says, turning around fully. “We’ll get in, we’ll see the show, we’ll sing Stick Season until our voices are gone, and we’ll get out. We don’t have to talk to anyone. We don’t have to look at the stupid logos on the walls. Just think of it as an away game. You’ve been to hundreds of away games.”

“Away games are different. You go in with your colors on, ready for battle. This …” you sigh, slumping against the window, “this is infiltration. I feel like a spy. A spy who is about to pay fourteen dollars for a light beer in a plastic cup.”

“A spy with fantastic friends who scored you a ticket to see your favorite indie-folk artist,” Becca adds, patting your knee. “Now put on your happy face. Or at least your neutral, ‘I am merely here for the musical stylings and not to absorb the bad hockey juju’ face.”

You can’t help but let a small smile break through. They’re right, of course. It’s absurd. You’re twenty-four years old, a second-year law student at one of the best schools in the country. Your identity is more than just being Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter. And yet, stepping out of the Uber and onto the pavement of the UBS Arena complex, the old, ingrained loyalty flares up like a phantom limb.

The air feels different here. It’s not the electric, vertical energy of Manhattan. It’s a sprawling, suburban energy. The blue and orange on the signs and banners are just a few shades off from the familiar Rangers palette, a visual dissonance that sets your teeth on edge. It’s like looking at a poorly rendered knock-off.

“Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath and pulling the sleeves of your hoodie down over your hands. “Let’s do this. But if I see a single fisherman logo, I’m claiming emotional distress and suing.”

Ana laughs. “I’ll represent you.”

Inside, it’s exactly as you feared. A shrine to mediocrity. Banners celebrating championships won before you were born hang from the rafters. The concourse is a sea of blue and orange jerseys, the names on the back a rogue’s gallery from your childhood: Tavares (the traitor), Okposo, Nielsen. You avert your eyes, focusing on the mission: find your section, find your seats, and pretend you’re anywhere else.

The opening act is a blur of pleasant guitar riffs and forgettable lyrics. You stand with your friends, bobbing your head, trying to get into the spirit of it. But your gaze keeps drifting, cataloging the details of the arena, the sight lines, the sheer audacity of it all. It’s a nice building, you have to admit. Clean. Modern. It pains you to concede the point.

As the opener finishes and the house lights come up, the pre-show buzz intensifies. The roar of thousands of simultaneous conversations fills the space.

“I’m dying of thirst,” Becca announces, fanning herself with her hand. “And I need a pretzel the size of my head. Anyone else?”

“I could use a water,” Ana says, already pulling her wallet out.

“I’ll go,” you volunteer immediately. It’s an excuse to move, to escape the feeling of being a blue-shirted ghost in an orange-and-blue machine. “My treat. You guys save the seats.”

“You sure?” Ana asks. “The lines are going to be insane.”

“Positive. I need to stretch my legs anyway.” You give them a reassuring smile and begin the slow, arduous process of shuffling past a dozen pairs of knees.

The concourse is a human traffic jam. You squeeze through crowds of people laughing, shouting, and spilling beer. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs hangs thick in the air. You find the end of a line that seems to be moving at a glacial pace and pull out your phone, scrolling through Instagram to distract yourself from the overwhelming Islanders-ness of your surroundings.

You’re halfway through an article about a recent Supreme Court decision when the guy behind you speaks.

“Tough line, eh?”

His voice is light, with a casual, almost musical lilt to it. You glance back over your shoulder, offering a noncommittal, polite hum in response. He’s tall, with an easy smile and a wave of dark, unruly hair that falls perfectly across his forehead. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but he wears them with an unconscious confidence that suggests he’s used to being looked at. He’s handsome. Annoyingly so.

“Always the way,” he continues, undeterred by your lack of enthusiasm. “You wait ‘til the break, you and ten thousand other people have the same bright idea.” He gestures with the hand that isn't holding his own phone. “Gotta have a plan. Send a scout during the last song of the opener. That’s the pro move.”

You manage a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll remember that for next time.” You turn back to your phone, hoping the conversation is over. You’re not here to make friends. Especially not with someone who looks so comfortable, so at home in this place.

A few minutes of silence pass. The line inches forward.

“So, you a big fan of the opener?” He asks again.

You sigh internally. “They were fine.”

“Just fine? Ouch.” He chuckles. It’s a nice sound, low and genuine. “I thought they were pretty good. You here for Noah, then?”

“Is there another reason to be here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

He raises an eyebrow, the easy smile faltering for just a second. “I mean, I guess not tonight. Fair point.” He shifts his weight. “I’m Mat, by the way.”

You don’t offer your name in return. You just nod. “Okay.”

The silence that follows is a little more awkward this time. You can feel his eyes on the side of your head. You risk a tiny, sideways glance. He’s looking at you with a puzzled sort of curiosity, a small frown playing on his lips. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite place him. A model? An actor from a show you half-watch?

The line moves again, a glorious surge of two full steps. You’re almost at the counter.

“Alright, look,” he says, his voice a little closer now. “I feel like I’ve seriously offended you somehow, and I’ve only said about twenty words. Is it the scout comment? Was that too much? I can be a bit of a hockey nerd about strategy, it just comes out.”

Hockey. The word hangs in the air between you. And suddenly, it all clicks into place with a sickening thud. The familiar face. The confidence. The fact that he’s here, at UBS Arena, looking like he owns the place. You’ve seen that face in post-game interviews, on sports blogs, in the nightmares of Rangers fans everywhere.

Mat Barzal.

Number 13. The flashy, infuriatingly talented centerpiece of the New York Islanders.

The blood in your veins turns to ice.

You turn to face him fully, your polite, disinterested mask dropping away to reveal the pure, unadulterated disdain that has been simmering under the surface since you crossed the Queens border. Your eyes narrow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

His friendly confusion deepens. He glances down at his plain black t-shirt as if checking for a stain. “Kidding about what? The hockey nerd thing? It’s true, ask anyone.”

“No,” you say, your voice low and dripping with contempt. “This. You. Here.”

He blinks, a slow, perplexed motion. “I … work here sometimes? Is that a problem?”

“A problem?” A harsh, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “It’s an abomination.”

His smile is completely gone now, replaced by a look of genuine bewilderment. He takes a half-step back, as if you might physically lash out at him. “Whoa. Okay. I’m clearly missing something huge right now. Did I, like, cut you off in traffic on the way here? Steal your parking spot?”

“Worse,” you say, the word like a stone. “You play for the Islanders.”

He stares at you for a beat, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, his face breaks into a disbelieving grin. “Wait, is that what this is? Seriously? A rivalry thing?”

“A rivalry thing?’” you echo, your voice rising slightly. “It’s not a ‘thing.’ It’s a fundamental divide in the fabric of the universe. It’s good versus evil. It’s taste versus … whatever you call that thing you guys do on the ice.”

He actually laughs, a full, surprised sound that makes a few people in front of you turn their heads. “Wow. Okay. You’re … you’re really passionate about this. I’ve seen fans get into it, but this is a whole other level. You’re a Rangers fan, I take it?”

“I’d rather be a fan of the IRS than a fan of the Islanders,” you spit back.

“Damn.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking both amused and utterly baffled. “That’s harsh. The IRS? They’re ruthless.” He leans against the counter behind him, crossing his arms. The posture is casual, but his eyes are fixed on you, trying to figure you out. “So what, I’m not allowed to get a pretzel at a concert in my own arena because my jersey is the wrong color for you?”

“It’s more than a color,” you say, leaning in slightly, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s a moral failing.”

“A moral failing,” he repeats slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching. He’s trying not to smile, and it’s making you even angrier. He thinks this is a joke. A cute little quirk. He doesn’t understand that this is theology to you.

“Look, I’m sorry that my existence offends you so deeply,” he says, his tone shifting from amused to something a little more serious. “I was just trying to make conversation while we wait for overpriced beer.”

“Don’t bother,” you say, turning your back to him as you finally reach the front of the line. “I don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

“The enemy?” He calls after you, his voice a mix of disbelief and something else you can’t quite place. “We’re at a folk concert!”

“Two waters, please,” you say to the vendor, your voice clipped and businesslike. You slap your card on the counter, refusing to look back, though you can feel his gaze burning a hole in your Columbia hoodie.

You grab the two plastic bottles and turn, intending to push past him without another word. But he’s standing right there, blocking your path. He’s not smiling anymore. There’s a challenge in his eyes now, a flicker of competitive fire that you’ve seen on TV a hundred times, right before he dangles through three defensemen.

“You never even told me your name,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A demand.

“That’s because you don’t need to know it.”

“I think I do,” he insists, his voice softer now, more intimate. It’s a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of the concourse around you. “Someone who hates me that much, that personally? I feel like I should at least know what to call you.”

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. This is ridiculous. You’re a law student. You’re rational. You’re composed. But something about his unwavering focus, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s ever seen, is undoing all of that.

“It’s Lundqvist,” you say, the name leaving your lips before you can stop it. You see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it’s not the one you expect. He doesn’t connect it. Not yet. To him, it’s just a common Swedish surname.

“Lundqvist,” he repeats, testing the sound of it. “Well, Lundqvist. It’s been … memorable.”

From the arena bowl, a massive, earth-shaking roar erupts. The lights dim, and the opening chords of Noah Kahan’s first song blast through the speakers. The main event is starting.

It’s your escape hatch.

“I have to go,” you say, pushing past him. Your shoulder brushes his arm, and for a split second, you feel a jolt of warmth through his t-shirt and your hoodie.

“Hey, wait!” He calls out.

But you don’t wait. You plunge back into the moving river of people, weaving and dodging, the two cold water bottles clutched in your hands. You don’t look back. You just run, your pulse racing, his voice echoing in your ears over the sound of the music.

When you finally collapse back into your seat, breathless, Ana and Becca are already on their feet, screaming the lyrics.

“What took you so long?” Ana shouts over the music, taking a water bottle from your trembling hand. “Did you get lost?”

You just shake your head, your eyes fixed on the stage, where Noah Kahan is bathed in a single spotlight. But you don’t see him. All you see is a pair of confused hazel eyes and a disbelieving smile.

“You okay?” Becca mouths, her brow furrowed with concern. She saw your face.

“Fine,” you mouth back, forcing a smile that feels brittle and fake.

You try to lose yourself in the music, to sing along with your friends and forget the last ten minutes ever happened. But it’s impossible. The interaction plays on a loop in your head. The casual confidence in his voice. The way his smile disappeared. The intensity in his eyes when he asked for your name.

You, a Lundqvist, just had a ten-minute, high-stakes, verbal sparring match with Mat Barzal in the heart of enemy territory.

And the most infuriating part of it all, the part that makes a hot, confusing flush creep up your neck, is that for a fleeting moment before you knew who he was … you thought he was charming.

You look out over the sea of cheering fans, the colored lights washing over their faces. He’s out there somewhere. In a suite, probably. Watching the same show. Breathing the same air. And he knows your name. Or, at least, your last one.

The coat of legacy suddenly feels a few sizes too tight. The concert has just started, but for you, the drama is already well underway.

***

The last song fades, the final chord hanging in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam before being devoured by a tidal wave of applause. The house lights flash on, stark and unforgiving, revealing a sea of flushed, smiling faces. It’s over. The collective dream has ended. For everyone else, at least. For you, it never even began.

You were a ghost at the feast, physically present but mentally a million miles away, stuck in a ten-minute loop on a crowded concourse. You clapped when Ana and Becca clapped, sang along to the choruses you knew by heart, but the words were ash in your mouth. The joy of the music was muted, filtered through a strange, new static you couldn’t tune out.

“That,” Becca declares, her voice a hoarse whisper, “was spiritual. I think my soul left my body during Northern Attitude.”

“It was incredible,” Ana agrees, gathering her jacket. “Totally worth the trek into enemy territory.” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Even you have to admit that, Y/N.”

You offer a weak smile. “He’s a great performer.”

They both stop and look at you. The exodus from the arena swirls around you, a chaotic ballet of fans shuffling towards the exits, but your little trio is a sudden island of stillness.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Becca asks, her fun-loving demeanor melting away to reveal the sharp perception that always surprises you. “You’ve been weird for the last ninety minutes. You were practically vibrating when you came back with the waters.”

“I’m not weird,” you lie, starting to move towards the aisle. “I’m just tired. Long week of classes.”

“Don’t you dare pull the ‘law school is hard’ card on us,” Ana says, falling into step beside you. “We’re in the trenches with you, remember? This is something else. Spill. Was the concession guy a jerk?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh that sounds more like a cough. “The concession guy? No, he was fine. It was the guy in line behind me.”

The slow-moving crowd forces you into a single-file line. Becca is in front of you, Ana behind, effectively bracketing you in. There’s no escape.

“Ooh, a guy in line,” Becca says, twisting her head back, her eyes gleaming with interest. “Was he cute? Please say he was cute. We need a fun story to cap off the night.”

“I didn’t really notice,” you lie again, the words feeling clumsy and foreign on your tongue.

“Liar,” Ana singsongs from behind you. “Your ‘I am being evasive’ tell is your left eyebrow does this little twitchy thing. It’s doing it right now. I can feel the vibrations through the floor.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. There’s no getting out of this. They’ll wear you down eventually, with the precision of a perfectly crafted cross-examination. “He was … conventionally attractive, I guess.”

“‘Conventionally attractive’?” Becca scoffs. “Listen to you. You sound like you’re drafting a legal brief. Use real words. Was he hot?”

You stay silent, focusing on the back of the jersey in front of you. A name you don’t recognize. A prospect, maybe.

“Her silence speaks volumes,” Ana interprets for the court. “The defendant is pleading the fifth, which in girl-code, is an admission of extreme hotness.”

“Okay, fine,” you snap, your voice a frustrated whisper-shout. “He was objectively handsome, if you like that tall, athletic, ‘I’ve never had to try a day in my life’ kind of thing.”

“I do!” Becca exclaims. “That is my absolute favorite kind of thing! So what happened? Did he have a terrible opening line? Did he have a girlfriend with him? Does he secretly stan the Devils?”

“Worse,” you mutter, the single word a repeat of your earlier conversation, but this time filled with exhaustion instead of venom.

You finally break free from the bottleneck of the aisle and spill back out onto the main concourse. It’s still packed, but you can breathe again. You find a slightly less crowded spot near a closed concession stand.

“Worse than a Devils fan?” Ana asks, her brow furrowed. “I’m not sure that’s mathematically possible.”

You take a deep breath, like a swimmer preparing to plunge into icy water. “His name is Mat Barzal.”

The name hangs in the air for a second, meaningless. Then, you see the slow-dawning horror on Ana’s face, followed by the confused, delighted gasp from Becca.

“Wait,” Ana says, her voice flat with disbelief. “Like … the Mat Barzal? Islanders Mat Barzal?”

“Number thirteen,” you confirm, your tone grim.

Becca claps her hands together, a single, sharp sound. “No! Shut up. You ran into Mat Barzal? And he hit on you?”

“He did not ‘hit on me,’” you say defensively. “He made annoying small talk in the pretzel line.”

“That’s how it starts!” Becca insists, grabbing your arm. “The flirty banter! The meet-cute! It’s the inciting incident! This is a rom-com, Y/N! You’re the hard-as-nails Rangers fan with a secret heart of gold, and he’s the charming rival who makes you question everything!”

“He made me question my will to live, that’s about it,” you grumble. “It was horrible. He was so … smug.”

“Or,” Ana interjects, her lawyerly brain kicking in as she analyzes the situation, “was he just friendly, and you perceived it as smug because of your deeply ingrained, and admittedly well-founded, institutional bias?”

You glare at her. “Don’t use my own legal reasoning against me. He was smirking. And he called it ‘a rivalry thing.’ The audacity.”

“Okay, that part is a little dismissive,” Ana concedes. “But what did you do? What did you say?”

“I told him I don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

Becca groans. “Y/N, no! That’s what you say in chapter five, after the sexual tension has been building! You skipped ahead!”

“And then,” you continue, ignoring her, “I might have mentioned that his chosen profession constitutes a moral failing.”

Ana winces, rubbing her temples. “Okay, that might have been a bit much.”

“It was perfect!” Becca argues. “It’s establishing your character! He knows you’re not just some puck bunny. You’re a formidable opponent! He’ll be obsessed. He’ll be trying to figure you out for weeks.”

“I doubt it,” you say, though a tiny, treacherous part of you replays the look in his eyes when you walked away. The way he shouted after you. “He probably just thinks I’m insane.”

“So, did he know who you were?” Ana asks, the question you’ve been dreading.

You shake your head, the motion stiff. “No. I don’t think so. He asked for my name and I … I panicked. I just said Lundqvist.”

The three of you stand in silence for a moment, processing the weight of that single word.

“Oh, honey,” Ana says, her voice full of sympathy. “You dropped a nuclear bomb and walked away.”

“He won’t figure it out,” you insist, more to convince yourself than them. “Lundqvist is like the Swedish equivalent of Smith. He’ll never connect it.”

“A guy like that? A pro athlete?” Becca says, shaking her head. “They’re competitive. He’s not going to let some girl who looks like you call him a moral failure and then just forget about it. He’s going to investigate. Trust me. The game is afoot.”

“There is no game,” you say firmly. “It was a weird, five-minute interaction that is now over. We’re going to get in the Uber, go home, and I am going to devote the rest of my weekend to memorizing the nuances of civil procedure. End of story.”

But as you walk out into the cool night air, the LIE a ribbon of headlights in the distance, you know Becca is right. It doesn’t feel like an end of a story. It feels like a page has just been turned.

***

The sound of the car door closing is a dull thud in the quiet of his garage. Mat leans his head back against the leather headrest, the engine ticking as it cools. The echoes of the concert are still ringing in his ears, a faint phantom of bass and acoustic guitar. But it’s not Noah Kahan’s voice he hears in his head.

It’s yours.

“You play for the Islanders.”

The sheer disgust in your voice. He’s dealt with hecklers, with angry fans shouting at him from behind the glass, with bitter keyboard warriors online. That’s all just noise. White noise. Part of the job.

This was different. This was surgical. It was a quiet, personal kind of hatred, delivered from two feet away by a woman with eyes that flashed like a storm warning over the Atlantic.

“Dude, you good?” Bo Horvat’s voice cuts through the silence from the passenger seat. “You haven’t said a word since we left the parking lot. You usually give me a full breakdown of the setlist.”

Mat scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, man. Just … tired, I guess.”

“Tired? Or thinking about whoever it was you were talking to at the concession stand?” Bo asks, a knowing smirk in his voice. “I saw you from a distance. Looked pretty intense. Didn’t look like it went your way, either. Which is, you know, a new look for you.”

Mat sighs, turning the key to cut the auxiliary power. The garage plunges into darkness, save for the faint glow of the dashboard. “It was the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Weirder than that time in Montreal when the old lady tried to pay for her hot dog with a pocketful of buttons?”

“Weirder,” Mat confirms. “She hated me, man. Like, truly, genuinely hated my guts.”

Bo laughs. “Okay? So she’s a Rangers fan. Welcome to New York. Half the people in this city hate our guts. It’s part of our charm.”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Mat insists, trying to articulate it. “It wasn’t like, ‘Oh, you’re an Islander, boo.’ It was like I had personally wronged her great-grandparents. Like I’d burned down her village. And she was … man, I don’t even know.”

He trails off, remembering the way she stood her ground. The intelligence in her eyes. The way her whole demeanor shifted from polite disinterest to righteous fury in a split second. Most people, when they recognize him, get flustered or excited. They ask for a picture. They tell him he needs to shoot more on the power play. They don’t look at him as if he’s a stain on the fabric of humanity.

“So she was hot, then,” Bo concludes sagely. “This level of post-rejection brain-scramble only happens when they’re really hot.”

Mat can’t help but smile in the darkness. “Yeah, Bo. She was not hard to look at.”

“So what’s the problem? You’ll never see her again. Erase it. Plenty of other, uh, non-hateful fish in the sea.”

“I don’t know,” Mat says, and this is the part he can’t explain, the part that feels like a glitch in his own wiring. “I kinda want to see her again.”

Bo is silent for a moment. “Okay, now you’re just being a masochist. She told you she hates you. What are you gonna do, show up at her door with a sign that says, ‘I come in peace’?”

“She gave me her last name,” Mat says, the words tasting like a clue. “Lundqvist.”

“Lundqvist,” Bo repeats. “Swedish. There are a million of ‘em. Good luck with that. Probably for the best, man. A Rangers fan that intense? That’s like dating a landmine. You’re better off.”

Maybe he is. Bo’s right. It’s insane. He should go inside, drink a protein shake, watch some highlights from the evening’s games, and forget all about it. He should forget about the flash of anger in her dark eyes and the way she said his name like it was a curse.

But as he walks into his sterile, modern house on the North Shore, the advice feels impossible to follow. The encounter has dug in under his skin. It was a challenge. And if there’s one thing Mat Barzal has never been able to do, it’s back down from a challenge.

He showers, the hot water doing nothing to wash away the conversation. He wanders into the kitchen, the open-plan living space feeling vast and empty. He’s not tired. He’s wired, restless. He grabs his phone from the kitchen island, his thumb hovering over the Instagram icon.

It’s a stupid idea.

He opens it anyway.

He types ‘Lundqvist’ into the search bar. The results are a digital flood. annalundqvist, erik_lundqvist, lundqvist_photography, viktorlundqvist78. Thousands upon thousands of them. Public profiles, private profiles. People in Sweden, people in Minnesota, people all over the world. It’s hopeless. Anonymity in a crowd of namesakes.

He tosses his phone onto the couch with a frustrated sigh and walks over to the wall of windows overlooking the dark, placid waters of the Long Island Sound. The whole thing is ridiculous. He’s acting like a teenager. He’s a professional athlete. He has a game in three days. He should be thinking about zone entries and defensive pairings, not some mystery woman who despises his existence.

He stands there for a long time, watching the distant lights twinkle on the Connecticut shoreline. But the idea won’t let him go. There has to be another way. He thinks back to the concert, trying to visualize the scene. The crowd, the noise, the phone screens everywhere.

People post everything. They post pictures of their tickets, videos of the show, selfies with their friends. And when they post, they tag the location.

The idea hits him with the force of a perfectly executed one-timer. It’s a long shot, a digital needle in a haystack, but it’s a shot nonetheless.

He retrieves his phone from the couch, his heart starting to beat a little faster now, the thrill of the chase taking over. He goes to the search page, taps on ‘Places,’ and types in ‘UBS Arena.’ He clicks on the location, then on the ‘Recent’ tab.

The screen fills with the collective memory of the night. A torrent of faces and lights. He starts to scroll.

It’s an exercise in patience. He scrolls past blurry videos of the stage, the audio a distorted mess. He scrolls past endless smiling selfies, group photos, pictures of half-eaten pretzels and overpriced beers. Best night ever with my girls! Noah Kahan, you are my everything! Stick Season in the homeland!

His eyes start to glaze over. Every face begins to look the same. Maybe this was a mistake. She was probably the one person in the entire arena who didn’t post a single thing. She seemed too serious for that, too intense.

He keeps scrolling. Down and down, back through the hours. He’s scrolling through posts from an hour ago, then two, then three. He’s back to the time of the opening act. His thumb is starting to ache.

He’s about to give up. He’ll give it one more minute, then he’ll put the phone down and go to bed. He does a few more fast, desperate flicks of his thumb.

And then he stops.

The photo jumps out at him, a sudden point of clarity in the digital chaos. It’s a group shot of three women, silhouetted against the bright lights of the stage. The caption reads, It’s a damn shame what we’re not. @noahkahanmusic with my favorites. Two accounts are tagged in the photo. @anareid_esq and @ynlundqvist.

He zooms in. The girl on the right is the mediator, the one who looks like she has her life together. The one in the middle is the free spirit, a wide, joyful grin on her face. And the one on the left … it’s you.

It’s Lundqvist.

You aren’t looking at the camera. Your head is turned slightly, a small, genuine smile on your face as you listen to something one of your friends is saying. The harsh arena lighting catches the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. In this photo, you aren’t the furious adversary he met on the concourse. You look happy. Relaxed. Beautiful.

His breath catches in his throat. He found you.

His thumb moves, almost of its own accord, and taps on the tag: @ynlundqvist.

The profile loads. A simple, elegant selfie for the profile picture. A bio that just says Columbia Law ‘27. And, to his immediate and immense frustration, the little lock icon and the words This Account is Private.

Of course it is.

For a moment, he feels defeated. A locked door at the end of the treasure hunt. But then he looks closer. Below the private account notice, there’s another line. A line that makes the hair on his arms stand up.

Followed by ckreids, mika.zibanejad, shesty_official, and 12 others you follow.

Kreider. Zibanejad. Shesterkin.

The pieces start to slam into place, the loud, chaotic clang of a slot machine hitting the jackpot.

Lundqvist.

A Rangers fan whose hatred runs so deep it feels biblical.

Followed by the core leadership of the current New York Rangers.

Columbia Law. A sharp, intelligent woman who could dismantle him with a few well-chosen words.

It’s not Smith. It’s not a common name. Not in this context. In this context, in this city, in the world of hockey, ‘Lundqvist’ only means one thing. It means royalty. It means The King.

Mat lets out a low whistle, sinking back into the cushions of his couch. He stares at the screen, at the private profile that holds the daughter of his team’s greatest modern rival. Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter. He’d just spent ten minutes bickering with Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter. He’d called her passionate. He’d been amused by her loyalty. He had no idea he was staring into the epicenter of an entire Rangers dynasty.

A slow grin spreads across his face. It’s not a grin of amusement anymore. It’s a grin of pure, unadulterated disbelief at the sheer, cosmic poetry of the situation. This is insane. This is completely, certifiably insane.

Bo’s voice echoes in his head. That’s like dating a landmine.

And maybe he’s right. This is a terrible idea. Fraternizing with the enemy is one thing; trying to fraternize with the enemy’s princess is an act of war. It could end in disaster. It could end in public humiliation. It could end with him getting verbally eviscerated in a way that would make a Don Cherry rant look like a gentle compliment.

But as he looks at your locked profile, a feeling crystallizes in his chest. It’s the same feeling he gets when he’s down by a goal with a minute left to play. It’s the same feeling he gets when he sees a seam in the defense that no one else sees, a high-risk, high-reward play that could change the whole game. It’s a cocktail of adrenaline, audacity, and an unshakeable belief in his own ability to make something impossible happen.

He doesn’t want to just figure you out anymore. He wants to know you. He wants to know what you’re like when you’re not defending your team’s honor against the likes of him. He wants to see you smile like you are in that picture, and he wants to be the reason for it. He is, he realizes with a jolt, completely intrigued. The fact that you are who she are doesn’t scare him off. It does the exact opposite. It makes the entire proposition a thousand times more compelling.

This is no longer about a random, pretty girl at a concert. This is about the story. A story so ridiculous, so unbelievable, it has to be real.

His thumb moves with newfound purpose. It hovers over the blue button for a fraction of a second, a silent declaration of intent.

Then, he presses it.

Follow Request.

The button turns a flat, unassuming white.

Requested.

The shot has been fired. The puck has been dropped. He has no idea what happens next. You could ignore it. You could block him. You could take a screenshot and send it to all your Rangers-playing mutuals for a good laugh at his expense.

Mat places his phone face down on the cushion beside him. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, and for the first time all night, he lets himself truly smile.

***

The next day is a blur of blue-book citations and the finer points of contract law. You’re in your happy place, a small, secluded carrel on the silent floor of the Columbia Law Library. This is your sanctuary. Here, the world is orderly. It’s logical. Every argument has a counter-argument, every problem has a precedent. It’s a fortress against the chaos of the outside world.

But today, the fortress walls have been breached. A certain number thirteen keeps skating through your thoughts, disrupting your focus.

Your phone, set to silent, buzzes on the table beside your laptop. It’s the group chat.

Becca: Has the enemy made contact yet?

Ana: Leave her alone. She’s studying.

Becca: This is more important than studying! This is life! Romance! Cross-city rivalries! It’s basically Romeo and Juliet but with more checking and less teen suicide.

You roll your eyes, but a smile touches your lips.

You: There’s no romance. He was an annoyance. And I have 150 pages of reading for Torts. Talk to me tomorrow.

Becca: He’s totally going to slide into your DMs. I give it 24 hours. He’s going to say something charmingly self-deprecating.

You: He doesn’t know my Instagram handle. And even if he did, I’m private. Checkmate.

Ana: The checkmate is you doing your reading so we can pass this class and become high-powered attorneys.

Becca: Booooring.

You put the phone down, determined to ignore it. You manage a solid twenty minutes of focused reading, highlighting a particularly dense passage on promissory estoppel, when the phone screen lights up with a different kind of notification. Not a text. Not an email.

An Instagram notification.

matbarzal requested to follow you.

You stare at the screen. You stare at it so long that the screen goes dark. You tap it back to life, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.

It’s still there. The name. The request.

Your blood runs cold, then hot, then cold again. A wave of something that feels suspiciously like panic crashes over you.

How?

How did he find you? It’s impossible. You didn’t give him your first name. You’re private. There are thousands of Lundqvists. Your username gives nothing away.

Becca’s voice rings in your ears. He’s going to investigate. Trust me.

He investigated. He must have gone through the location tags. The thought of him scrolling through hundreds of photos, searching for your face, is both deeply creepy and, to your utter mortification, a little bit flattering. He didn’t just forget about you. He went looking.

Your thumb hovers over the notification. Two options sit side-by-side, a digital fork in the road. Confirm. Delete.

Delete. The obvious choice. The sane choice. You delete the request, and this whole absurd saga is over. He gets the message loud and clear. You weren’t kidding. You want nothing to do with him. It’s clean. It’s final. It’s what any self-respecting, legacy-carrying Rangers fan would do.

But your thumb doesn’t move.

You’re thinking about the look on his face. The genuine, unguarded confusion. The flicker of a challenge in his eyes. He had no idea who you were. Not really. He didn’t know he was not just poking a random Rangers fan, he was poking the daughter of the King himself. The sheer, beautiful irony of it is almost too much to bear.

What would happen if you hit Confirm?

He’d see your photos. Photos of you at the Garden, wearing your father’s jersey. A picture of you and your dad on the ice after his retirement ceremony. A picture of your dog, a golden retriever named Shesty. It would take him approximately thirty seconds to connect the dots.

And what then?

A wicked, dangerous curiosity starts to bloom in your chest. It’s the same impulse that makes you want to argue a losing point in class just to see if you can win. It’s the thrill of the intellectual spar.

He fired a shot. Deleting it is a defensive move. Accepting it … accepting it is returning fire. It’s raising the stakes. It’s a silent, loaded message. You have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm. This is a terrible idea. It’s a stupid, reckless, dramatic idea.

You press Confirm.

The blue Confirm button fades to a placid, non-committal white. Requested becomes Following. It’s a simple, two-word change on a screen, but it feels like pulling a pin from a grenade. You’ve just granted the enemy access to the fortress. You’ve handed him the key to the archives, a curated history of your life for the past eight years.

You hold your breath, half-expecting your phone to explode. Nothing happens. The library remains silent, the only sound the gentle hum of the ventilation and the distant, soft cough of a fellow student drowning in case law. You stare at his name in your follower list, nestled absurdly between your cousin in Stockholm and a food blogger you followed for a good focaccia recipe. matbarzal. It looks like a typo. A glitch in the matrix.

You take a screenshot and send it to the group chat without comment. The response is instantaneous.

Becca: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Ana: You did NOT.

Becca: YOU DID!!! THIS IS HAPPENING! I’M THE CAPTAIN OF THIS SHIP! I’M GOING DOWN WITH IT IF I HAVE TO!

You: It was a strategic decision. Reconnaissance.

Ana: You accepted a follow request from the star player of your father’s arch-rival team and you’re calling it ‘reconnaissance’? Have you been reading CIA interrogation manuals instead of your Torts textbook?

You: He can’t hurt me if I know what he’s looking at.

Becca: HE’S LOOKING AT YOU! HE’S OBSESSED! HE WENT ON A DIGITAL MANHUNT FOR YOU! A MANHUNT! BE MORE ROMANTIC, YOU CAN’T!

You silence your phone and slide it face down on the table, your heart thumping a nervous rhythm against your ribs. You try to focus on the words in your textbook, on the dense legal prose that usually feels like a comforting puzzle. But the letters swim before your eyes. All you can think about is him, a guy you’ve known for less than fifteen minutes, scrolling through your life. What is he seeing right now? What is he thinking?

***

Mat feels a jolt, a surge of pure, unadulterated victory, as the notification pops up on his screen. Y/N Lundqvist (@ynlundqvist) accepted your follow request. He lets out a triumphant laugh in the quiet of his living room. It’s a bigger thrill than it has any right to be. It’s definitely a bigger thrill than his last shootout goal.

He taps on your profile, and this time, the lock is gone. The grid of your life opens up to him. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and begins to scroll.

He tells himself this is research. It’s due diligence. He’s just trying to understand the person who called him a moral failing with such conviction. It’s not stalking if the door is open. You opened the door. You practically invited him in. This is his logic, and he’s sticking to it.

He starts from the bottom, from your earliest posts six years ago. Grainy photos from high school. Trips to Sweden in the summer, the light soft and golden. Pictures of a younger, goofier-looking Chris Kreider and Mika Zibanejad at a team holiday party, where you look about sixteen.

He keeps scrolling, moving forward in time. The pictures get better, the captions wittier. He sees you move into your dorm at NYU for undergrad. He sees you celebrating the end of finals, surrounded by the same two friends from the concert, Ana and Becca. 

Then he gets to the hockey content. And there’s a lot of it.

There are pictures of you at Madison Square Garden, so many of them, from every conceivable angle. In the stands with your friends. Down by the glass during warm-ups. In the tunnel, looking serious. A shot of you wearing a vintage #35 jersey, the name RICHTER across the back. He respects the deep-cut choice.

He finds a picture of your dog, a stunningly fluffy golden retriever. The caption: Shesty, you’re my besty. Mat groans and smiles at the same time. It’s such a pure, fan-girl thing to do, so at odds with the formidable, acid-tongued woman he met.

And then he finds it. A photo from a few years back. It’s on the ice at MSG. The lights are low, the stands are empty. You’re standing next to your dad. Henrik is in full gear, his mask off, arm slung around your shoulder. You’re both beaming, identical smiles of unforced joy. The caption is simple: Bring your daughter to work day.

Seeing it, seeing the undeniable proof, still sends a strange shock through him. It’s one thing to deduce it,it’s another to see it in living color. The King and his princess. He studies the photo for a long time, looking at your face. The pride in your eyes. The easy, loving way you lean into your father’s side. This is the source code of your loyalty. This is why you looked at him like he was something you’d scraped off the bottom of your shoe. Half of his career had been, in some small way, about trying to beat the man in this picture.

He keeps scrolling, past graduation photos, past pictures of your first day of law school, past a stunning shot of you in a navy blue dress at a charity gala, looking elegant and completely out of his league. He sees a whole person. A smart, funny, driven, fiercely loyal person who loves her dog, her friends, her family, and a hockey team that he’s paid to hate.

And it does nothing to deter him. In fact, it does the opposite. The puzzle of you is more intricate and more compelling than he ever imagined. He’s not just intrigued anymore. He’s hooked.

He scrolls all the way back to the top of you feed, his mind made up. He has to shoot his shot. A guy like him gets shot down, he gets back up and tries a different move. This calls for a different move. Something bold. Something that acknowledges the absolute absurdity of the situation.

He navigates to her profile and hits the ‘Message’ button. The blank text box appears, the cursor blinking expectantly. He thinks for a moment, a grin playing on his lips. He types, deletes, and types again. Finally, he settles on it. It’s cocky, it’s a little bit dumb, but it’s honest.

He hits send.

***

You’re half-asleep in your carrel, the words of a particularly dense Supreme Court ruling blurring into an incomprehensible legal soup. The party of the first part, hereinafter referred to as “appellant,” asserts that the precedent established in Marbury v. Madison …

Your phone buzzes, a sharp, insistent vibration against the polished wood of the table. You glance at it, annoyed at the interruption. It’s another Instagram notification. But this one isn’t a like or a comment. It’s a message request. From matbarzal.

Your fatigue vanishes, replaced by a jolt of pure adrenaline. Your fingers feel clumsy as you tap the notification, opening the app. A new message sits at the top of your inbox.

matbarzal: So now that I’ve done a full background check and confirmed I am, in fact, the enemy, I have a proposition.

You read the message once. Twice. A proposition? The sheer arrogance of it makes you let out a small, incredulous laugh. You can picture him typing it, that easy, confident smirk on his face.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard before you can second-guess yourself.

You: A proposition? Are you trying to trade me a slightly-used defenseman for a conditional fifth-round draft pick? Because I’m not interested.

You watch the small icon that indicates he’s seen the message appear almost instantly. He’s waiting for your reply. The thought sends a ridiculous flutter through your stomach.

The three little dots appear. He’s typing.

matbarzal: Damn. That was my second offer. The first one is dinner.

You: Dinner? As in, eating food? Together? In public?

matbarzal: That’s the general concept, yeah. My treat. Think of it as … reparations. For all the emotional distress my career has caused you.

You can’t help it. You smile. A real, genuine smile. He’s leaning into it. He’s not pretending their encounter didn’t happen. He’s using your own language against you. It’s clever. Annoyingly clever.

You: Reparations are usually monetary. And the level of distress we’re talking about would bankrupt your entire organization.

matbarzal: See? That’s why I’m offering dinner instead. I’m a savvy negotiator. I’ll even cross enemy lines and come to you. Name a place in Manhattan. Someplace nice, so you can’t say I didn’t try.

This stops you. He’s offering to come all the way into the city. From Long Island. On a weeknight. That’s … effort. That’s a real gesture. It’s not the low-effort, “wanna grab a drink sometime?” That you’re used to.

What are you doing? This is Mat Barzal. He’s the on-ice manifestation of everything you’ve been taught to root against. Going to dinner with him is treason. It’s consorting with the enemy. It’s a betrayal of the blue, white, and red.

But … you’re also a twenty-four-year-old woman who has just been asked out on a real date by a handsome, persistent, and surprisingly witty man. And the curiosity is killing you. What is he like when he’s not in a hockey arena or a crowded concourse? What would you even talk about? The whole idea is so preposterous, so utterly insane, that it’s almost appealing.

Maybe you’re coming down with a fever. Maybe the lack of sleep from studying has finally broken your brain.

You: There’s a place near me called Marlow’s. It’s quiet. If you’re serious.

matbarzal: Never been more serious about anything in my life. Marlow’s. Friday at 8?

You stare at the message. Friday. That’s two days away. It’s real. You’re actually contemplating this. You take a screenshot and send it to your friends.

Becca: SAY YES SAY YES SAY YES IF YOU DON’T SAY YES I WILL BREAK INTO YOUR APARTMENT AND HIJACK YOUR PHONE AND SAY YES FOR YOU

Ana: Marlow’s is a good choice. Public, but respectable. Good lighting. You can make a quick exit if he starts talking about the 1980s.

Ana: For the record, I think this is a clinically insane thing to do. But I also want to hear every single detail about it.

You look back at his message. Friday at 8? The blinking cursor waits for your answer. You take a deep breath. To hell with it.

You: Fine. But if you show up in anything with an Islanders logo on it, the deal is off.

The reply is instantaneous.

matbarzal: Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s a date.

A date. He called it a date. Your stomach does a nervous flip-flop. You’ve just agreed to go on a date with Mat Barzal. Your father would have a heart attack. Your younger self would disown you. Your current self … your current self has no idea what she’s just done.

***

Friday arrives with a sense of surreal inevitability. You spend the entire day in a fog of distraction, unable to focus in any of your classes. Every time you look at your notes, you see his name, his easy smile.

By seven o’clock, your apartment looks like a tornado has ripped through your closet. Sweaters, jeans, dresses, and blouses are strewn across your bed in a monument to your indecision.

“It’s just dinner,” you say to your reflection. Your reflection looks unconvinced.

You video call your friends, propping your phone up on your dresser.

“Okay, crisis,” you announce. “I have nothing to wear.”

“You have a closet the size of my entire apartment,” Ana says dryly from her own desk, a textbook open in front of her. “What’s the vibe you’re going for?”

“The vibe is ‘I am an intelligent, sophisticated woman who is completely unfazed by this ridiculous situation and is merely here out of a sense of anthropological curiosity,’” you say, holding up a black silk blouse.

“Okay, so you want to look hot,” Becca translates, munching on popcorn from her couch. “The black blouse is good. Classic. Serious. But also, you know, hot. Wear it with your dark wash jeans. The good ones. And the ankle boots. It’s effortless.”

You follow her instructions, the clothes feeling both like armor and a costume. You do your makeup with more care than you’d ever admit, a little extra mascara, a touch of highlighter. You tell yourself it’s because the lighting at Marlow’s is dim.

At 7:58, your phone buzzes with a text from a DM.

matbarzal: Hey, it’s Mat. I’m outside.

Your heart leaps into your throat. He’s here. He’s real. He’s standing on the sidewalk outside your building on the Upper West Side. You take one last look in the mirror, smooth down your blouse, and grab your purse.

“Wish me luck,” you mutter to the empty room, and walk out the door.

The evening air is crisp and cool. You see him instantly, leaning against a black stone retaining wall a few feet from your building’s entrance. He’s not what you expected. He’s not wearing a flashy designer jacket or trendy sneakers. He’s dressed in a simple, well-fitted charcoal grey sweater, dark pants, and clean leather shoes. He looks … normal. Understated. He looks handsome, and your stomach does another nervous lurch.

He spots you and pushes off the wall, a small, almost nervous smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you remember it from the concourse.

“Hi,” you reply, clutching your purse strap like a lifeline. “You found it okay.”

“Yeah, I have a GPS. It’s this crazy new technology,” he teases, and the tension breaks a little. You both smile. “You look … you don’t look like you’re about to call me a moral failure, so that’s a good start.”

“The night is young,” you retort, but there’s no heat behind it. You fall into step beside him as you start walking towards the restaurant, a comfortable distance between you. “I’m surprised you came. I was half-expecting you to cancel, claiming a ‘lower-body injury.’”

He laughs, a real, genuine sound that echoes slightly in the quiet street. “Nah, I’m not afraid of a little away game. Besides, I told you. I’m here to repent.”

The restaurant is just as you remembered: cozy, dimly lit, with the gentle hum of quiet conversations. The host leads you to a small table in a secluded corner. It’s perfect. Private enough for a real conversation, public enough for a quick escape.

Once you’re seated, a strange silence falls between you. The safety of the witty text messages is gone. This is real life. He’s sitting right there, across from you, looking at you with those curious brown eyes.

The waiter saves you, arriving to take your drink orders. You both order a glass of wine. When he leaves, Mat leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

“So,” he begins, “your dog is named Shesty.”

You’re caught off guard. “You looked.”

“Of course I looked,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I had to see what I was up against. The dog, the jerseys, the picture on the ice at the Garden … you’re even more of a Rangers fan than I thought.”

“And you still showed up?” You ask, genuinely curious. “You’re either brave or incredibly stupid.”

“Probably a little bit of both,” he admits with a shrug. “It’s how I play hockey, too. So, tell me. Law school. That’s … serious.”

“It’s a lot of reading,” you say, taking a sip of water. “What about you? Is hockey all fun and games, or is there some reading involved?”

“Oh, tons of reading,” he says, his expression deadpan. “We have to read the other team’s power play formations. It’s brutal. It’s not exactly Marbury v. Madison, but it’s dense stuff.”

You stare at him, completely shocked. “You know Marbury v. Madison?”

He grins. “My sister had a Hamilton phase. Some of it stuck.” He leans back as the waiter delivers your wine. “See? We’re not all just dumb jocks.”

“I never said you were a dumb jock,” you protest.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Your face at the concert said it all. First, it said ‘Oh, this guy is kind of charming.’ Then it said ‘Wait, I know that face.’ And then it said ‘Ew, it’s a dumb jock from the wrong side of the tracks.’”

You feel a hot blush creep up your neck, because he’s not entirely wrong. “My face is not that expressive.”

“It really is,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “And I find it … fascinating.”

The conversation flows surprisingly easily after that. You keep the banter going, a safe and comfortable rhythm for both of you. You debate the best pizza in New York (a topic on which you can find some rare common ground). He tells you a hilarious story about a rookie talent show that involved a magic act gone wrong. You tell him about a terrifying cold-call experience in your criminal law class.

You find yourself relaxing. The tension in your shoulders starts to fade. He’s a good listener. He asks questions about your life, about your friends, about what you want to do after you graduate. He seems genuinely interested.

“So why law?” He asks as your main courses arrive. “Was it always the plan?”

You shrug, arranging the pasta on your plate. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always liked arguing. And I wanted to do something that was … mine. Something that had nothing to do with my dad.”

The name hangs in the air between you. You’ve both been dancing around it all night.

“That must be tough,” he says quietly, his playful demeanor gone for a moment, replaced by something more serious.

“What?”

“Having a dad like that,” he clarifies. “I mean, it’s gotta be amazing, obviously. He’s a legend. But it’s a lot to live up to. A big shadow to get out from under.”

You look at him, surprised by his perception. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice softer than you intend. “Sometimes. Everyone just assumes … they assume a lot of things. That my life has been easy. That I haven’t had to work for anything.”

“No one gets through Columbia Law without working for it,” he says with certainty. “I don’t know you, but I know that much.”

His simple, unequivocal belief in you sends a warmth spreading through your chest. “What about you?” You ask, turning the tables. “Is there a lot of pressure? Being the guy for the Islanders?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, always. You win, you’re the hero. You lose three in a row, and the fans want to trade you for a bag of pucks. It’s part of the deal. You just have to block out the noise and play your game.”

You nod, understanding completely. “Block out the noise.”

“Exactly,” he says, his eyes meeting yours across the table. In that moment, the rivalry, the logos, the colors — it all melts away. You’re just two people who understand the strange, specific pressure of living a public life, of carrying the weight of other people’s expectations. It’s a common ground you never would have expected to find.

The rest of dinner passes in a comfortable blur. You talk about music, about travel, about the best and worst cities to visit on road trips. You find yourself laughing, a real, unforced laugh, more times than you can count. You’re not just having a surprisingly nice time. You’re actually … enjoying yourself. You’re enjoying him.

When the check comes, he snatches it before you can even protest.

“Reparations,” he reminds you with a wink.

He walks you home, the city lights casting a soft glow around you. The silence between you is comfortable now, filled with the unspoken energy of a successful first date.

When you arrive at the steps of your building, you both stop, a familiar, awkward dance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him. “Thank you for dinner. It was … not what I expected.”

“Is that a good thing?” He asks, a hopeful smile playing on his lips.

“Yes,” you admit. “It was a very good thing.”

“Good,” he says, his voice low. He rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “I had a really good time, Y/N.”

It’s the first time he’s said your first name. It sounds different coming from him. It sounds nice.

“Me too,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move to kiss you. He doesn’t try to invite himself up. He just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. It’s a mix of amusement, respect, and something else, something deeper.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m glad I’m a moral failing. Best decision I ever made.”

And with a final, charmingly lopsided grin, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing on the steps of your building, your heart doing something wild and unfamiliar in your chest.

You watch until he turns the corner, a silhouette against the city lights. Then you turn, unlock your door, and lean against it, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across your face. You pull out your phone, your thumbs already moving to text your friends.

You have no idea what any of this means, or where it’s going. All you know is that you just went on a date with the enemy.

And you desperately want to do it again.

***

The thing about a secret is that it has its own gravity. It pulls everything inward, creating a small, dense universe for two. For three months, you and Mat have been living in that universe. It’s a universe of late-night texts that turn into 4 a.m. phone calls, of stolen afternoons in your quiet Upper West Side apartment, of him driving into the city just to have coffee with you for an hour between his practice and a team meeting.

It’s a universe where he’s not Mat Barzal, star center for the New York Islanders, and you’re not Y/N Lundqvist, daughter of a Rangers icon. You’re just Mat and you. In here, the rivalry is a joke you share, a source of endless, affectionate banter. Out there, in the real world, it’s a chasm you both pretend isn’t waiting to swallow you whole.

“I’m just saying,” Mat’s voice comes through your phone, a low, sleepy rumble, “it would be a sign of good faith. A gesture of non-aggression.”

You’re sitting at your small kitchen table, the early morning light filtering through the window, a steaming mug of coffee warming your hands. You’re smiling. “Let me get this straight. You want me, a Lundqvist, to go to Madison Square Garden for a Rangers-Islanders game and wear … what, exactly?”

“A Barzal jersey,” he says, the mock-seriousness in his tone making you laugh. “I’ll even get you one that’s not that disgusting shade of orange.”

“Your blue and white is a cheap imitation of our blue and white,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s plagiarism. I could probably sue you for copyright infringement.”

“Add it to my tab,” he says without missing a beat. “But seriously. It would be kind of hot.”

“It would be grounds for my father to write me out of the will,” you retort. “And for every single person I’ve ever met to stage an intervention. I’m not wearing an Islanders jersey, Mat. Not now, not ever.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you’re the only person in the building not supporting the winning team.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” you say, the old, ingrained competitiveness flaring up. “Shesty’s been on fire lately. Your power play has been … anemic.”

“Anemic? Ouch. You’ve been reading sports blogs again, haven’t you?”

“I’m a law student,” you say primly. “I do my research. I’m prepared to present a thoroughly researched, well-reasoned argument for why the Rangers are the superior hockey club in every conceivable metric.”

“I’d love to hear it,” he says, his voice dropping a little, turning sincere. “But I’d rather just see you. Are you still coming tonight?”

The question is laced with a vulnerability that always takes you by surprise. For all his on-ice confidence, he is endlessly, touchingly insecure about this one thing: that one day, the chasm will be too wide, and you won’t want to cross it anymore.

“Of course I’m coming,” you say softly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Even if I score a hat trick?”

“Especially if you score a hat trick,” you lie. “I want a good view of the crushing disappointment on your face when you still lose 4-3.”

He laughs, a warm, familiar sound that feels more like home than you’re ready to admit. “Alright, Counselor. I’ll see you tonight. Try not to boo me too loud, okay? You might hurt my feelings.”

“No promises,” you say, and hang up, the smile lingering on your face.

The secret is safe in these moments. It feels manageable, even fun. A game within the game. But as the day wears on, the gravity begins to shift.

You meet Becca and Ana at your usual pre-game spot, a crowded bar a few blocks from the Garden. The place is a roaring sea of red, white, and blue. Every TV is tuned to the pre-game analysis, the faces of your father’s old teammates-turned-commentators talking strategy. The energy is electric, a familiar, intoxicating buzz you’ve known your whole life. It’s your world.

“Okay, for the last time, you can’t look happy if he scores,” Becca says, leaning over the table, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. She’s wearing a Zibanejad jersey and has blue streaks in her hair. “You have to look disgusted. A single, solitary tear of patriotic sorrow would be a nice touch, but I don’t want you to over-act.”

“I’m not going to look happy if he scores,” you say, rolling your eyes as you take a sip of your beer. You’re wearing your own jersey, a classic, blue home jersey with LUNDQVIST and the number 30 stitched across the back. It feels like a statement. A shield.

“This is still the craziest thing that has ever happened,” Ana says, shaking her head in bewildered amusement. She’s more subdued in a simple white and blue Rangers sweatshirt. “Do you know how many group chats I’m in that are currently debating Mat Barzal’s underlying analytics? And I’m sitting here, across from his secret girlfriend. It’s a violation of the social contract.”

“I’m not his secret girlfriend,” you protest, hating the term. “We’re just … private.”

“‘Private’ is when you don’t post about him on Instagram,” Becca counters. “‘Secret’ is when your boyfriend is the star of the team your entire family has a blood feud with, and telling your father would cause him to spontaneously combust. You’re in a secret relationship, honey. It’s romantic. Embrace the drama.”

You sigh. “It’s not dramatic, it’s just … complicated. And I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Tonight, I’m just a fan. I am here to watch the New York Rangers defeat their lesser, Long Island-based rivals. That’s it.”

Your friends exchange a look, a silent conversation that says, sure you are. But they let it drop.

Walking into Madison Square Garden is a feeling you’ll never get tired of. It’s not just an arena, it’s a cathedral. Every corner holds a memory. The spot where your dad first taught you how to hold a stick. The hallway where you bumped into a scowling John Tortorella after a tough loss. The specific echo of the goal horn, a sound so ingrained in your DNA it could be your heartbeat.

You make your way to your seats, prime territory in the lower bowl, a few rows up from the glass. As you settle in, you can feel the familiar pre-game jitters, the same ones you’ve had since you were a little girl. But tonight, they’re tangled with a new, sharp thread of anxiety.

The lights go down for the pre-game hype video. The roar of the crowd is a physical force, pressing in on you. You roar with them, losing yourself in the collective, tribal passion. For a few minutes, you can forget. You can just be a Rangers fan.

Then the teams skate out for warm-ups, and the complication comes skating right towards you.

The Islanders are in their white away jerseys, the ones Mat tried to sell you on. He looks bigger on the ice, faster, more powerful than he does when he’s lounging on your couch watching Netflix. He skates with a fluid, effortless grace that you used to despise and now, to your eternal confusion, find breathtaking.

He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. He goes through his drills, stickhandling with that lightning-quick, mesmerizing rhythm. You watch him, your eyes tracking his every move. Ana and Becca are watching you, you can feel it.

Warm-ups are a carefully choreographed chaos. Pucks fly everywhere. Players stretch, joke, and fire shots on net. The glass separating you from the ice feels impossibly thin.

About halfway through the session, Mat peels off from his line drill. He skates a slow, deliberate circle in the corner, looking casual, almost bored. Then, he lifts his head, and his eyes scan the crowd. It’s a subtle movement, one no one else would notice. But you know what he’s looking for.

His eyes find yours.

Across the shouting fans and the thick pane of glass, you lock eyes. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. It’s a secret, just for you. A little pocket of your private universe in the middle of this roaring arena. Your heart does a stupid, traitorous flip.

He skates towards the boards, right in front of your section. He has a puck on the blade of his stick. This is normal. Players toss pucks to fans, especially kids, all the time. A little girl a few seats down from you starts screaming his name, her hands pressed against the glass.

But he doesn’t look at the little girl. He keeps his eyes on you.

He glides to a stop directly in front of you. He leans against the boards, the epitome of nonchalant cool. He holds your gaze for a beat longer, a silent question in his eyes. Then, with a practiced, easy flick of his wrist, he flips the puck over the glass.

It’s a perfect arc. It soars over the screaming girl, over the outstretched hands of a dozen other fans, and lands with impossible, pinpoint accuracy directly in your lap.

It happens so fast you don’t even have time to react. The puck is just … there. A cold, solid weight against your jeans. It’s a slap of shock. Your hands instinctively close around it.

Becca gasps beside you. “Oh my god.”

Ana just whispers, “No.”

You look down at the puck. It’s a standard, black rubber disc, but there’s something on it. A message, written in shaky silver sharpie. It’s not an autograph. It’s one word.

Reparations.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s your joke. Your word. A callback to your first date, to the DMs that started it all. It’s a piece of your secret world, and he’s just thrown it out into the open.

You look up from the puck, a million frantic thoughts racing through your mind. And that’s when you see it.

You’re on the Jumbotron.

The camera operator, sensing a potential cute fan interaction, has zoomed in. But they didn’t get the little girl. They got you. Your face, fifty feet high, broadcast to eighteen thousand people. The camera lingers on you, then pans down to the puck in your hands, then cuts to Mat, who is now skating away with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, tapping his stick on the ice once, a gesture of acknowledgement.

The crowd around you is buzzing. A low murmur starts to ripple through your section. People are turning to look at you. They saw it. They saw him skate directly to you. They saw him give you the puck. They’re putting the pieces together. The name on your back. The player on the ice. The targeted, deliberate nature of the gesture.

A guy in front of you turns around. “Hey, aren’t you-”

Your phone starts to buzz in your pocket. Then it buzzes again. And again. A relentless, frantic vibration. It’s not just the group chat. It’s everyone. Friends from college. Relatives. People you haven’t spoken to in years. The secret is out. The gravity has collapsed. The universe has just gone supernova.

You feel a wave of hot, prickling panic. Your face is burning. You want to disappear. You want to slide under your seat and cease to exist. You look at your friends, your eyes wide with sheer terror.

Becca’s expression is a wild mix of horror and exhilarated glee. “He did not just do that,” she mouths, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Ana looks genuinely concerned. “Are you okay?” She whispers, putting a hand on your arm.

You can’t answer. You just stare at the giant screen, which has mercifully cut away to a commercial. But the damage is done. Eighteen thousand people, plus whoever is watching at home, just witnessed Mat Barzal make a very public, very personal gesture to Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter.

You look out at the ice. He’s back in his line, laughing with Anthony Duclair about something. He glances up at you one more time, and this time, he gives you a full, unabashed wink.

He did this on purpose.

The arrogant, infuriating, wonderful, terrible man did this on purpose. He didn't just blow up your secret; he launched a tactical nuke at it.

The lights dim for the player introductions, and the roar of the crowd feels different now. It feels like it’s directed at you. The game hasn’t even started, and you’ve already lost.

***

The next two and a half hours are a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. You are a walking, breathing contradiction. Every fiber of your being, every neuron conditioned by two decades of unwavering loyalty, is screaming for the Rangers. You jump to your feet when they score, a raw, guttural yell of pure joy tearing from your throat. You groan in agony when the Islanders clear the puck on a power play. You join in the derisive chants aimed at the visiting team.

But every time number thirteen touches the puck, your heart seizes.

You watch with a nauseous blend of pride and dread as he weaves through the neutral zone, his speed and skill undeniable. You find yourself holding your breath when he drives to the net. When a Rangers defenseman lines him up for a big hit along the boards, you flinch, an involuntary, protective reaction that you immediately try to mask with a cough.

Becca notices. She gives you a gentle, knowing nudge. “It’s okay,” she mouths. “You’re allowed to not want him to get decapitated.”

The score is tied 1-1 late in the second period. The game is a tense, brutal affair, exactly what a rivalry game should be. Big hits, post-whistle scrums, incredible saves at both ends. Your dad, who is on the broadcast for the night, is probably loving this. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through you. He’s in this building. He’s going to hear about this.

Then, it happens. A turnover at the Rangers’ blue line. The puck squirts out to Mat. He’s got a step on the defenseman. He’s in on a partial breakaway. It’s just him and Shesterkin.

The world slows down. You see the play developing in agonizing slow motion. You see him deke, a move you’ve seen him practice a hundred times on YouTube compilations you’d never admit to watching. He pulls the puck to his backhand, forcing Shesterkin to commit. Then, with infinite, infuriating patience, he tucks it around the goalie’s outstretched pad and slides it into the empty net.

A pocket of Islanders fans in the upper deck erupts. The rest of the Garden falls into a stunned, angry silence.

And you … you don’t know what to do. Your mind is a short-circuiting mess of conflicting emotions. Part of you wants to scream in frustration. Part of you … part of you is bursting with a secret, forbidden pride. He did it. He scored. It was a beautiful goal.

You stay seated, your hands clenched in your lap, your face a carefully constructed mask of disappointment. But your heart is pounding.

Ana leans over. “That was a disgusting, filthy, reprehensible goal,” she says, her voice dripping with the appropriate level of fan-like disgust. Then she adds, in a much quieter voice, for your ears only, “He’s really, really good at hockey.”

You just nod, unable to speak.

The Rangers tie it up in the third, sending the Garden into a frenzy. The game ends in a 2-2 tie and goes to overtime. A single point is secured, but the rivalry demands a winner. The three-on-three overtime is a frantic, back-and-forth thrill ride. Your nerves are shot. You’re standing the whole time, clutching Becca’s arm.

In the end, it’s a moment of pure Rangers magic. Panarin walks in and wires a wrist shot past Sorokin. The Garden explodes. You’re screaming, jumping, hugging your friends, caught up in the pure, unadulterated ecstasy of a rivalry win. For a moment, you forget everything else. You are just a fan, and your team has won.

As the players line up for handshakes, you watch Mat. His shoulders are slumped in defeat. He skates off the ice, his head down. And despite the victory, your heart aches for him.

***

The walk out of the arena is a chaotic blur. The victorious energy of the fans is infectious, but you can’t fully share it. Your phone, which you’ve ignored all game, feels like a lead weight in your pocket. You know what’s waiting for you.

When you finally look at it in the relative quiet of the street outside, it’s even worse than you imagined. Dozens of text messages. A handful of missed calls, including two from your mother. And the social media notifications … hundreds of them. You’ve been tagged in dozens of posts. Screenshots of you on the Jumbotron are everywhere. Barstool Sports has already posted it with the caption: Looks like Mat Barzal has been fraternizing with the enemy 👀 Is that who we think it is? The comments section is a war zone.

“This is a nightmare,” you whisper, feeling the blood drain from your face.

“It’s not a nightmare, it’s a news cycle,” Ana says, putting a comforting arm around your shoulder. “It’ll last for forty-eight hours, and then everyone will move on to the next shiny object.”

“Unless your dad addresses it on the post-game show,” Becca adds, helpfully.

“Not helping!” You and Ana say in unison.

Your phone buzzes with a new text. It’s him.

Mat 💕: You can’t be mad at me. We got a point.

The audacity. The absolute, sheer, unmitigated gall of the man. You’re so angry you can’t even see straight.

You: A point? I am currently the number one trending topic on hockey Twitter. My grandmother has called me twice. I might have to enter the witness protection program. And you’re talking about a loser point?

The reply comes back instantly.

Mat 💕: So you’re a little mad.

Mat 💕: Meet me. Parking garage. Level C. I’ll come to you.

You show the text to your friends. Becca’s eyes light up. “The parking garage! The drama! Go! Go settle this!”

Ana looks more hesitant. “Are you sure you want to do this now? When you’re this angry?”

“Yes,” you say, a cold, determined resolve settling over you. “I am going to have a calm, rational, and frankly terrifying conversation with him. Right now.”

You say goodbye to your friends and make your way to the players’ parking garage, a place you haven’t been in years. The security guard, a man named Frank who has known you since you were ten, just nods and lets you through.

The garage is quiet and cavernous, smelling of concrete and exhaust fumes. The sounds of the departing crowd are a dull roar in the distance. You find a spot under a flickering fluorescent light on Level C and wait, your arms crossed tightly against your chest.

A few minutes later, you see him. He’s changed out of his gear and is wearing a simple team-issued sweatsuit. His hair is still wet from the shower. He looks tired. As he gets closer, you see the apprehensive look on his face. He knows he’s in trouble.

He stops a few feet away from you. “Tough loss,” he says, his voice quiet.

“Don’t,” you say, holding up a hand. “Don’t you dare start with small talk. What was that? What were you thinking?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at his shoes for a moment before meeting your gaze. “I was thinking that I was tired of hiding.”

The answer is so simple, so direct, that it completely disarms you. “Hiding? Mat, we’re not hiding. We’re being smart. We’re being private.”

“Private? Or scared?” He challenges, his voice still soft, but with an edge of steel. “Y/N, I … I hate it. I hate that I can only see you in your apartment. I hate that when I have a good game, I can’t look up and find you in the crowd and know that you’re happy for me. I hate that when I have a bad game, I can’t see you after. I hate feeling like I’m some dirty little secret you’re ashamed of.”

“Ashamed?” The word is a punch to the gut. “I have never, not for one second, been ashamed of you.”

“Then why are we hiding?” He asks, taking a step closer. “From your friends? From your family? From the whole world? What are we so afraid of?”

“My father, for starters!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “The media! The fans! Both sets of fans, who are certifiably insane! Did you see what they’re saying online? They want me exiled! They want you traded! People are losing their minds!”

“So let them,” he says, his voice rising with passion. “Let them lose their minds. Who cares? It’s just noise. You taught me that. Block out the noise. This,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “is what’s real. Not them.”

He takes another step, closing the distance between you. He gently takes the puck, which you’re still clutching, from your hand. He looks at the word scrawled on it.

“I know the timing was bad,” he says, his voice softening again. “And I know I should have talked to you about it first. I’m sorry for that. I am. But I’m not sorry for what I did. I’m proud of you. I’m proud that you’re with me. I want to be able to flip you a puck during warm-ups. I want to take you to dinner and not have to worry about who sees us. I want to be your boyfriend out in the real world, not just in your apartment.”

He looks up from the puck, his eyes searching yours. They’re full of a raw, honest emotion that makes your anger melt away, replaced by a wave of overwhelming love.

“I’m falling in love with you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words echoing in the quiet of the garage. “And I don’t want to do that in secret anymore.”

And just like that, all the fight goes out of you. The fear, the panic, the anger — it all dissolves in the face of his simple, terrifying, beautiful truth. He’s right. You’ve been so focused on the legacy, on the rivalry, on what everyone else would think, that you haven’t let yourself think about what you actually want.

You want this. You want him. In the real world.

Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re an idiot,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

“You are,” you agree, a wet, shaky laugh escaping you. “You are absolutely my idiot.”

He closes the final inch between you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. You bury your face in his sweatshirt, inhaling the familiar scent of him. You can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your cheek.

You stand there for a long time, holding each other in the dim light of the parking garage, a silent truce declared. The secret is out. The world is waiting. It’s going to be complicated and messy. There are phone calls you’ll have to make, starting with your dad. There will be articles written, and fans will argue, and it will be a story for a while.

But as you stand there, wrapped in his arms, you realize you’re not scared anymore. The two of you, your tiny, secret universe, is strong enough to handle the noise.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “For the record,” you say, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You played well tonight. But that goal was still disgusting.”

He throws his head back and laughs, a full, joyous sound that fills the empty garage. “I love you, you crazy, impossible Rangers fan.”

“I love you too, you arrogant, reckless Islander,” you reply.

He leans down and kisses you. And it’s not a secret, stolen kiss in the safety of your apartment. It’s a kiss out in the world, under the fluorescent lights of the Madison Square Garden parking garage. It’s the end of the secret. And it’s the beginning of everything else.

***

Six Months Later

The elevator ride up to your family’s apartment is unnervingly silent. You’re holding Mat’s hand, and his is so clammy it feels like he just stepped out of a sauna. He’s trying to play it cool, rocking back on his heels and staring up at the floor indicator, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he might crack a tooth.

“Breathe,” you say softly, squeezing his hand.

“I am breathing,” he says, his voice a little too high. “This is my normal, relaxed breathing. Can’t you tell how relaxed I am?”

“You look like you’re about to face a five-on-three penalty kill in the Stanley Cup Final,” you observe.

“This is a thousand times more terrifying,” he insists, turning to you, his eyes wide with a sincere, primal fear you haven't seen since you told him you were adopting a second cat. “He’s your dad. He’s Henrik Lundqvist. What do I say to him? ‘Hi, Mr. Lundqvist, sir, love what you’ve done with the place. Sorry my entire professional existence is dedicated to destroying the legacy you so carefully built.’”

“Okay, first of all, dial down the drama,” you say, reaching up to straighten his collar. He’s wearing a soft, grey cashmere sweater you picked out, a peace offering to the fashion gods your father prays to. “Second, just be yourself.”

“The self that plays for the Islanders?”

“No, the self that makes you watch terrible reality television and knows all the words to Noah Kahan songs,” you clarify. “The charming, funny, non-hockey-player self. And whatever you do, do not mention the 2014 Final.”

“It’s literally the first thing I thought of when the elevator doors closed,” he admits, looking miserable. “My brain is my own worst enemy.”

The elevator dings softly and the doors slide open to their floor. The walk down the hallway feels like a mile. You can hear the faint sound of your younger sisters laughing and a dog barking from behind the door. You give his hand one last reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine. He’ll love you.”

“He will not,” Mat mutters, but he squares his shoulders and lets you ring the bell.

The door swings open, and the first one to greet you is Shesty, who barrels out into the hallway, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles. He jumps up on you, licking your face, then immediately turns his attention to Mat.

“Hey, buddy!” Mat says, his voice full of relief as he crouches down to scratch the golden retriever’s ears. “See? At least your dog likes me.”

“Shesty has notoriously poor judgment,” a deep, familiar voice says from the doorway.

You look up. Your father is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. He’s not in a suit or a jersey, just a simple pair of dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. He looks like a dad. A very tall, very handsome, very intimidating dad who happens to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer.

“Hi, Dad,” you say, stepping forward to give him a hug.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, kissing the top of your head. His eyes, however, are on the man still petting his dog.

Mat stands up slowly, wiping his hand on his pants before extending it. “Mr. Lundqvist. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Mat.”

Your dad looks at Mat’s outstretched hand for a beat too long before finally taking it. The handshake is firm, professional. It lasts exactly three seconds, which feels like an eternity.

“I know who you are,” your dad says, his expression unreadable. “You drift to the half-wall on the power play too often.”

Mat blinks, momentarily stunned. “Oh. Uh, thanks for the tip.”

“Henrik, for heaven’s sake, let them in,” your stepmother, Therese, says, appearing behind your dad. She shoos him away from the door with a gentle wave of her hand and envelops you in a warm hug. Her smile is a beacon of sanity. “Y/N, darling, it’s so good to see you.” She then turns to Mat, her eyes kind. “And you must be Mat. It is so wonderful to finally meet you. Please, ignore my husband. He’s forgotten his manners.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lundqvist,” Mat says, his shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch.

“Call me Therese. Come in, come in. The girls are dying to meet you.”

The apartment is just as you remember, a perfect blend of Scandinavian minimalism and New York warmth. Your half-sisters, Charlise and Juli, are peeking around the corner from the living room. At fourteen and eleven, they’re in the throes of terminal cool, but you can see the excitement in their eyes.

Dinner is … surprisingly nice. Yes, the first fifteen minutes are excruciatingly awkward, filled with stilted talk about the September weather and the traffic on the West Side Highway. But Therese is a masterful conversationalist, and your sisters, once they get over their shyness, are a relentless interrogation squad.

“So, do you hate the Rangers?” Juli asks, her fork halfway to her mouth.

“Juli!” Therese scolds.

Mat, to his credit, just laughs. “I don’t hate them. It’s my job to try and beat them.”

“But do you think they’re, like, bad?” Charlise presses, leaning forward with the intensity of a seasoned prosecutor.

“I think,” Mat says, choosing his words carefully as he glances at your dad, “that they’re a very skilled, very competitive team. And that the rivalry is one of the best in sports.”

Your dad, who has been silently observing this exchange while cutting his steak with surgical precision, finally speaks up. “It is a good rivalry,” he concedes, his tone neutral. “It is better when the right team wins.”

You jump in before Mat can respond. “So, Charlise, tell Mat about your swim tournament last weekend.”

The conversation steers into safer territory. They talk about swimming, about school, about Mat’s family back in British Columbia. You watch, fascinated, as your family gets to know this man you’ve fallen in love with. They see the version of him you see: the kind, funny, surprisingly down-to-earth person who exists outside of a hockey uniform. You can see the icy exterior of your father beginning to thaw. Mostly.

After dinner, as you and Therese are clearing the plates, your dad stands up.

“Mat,” he says, in a tone that is not a question. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Mat flashes you a wide-eyed look of pure panic. You give him a subtle, encouraging nod. You can do this.

You watch as your father leads him down the hall towards his office.

“Don’t worry,” Therese says, stacking plates beside you. “The first time Henrik met my father, he spent twenty minutes talking about the importance of proper butterfly technique.”

In the office, surrounded by a gleaming collection of trophies, signed jerseys, and framed photographs, your father closes the door.

“She’s a good girl,” he says, his voice low as he turns to face Mat. He gestures to a photo on his desk of you as a little girl, wearing one of his jerseys that swallows you whole. “She’s my first. I’ve spent her entire life trying to protect her.”

“I know, sir,” Mat says, his voice steady.

“The jersey you wear,” your dad continues, his gaze intense, “for my family, for this city, it represents the opposition. The thing we fought against for twenty years. You have to understand what it means for her to be with you. The loyalty she must have for you, to cross that line.”

Mat doesn't flinch. He meets your father’s gaze head-on. “Sir, I understand completely. And I know I’ll never be able to change the logo on my chest. But I hope you know that when it comes to her … my loyalty is never, ever in question.” He takes a breath, the words coming straight from his heart. “I love your daughter.”

Your father studies him for a long, silent moment. The air is thick with the unspoken history of a thousand battles on the ice. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He walks over to Mat and claps a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Good answer,” he says, his voice gruff. Then, a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But if you score on Shesterkin in overtime this season, you and I are going to have a problem.”

Mat lets out a shaky laugh, a wave of relief washing over him. “Understood, sir.”

When they emerge from the office a few minutes later, the dynamic has shifted. There’s a new, fragile respect between them. The goodbyes are warmer, easier. Therese gives Mat a hug. Your sisters ask him to sign a napkin.

The final handshake between Mat and your father is different this time. It’s not a challenge, it’s an acknowledgement.

As the elevator doors close, Mat slumps against the wall and lets out a long, slow breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“So?” You ask, a wide grin spreading across your face. “You survived.”

“Mostly,” he says, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around you. “I’m pretty sure your dad threatened to slash my tires if I score a big goal this year.”

“That’s how you know he likes you,” you say, resting your head against his chest.

“He has a weird way of showing it,” Mat murmurs into your hair.

“You get used to it,” you say, tilting your head up to kiss him.

You shrug, untying the long socks from where they’re wrapped in your hair. The curls look good this time, unlike the last time you did heatless curls like this. Mat made fun of you relentlessly when they frizzed all over the place and curled all the wrong ways. “I haven’t left yet,” you reply. “I’ve been here all weekend.”

“Don’t you have work soon?” Emma asks.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m getting ready.” You squeeze a bit of toothpaste onto Mat’s toothbrush and pop it into your mouth. Emma makes a face at you and you make a face back. It’s simple– you forgot your toothbrush and Mat said you could use his. “And then I’ll probably come back. Mat’s injured and I’m bored in my lonely apartment, so we’re keeping each other company.”

Emma mumbles something you don’t catch.

“What?” you press. “What did you say?”

“All of this and you haven’t fucked,” Emma repeats, the look in her eyes growing sharp. “You keep denying it and keep denying that you want Mat and that he wants you, but you’ll spend three straight days at his apartment, sleeping in his bed and using his toothbrush. When are you going to admit that you guys are more than friends?”

“We’re not more than friends, Emma,” you say with a frown. “We’re close, but we’re not that close. I wish you’d stop saying that.”

Emma shakes her head and scoffs. “I have to go. Call me back when you figure things out.”

She hangs up and you frown, taking in the blank screen before you. You take only a split second to revel in confusion before you finish getting ready for the day. 

You try to push Emma’s comments out of your head, but they stick with you. You get to work and you’re still thinking about the look on her face through that tiny screen. You’re on your lunch break and start overthinking your friendship with Mat. You’ve always slept in the same bed because it’s easier– you’ve never wanted to mess up the pristinely folded sheets in his guest room. Plus, it’s not like you and Mat cuddle or anything. You stay on your side and he stays on his. You may have woken up with his arm over your stomach once or twice, but that’s a subconscious reaction to the chilly winter air. Mat keeps the apartment insanely cold. It’s not a surprise that his body tried to seek out your warmth. Even as you’re leaving for the day, you’re debating whether or not you should just go home to your own apartment rather than go back to Mat’s.

Your phone chimes with a text. It’s a picture of Mat and a steamer pot on the stove. He’s flashing a thumbs up in the picture and the accompanying message says, Making those dumplings you wanted! Hurry back or I’ll eat them all ;)

That sorts out your plans for the night. You don’t spare a second glance at the phone, nor the blue and orange hearts that you once put next to Mat’s contact name as a joke and never removed. 

The thought doesn’t cross your mind again until you’re laying on the couch with Mat, watching a movie before you go to bed. His head is on your lap and you’re carding your fingers through his hair. 

“That’s nice,” Mat murmurs.

It’s the first time he’s spoken in a while and it draws your attention to his lips. He’s practically falling asleep on your lap, eyes fluttering and nearly purring like a cat. Just this morning, you said you don’t cuddle with Mat, but here you are. He’s been pretty touchy today, or, maybe, you’re just noticing it more because Emma planted a seed in your mind.

You hum, twirling a strand of Mat’s hair between your fingers. You hope he doesn’t buzz it again. He’s done it twice now and, even though he can pull off the buzzcut, you prefer when his hair is this length. 

His lips are plush and pink and, well, Emma declared that you needed to figure it out. One little kiss, a tiny peck… that could be the end of it. You wouldn’t feel a thing, and neither would Mat, and you can tell Emma with absolute certainty that you and Mat are just friends.

You lean down and connect your lips for just a second. There’s no bright moment of realization washing over you, no life-changing feeling accompanied by a choir of angels. You kiss Mat and then you pull away.

He’s got that stupid look on his face, eyebrows raised and lips parted. “What was that?” Mat asks. 

You shrug. “Just wanted to see something.”

Mat seems to buffer. “By kissing me?”

“Yeah. Emma thinks we’re lying to ourselves when we say we’re just friends.”

“Emma… Tito’s ex?” Mat seems caught off guard. “She still thinks we’re hiding something?”

“I mean, she’s not the only one who thinks we’re more than friends. I’ve been thinking about it all day, so I just thought I’d go for it and see if I felt anything.”

Mat frowns and sits up. “You can’t tell something like that just from that measly little kiss you gave me. No one would feel anything from that shit. We have to actually kiss.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest. “Actually kiss? What does that mean?”

“With tongue,” Mat replies. “If you still don’t feel anything after you kiss me with tongue– I’m pretty damn good with my tongue,” he sidebars with a wink, “Then you can tell Emma that she was wrong and you were right.”

“It just sounds like you want to kiss me with tongue,” you tease, squinting at Mat suspiciously.

He grins and wiggles his eyebrows at you. “We’re friends, but that doesn’t mean you’re not pretty,” Mat says. “I’m not against kissing you.” 

His words seem laden with a bit of seriousness, even though his smile and eyes are bright and joking. You don’t have the time to probe at that, not before Mat is reaching out and cradling your face in his palm. 

His smile is smaller, more gentle. His hand is warm.

When he pulls you in and parts your lips with a pass of his tongue, you feel a splash of dizziness run through your bones. Mat guides you, kissing you deeply. You can feel every curve of his mouth against your own. Almost immediately, you get the feeling that you should be memorizing this and noting the details.

Mat pulls away before you’re ready. “How was that?” he asks.

You blink at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing but not producing sounds.

He starts to laugh. “Speechless, huh?”

Your dumbfounded look turns to a glower. “Don’t brag, Mathew.”

“How can I not?” he teases. He thumbs at the side of your lip, wiping something from your face. “I just kissed you stupid.”

“Whatever,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest and turning back to the TV. 

You finish the movie without talking. His arm remains on the back of sofa during the duration of the film. You’ve never been more aware of Mat’s body next to yours, nor the space separating you. His arm is practically around your shoulders, but there are inches between your bodies, and your skin feels like it’s vibrating off of you. You go to bed with Mat, as normal, but in silence. There are miles between you and Mat in his king-size bed and for the first time in a long time, you consider going to the guest room.

The following morning is no better. You’re getting ready for work, packing your things up, making breakfast, and preparing to leave Mat’s apartment for at least the rest of the week. You assume that he’s still asleep, since he doesn’t have PT until the afternoon, but you hear footsteps padding down the hall as you reach the front door. He follows you all the way to the doorframe, resting his hand on the crown moulding and looking down at you.

“Have a good day at work,” Mat mumbles. “Are you coming back here tonight?”

You look away and shrug. “I should probably go home for once.”

Mat is silent for a beat too long. “Okay,” he says simply. “I’ll miss you.” Mat bends down and presses a kiss to your cheek, catching the very corner of your lips. He pats the doorframe and gives you a wave as you start down the hallway. Your first few steps are slow and confused, because what the hell is happening and why did Mat kiss you again, but you feel like running by the time he closes the door behind you.

You’re distracted at work. It’s worse than yesterday. You feel jittery. When you go home at the end of the day, your apartment feels empty. You crinkle your nose and rub your arms, trying to warm up. It’s weird being alone for the night after staying with Mat for a few days. You got really used to being next to him, eating dinner with him, watching stupid shit on the TV while laying on his couch, and sleeping in his bed.

You lay in bed, unable to sleep. You toss and turn, scroll on your phone, try and sleep again, and fail. It’s 2am when your phone vibrates with a text and you check it immediately, hoping for something interesting.

It’s Mat.

‘Miss you :(’, he says. There’s a picture of him pouting into the camera, his bedside lamp turned to the lowest setting, just bright enough that he doesn’t need to use the flash. 

Your mouth automatically matches Mat’s. You sigh, zooming in on his tousled hair. You scroll across the picture, lingering on Mat’s bare chest. You stare for much too long. Much too long… to be considered friends. Mat’s kiss has really messed with your mind and now you can’t stop thinking about him and his tongue and his hands and–

You bury your face in the pillow and groan. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas. You throw on your bathrobe, just to combat the cold, and within fifteen minutes, you’re hitting the buzzer to call up to Mat’s apartment.

“Hello?” Mat’s fuzzy voice comes through the speaker. 

Idiot, you admonish in your head. Who answers the buzzer at 2am? Especially when you’re a desirable athlete… God, Mat, you’re so dumb.

“It’s me,” you say. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

You hear the door click, unlocking, and you push your way inside. Your foot taps impatiently as you wait in the elevator, arms crossed over your chest. As the doors open, you spot Mat waiting at his front door, leaning against the frame like he was when you left him this morning.

His face is lined with sleep and there are lines on his chest like he just scratched an itch. 

You’re kissing him again as soon as you get close enough. You throw your arms around Mat’s neck and he wraps his arms around your middle, lifting you up until you naturally twine your legs around his waist. 

Mat’s kissing you back, moving into his apartment and closing the front door behind him. His bottom lip is between yours. You suck and nibble it, soothing the skin with your tongue after you bite hard enough for Mat to groan. His hands are planted on your behind now, kneading the skin.

“So you’ve been thinking about it too,” Mat breathes out between kisses. 

“All day.” Your hands work up into his hair and pull.

Mat shivers and his mouth drops open at the tug of your fingers. He turns toward the wall and pushes you up against it, trapping you with his body and pressing his groin against yours. He’s deliciously hard and you grind down on the bulge in his sweats. Mat moans and separates his lips from your mouth, instead trailing them wetly down your neck.

“Bedroom,” you tell Mat, voice hitching when he leaves a bite on your pulse point.

“Fuck that,” Mat replies. He pushes your shirt up and over your head. “Can’t wait. I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about this.”

“Fucking me against the wall?”

“Having crazy sex with you all over the apartment,” Mat corrects. “You know when you’re about to sleep and then you feel like you’re falling and you wake up?”

“Yeah?” you respond, confused.

“It was like that.” Mat comes back up to kiss your lips. “I’d almost fall asleep and then I’d see you here. I’d see you bent over the kitchen counter or the arm of the sofa. I’d have you against the tile in my shower, then over the sink and I’d wipe all the fog off the mirror so you could watch. You’d be laying on the dining room table and I’d be between your legs, then I’d be sitting at my desk and you’d be between my legs.”

“Sounds tortuous,” you joke. 

“It was torture to see you like that and not have you,” Mat says in complete earnest. “That kiss broke a fucking dam for us, I swear.”

“Emma’s going to brag about getting us together,” you say.

“Don’t tell her,” Mat replies simply. “I’m on Tito’s side of the breakup anyway.”

“That’s not how friendship works.”

“Clearly, we don’t have any idea of how friendship should work,” Mat laughs. His eyes are twinkling with mischief. “I’m about to fuck you against the wall and we’re ‘just friends.’”

“We’re going to have to talk about that,” you tell Mat. 

“Now?” he asks, his middle two fingers finding your clit over your panties and rubbing.

“After,” you confirm. You pull him back in for a kiss and roll your hips into Mat’s hand. “After, for sure.”

Mat chuckles into your mouth. He shifts your panties to the side and slides his middle finger into your cunt. “Wow, look at how you’re taking me,” Mat says. His nose knocks against yours when he turns his eyes toward your core. “So wet. Bet you taste good, too.” 

You whine when he removes his finger from your entrance, annoyed. That feeling vanishes shortly after you’re emptied, once Mat brings his finger to his mouth and hollows his cheeks around the digit. Your eyes go wide and your mouth drops open, drool pooling on your tongue. 

Mat smirks. His finger leaves his mouth with a pop and he then licks both his middle and ring finger, wetting them and bringing them back to your core. Mat leans in as he presses both fingers into your hole, his tongue sliding against yours as he curls his fingers inside of you.

“Oh my God,” you say to yourself when Mat’s thumb comes into contact with your clit. If his kiss was stuck in your head all day after just a few seconds with his tongue in your mouth, then this moment will be seared into the blank space behind your eyelids for weeks.

“Just me,” Mat teases. He kisses over your neck, sucks on the corner of your jaw, and gently takes your earlobe between his teeth. He tugs, then drops the soft skin and breathes cool air over the skin just beneath your lobe. 

You shiver and throw your head back against the wall, baring your neck to Mat. He takes full advantage of it, but the location of his mouth is the least of your worries. You’re too preoccupied with the way his fingers are dancing inside of you. You feel your insides jump when Mat comes into contact with your g-spot, playing with the soft spot fixed at a seemingly random and elusive point on your inner walls, biting down on your lower lip to stop an embarrassing sound from escaping you.

Mat’s hands are busy– the one inside of you and the other planted on your side, helping hold you up against the wall– so he can’t remove your bottom lip from the confines of your teeth. Instead, he hovers right in front of your face, just close enough to kiss, but he doesn’t make the move to unite. 

You get the message, dropping your bottom lip in favor of kissing Mat’s. He smiles into the kiss and squeezes a third finger inside of you. You can feel his muscles tensing, the rippling of his forearm and bicep traveling all the way up to the place where his arm meets his torso. 

“I don’t want to come like this,” you declare in a high voice, shaking a bit as Mat brings you right to the edge and nearly pulls you over. “I want to come on your cock, Mat, fuck me.”

“You can’t give me two?” Mat asks.

“It’s not that I can’t,” you whine. “I just want you inside me.” You dig your nails into Mat’s upper back when his fingers continue to piston against your sweet spot. “Fuck, Mat.”

Mat slows his fingers and relents. “Hold on,” he says. He presses you further into the wall, no space between your bodies.

You tighten your grip around his neck and lock your ankles around his waist.

Mat pushes his sweats and underwear down. They fall to his ankles and he tugs at the crotch of your panties again, making sure to tuck them securely out of the way so that he can guide his cockhead to your dripping center. 

You don’t realize that your nails are creating red half-moon crescents on the fleshy skin covering his traps until Mat captures your wrists between the fingers of one hand– his thumb and forefinger around one and his other three around the other– and holds them against the wall above your head. You whimper and tilt your hips forward, pulling him closer by the linked ankles at the small of his back. 

“Fuck, baby, I didn’t know you were so desperate that you’d claw me up,” Mat says. Humor is laced throughout his tone. He brings his shoulders up and tenses them, then releases the tension. His cock pushes inside you all the same, despite the discomfort he might be feeling. You barely hear him, anyway– not with his cock dragging against your walls and kissing your insides like that. 

Your mind is stalling, feeling like it’s trapped by the grip that Mat has on your wrists. “Mat,” you keen, trying to bounce on his length as best you can while hovering against the wall and contained by Mat’s body. 

He presses his lips against your cheek before shifting his hips forward and drilling into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your mouth opens in a gasp and Mat flicks his tongue against yours. His fingers squeeze your wrists with each thrust– the pleasure from his tip knocking into your cervix plus the pressure against your skin, arms raised up above your head, pairs together in a way that had your mind spiraling. 

The noises that come from Mat’s mouth don’t help– he’s grunting and groaning and his breath is heavy. He’s never silent, never, and you know that if you close your eyes, you could get off to his noises alone. 

“You feel so good,” Mat compliments in a low voice. His cooing tone fills your ears like how a sink drain sucks all the water away, creating a whirlpool and gulping for more. “Tight and wet and squeezing me, fuck, we should’ve been doing this for ages.”

You nod your head in assent, eyes shut tightly as a coil of pressure screws and tightens in your abdomen. Mat’s words dissolve in to babbles, the blood rushing to your head. Your pulse booms in your ears as he talks on. Mat’s hand digs into your side, the soft flesh of your waist giving in order to make room for his fingertips as he bucks wildly into your heat. Your slick and the slide of his cock creates a squelching, clapping sound each time that his pelvis collides with yours. Your clit, swollen and aching to be touched, brushes against Mat’s abdomen with just enough friction to send you over the edge, quivering in his arms and arching your back as your climax crashes over your being and overtakes you. Your jaw practically pops with how wide and unhinged it becomes, strangled and drawn-out mewls spurring Mat on while you come in his arms and on his cock. 

Almost simultaneously, Mat’s head dips and his hips stutter, white cum shooting from his slit and painting your walls. Mat continues fucking you through your aftershocks and his own, with gravity taking effect almost immediately– as he draws his cock out of you, just to shove it back in, the mixture of your cum drips from your hole and creates a mess that you and Mat will notice in the morning and gape at before breaking out the cleaning supplies. 

You breathe together. Mat’s movements slow and he crowds your body, plastering himself against you. His heaves are wet against your neck, drinking air back in. As Mat catches his breath, he starts to mouth against your skin, planting a series of kisses along your collarbone and shoulder. 

“Oh my God,” you repeat again. 

Mat’s grip on your wrists relinquishes and your arms drop to his shoulders. His cock slips from your pussy as it softens, but he places his hands again on your ass and keeps your legs around his middle. He hums and kisses your cheek, then your mouth. The kisses are less rushed and frenzied now, matching the original kiss he gave you that filled your mind and stayed there. 

“Take off work tomorrow so we can fuck all over the apartment,” Mat suggests between kisses. He’s finally on the move again, making his way to the bedroom with you in his arms. “That was only one of the ideas I had.”

“I can’t take off work for sex,” you reply. Mat lays you on the bed and you pull him down with you. “But I can stay all weekend again.”

“Yes,” Mat whispers in a celebratory voice, grinning widely when he pulls away. He disintangles himself from your arms and legs, collapsing onto the mattress beside you, in your normal spots. “Do I need to go and buy a toothbrush for you so you don’t have to use mine?”

“Get one of the good ones while you’re at it,” you tease. “Use that big hockey budget and get me one of those electronic ones that’s a waterpick when you swap the head out.”

“Careful,” Mat says. “If I buy that one, I’ll start using your toothbrush.” He pulls the covers over your bodies and holds his arm out so that you can cuddle into his side.

For the first time while awake, you curl up with your head on his chest and throw your leg over his thigh. Your hand comes up to cover his heart and Mat presses a kiss to your head. 

“We’re not going to be just friends after this,” Mat tells you.

You laugh. “No, I don’t think we will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced down. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that was why you called him.

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

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

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

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

“How?” Your eyebrows furrow, completely lost.

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

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

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

His teasing faded immediately, “What happened?”

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

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

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

“Minimum.” You add.

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

“Ouch, that’s cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

No one had. And so here you are.

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

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

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

"Those are the same thing."

"They are genuinely not."

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

"People who like their dignity."

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm going first," he announces.

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

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

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

He picks a Celine Dion song.

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

"Mat," you say.

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

"That's a big song."

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

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

"God, no," you say.

Mat does not have it.

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

Bo's face is a controlled catastrophe.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hard pass."

"You said maybe in the cab."

"I have reconsidered."

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

The thing is, you can sing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finish the song.

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

Mat doesn't say anything immediately.

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

"You—" He stops.

"Mat."

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

"I told you I could."

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

"It was one song."

"Do another one," he says immediately.

"No."

"Please."

"Mat—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Later," you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time you watch Mat the whole way through.

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

When you finish, he says nothing for a moment.

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

"You're drunk," you say.

"Both things are true," he says.

By midnight, Mat is adorably, comprehensively useless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were very committed," you offer.

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

"High bar you set."

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

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

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

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

"You knew I could sing."

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

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

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

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

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

"You were watching," you say.

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

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

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

"Come on," you say.

"Our apartment smells nice."

"Mat."

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

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

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

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

"I went."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Matthew was very serious about the whole thing."

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

"Go to sleep, Mat."

"I'm just saying."

"I know you are."

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

You close your eyes.

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

"You don't need the word."

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

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

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

You open your eyes in the dark.

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

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

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

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

You slide your hand out from under the light and tilt it back and forth, watching the shine catch. Not bad. You grab the detail brush again, steadying your wrist against your knee.

Matt doesn’t realize when it happens. One second he’s scrolling, half listening to the TV, and the next his thumb stops moving. He looks up.

You’re leaning forward now, tongue just barely pressed to your lip the way it always is when you’re focused. Your fingers move carefully, confident but gentle, like you know exactly how much pressure to use. The polish glides on smooth, and you don’t even hesitate.

Matt lowers his phone and he just watches. It takes him a moment to realize he’s staring. When he does, he doesn’t stop.

“Holy shit,” he says quietly.

You glance up without lifting your head all the way. “What?”

He blinks, like he forgot he was supposed to answer. “Your nails. That’s… I mean, what?”

You smile a little and go back to what you’re doing. “I’m almost done. Don’t distract me.”

“I’m not distracting,” he says, already scooting closer. “I’m observing.”

You laugh under your breath as you dip the brush into a tiny pot of glitter. “You were literally watching hockey two seconds ago.”

“Yeah, well. This is cooler.”

That gets your attention. You look at him properly this time, eyebrow raised. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on your hands like you’re doing something unbelievable.

You return to your nail, carefully tracing a thin line. “It’s just gel polish.”

He shakes his head. “No way. That’s not just anything. What’s that little brush?”

“A liner brush.”

“And that stuff?” He points at the jar. “Is that paint or glitter or… space dust?”

You snort. “Chrome powder. Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says immediately, hands up. Then quieter, “I kinda want to though.”

You slide your hand back under the lamp and press the button. The light clicks on, bathing everything in soft purple. Matt squints at it, fascinated.

“So this thing just makes it dry instantly?”

“It cures it,” you correct.

He nods slowly. “Of course it does.”

You pull your hand out again once the light shuts off, checking your work. Matt leans even closer, his knee bumping yours.

“How long does all this take?” he asks.

“Couple hours if I’m doing nail art.”

His eyes widen. “That’s insane.”

You shrug. “It’s relaxing.”

He watches as you start on the next nail, quieter now. After a moment he says, “You’re really steady. Like, really steady.”

You glance at him again, surprised by how serious he sounds.

“I mean it,” he adds quickly. “I couldn’t do that if my life depended on it. I’d mess it up in half a second.”

“You’re not used to being patient,” you tease.

He laughs. “True. But you are. You don’t rush it. You actually enjoy it.”

You pause for half a second, then smile softly and keep going.

Without asking, he reaches out and holds the lamp in place when you slide your hand under again, careful not to touch anything. You notice, and something warm settles in your chest.

“So,” he says while the light hums, “do you plan these designs ahead of time or do you just… improvise?”

“Depends on my mood.”

He nods like that explains everything. “Makes sense.”

When the light clicks off, you pull your hand free and examine the finished nail. Matt’s eyes follow every movement.

“They’re really pretty,” he says, quieter than before.

You feel your cheeks warm a little. “Thanks.”

He smiles at you, proud and impressed and a little in awe, like he’s just realized something new about you. And even when you go back to your nails, he doesn’t reach for his phone again. He just stays there, watching, like this is exactly where he wants to be.

The second you start pulling your nail stuff out again, Matt notices.

“Are you doing your nails?” he asks from the kitchen, already halfway into the living room.

You glance up from the coffee table. “Maybe.”

He grins like he caught you doing something suspicious. “Can I watch?”

“You watched last time.”

“Yeah, and it was awesome,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you. “You never told me when you were gonna do it again.”

You laugh and start lining up your bottles. “I didn’t know I had to schedule it.”

He leans back, arms crossed, trying very hard to look casual even though his eyes are already glued to your hands. You prep your nails, pushing back cuticles, buffing lightly. After a minute, you glance over at him.

“You want to help this time?”

His head snaps up. “Actually help?”

“Well,” you say, uncapping a bottle of clear gel, “I’m not letting you touch anything. But you can pick the design.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I get creative control?”

“Within reason.”

He sits up straighter, suddenly taking this very seriously. “Okay. So. What are the options.”

You start applying base coat. “Colours, shapes, minimal or detailed. Don’t say flames.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t going to. I’m not twelve.”

There’s a pause while he thinks, jaw working like he’s about to answer a postgame interview.

“What if,” he says slowly, “you did something with my team.”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. “Your team.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Like, not obvious. Not logos everywhere. Just… colours. And my number.”

You smile despite yourself. “You want your jersey number on my nails.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds kinda sick,” he says, clearly pleased. “But yeah.”

You finish the base coat and slide your hand under the lamp. “Which nail gets the number?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Ring finger.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bold choice.”

He shrugs. “It’s important.”

The light clicks off and you reach for the colour bottles. Team colours. Matt watches closely as you swatch them against your thumb.

“That one,” he says, pointing. “That’s the right blue.”

“You’re surprisingly specific.”

“I stare at it for a living,” he replies.

You start painting, laying the colour down smoothly. He leans closer with every nail, tracking the process like he’s studying film.

“And the number,” he adds, quieter now. “Can you make it small? Like it’s just… there if you know what you’re looking for.”

“I can do that.”

His smile is slow and soft. “That’s kinda perfect.”

When it’s time for the number, you brace your hand and take the tiniest brush. Matt goes silent, like he knows this part matters. You carefully paint the number, clean and precise.

He exhales. “That’s insane. How did you do that.”

“Steady hands,” you say, smiling.

You cure it, seal it with top coat, then hold your hand up for inspection. Matt stares. For a long second, he doesn’t say anything. Then he grins, wide and boyish.

“Those are my favourite nails you’ve ever done,” he says. “I feel like I should take a picture.”

“You are not posting them.”

“I wasn’t going to post,” he says defensively. “I just want it. For me.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you start on the other hand. He stays right there, closer than before, clearly proud in a way that makes your chest feel warm.

“Next time,” he says casually, “we do a playoff theme.”

You glance at him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He smiles. “I already am.”

Game day mornings are always a little hectic. Matt is half dressed, pacing the bedroom while he talks through his checklist out loud like it helps him remember everything.

“Suit. Shoes. Headphones. Did I grab my charger?”

“You did,” you say from the bed.

He hums, distracted, tugging his jacket on. You’re sitting cross legged, sipping coffee, watching him move around with that focused game day energy. When you reach out to hand him his phone, he notices your nails again. He freezes. Like fully stops moving, jacket half on, keys dangling from his hand.

“Wait,” he says. “Hold on.”

You look up, already smiling. “What?”

He walks back toward you slowly, eyes locked on your hands. You hold them up and he gently takes you hand, turning it so the light catches just right. The team colours are subtle but unmistakable. Clean lines, glossy finish. And then his eyes land on it. His number. Small. Perfect. Right on your ring finger.

“I still can’t believe that you did this for me.” He looks up at you then, expression softer than before. Proud, touched, maybe a little emotional but he would never say that part out loud. “It looks so unreal,” he says quietly.

You shrug. “Guess you’ll have to play well now.”

He smiles and then, without saying anything else, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss right to your ring finger. It is quick. Barely there. But it makes your heart do something stupid.

“For luck,” he says.

You laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Dead serious,” he replies, grinning.

Later that night, you walk with him to the car, the arena lights glowing in the distance. He opens the passenger door for you, then pauses again, glancing at your hand as you rest it on the doorframe.

He squeezes it gently. “I’m scoring tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says confidently. “You basically guaranteed it.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not how that works.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours for a second. “Doesn’t matter. Still my favourite superstition.”

As he pulls away and shuts the door, you catch him glancing back one more time at your nails before heading around to the driver’s side. Like he is taking a little piece of you with him onto the ice.

He can’t help but smile.

You’d gone out with a group of friends, no particular occasion to be celebrated but for the sake of being young and finally having a night where everyone is free without work or meetings or some other responsibility breathing down your neck the next day. 

Anyone else and they might assume that something happened, that you were having a bad night. But he knows you. Knows that, once you get a couple drinks in your system, you can’t help but get a bit sappy. Can’t help but let everyone know just how much you love and cherish them.

Naturally, Mat was no exception to this. 

It doesn’t take anything else for him to straighten up, phone still in his hand as he lets the guys abruptly know he’s gotta go pick you up. They don’t have to know the circumstances to understand, already knowing just how head-over-heels the guy is for you despite still being fairly fresh into this relationship, the now all too familiar grin on his face telling them everything they need to know.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

It’s a short drive to the area where you knew you’d been barhopping, and it doesn’t take much effort on his part to find you, your group having since migrated outside seemingly to wait for rides. He can see the sway in your posture from a mile away, knows that you maybe might’ve gotten just a little too ahead of yourself tonight.

He puts the car in park and pops his hazards on, hopping out of the driver's side and making his way over with a playful ‘sup ladies (which admittedly and understandably earns him a nasty glare from your group before they recognize him and smile).

The girls tease you lightheartedly when you break out into a grin, dramatically awwing when you wrap your arms snug around his torso.

“Hey pretty lady,” he greets, returning your embrace with a firm wrap of his arms around your shoulders, securing you in place. You respond with a muffled hi, granting you a giggle from the taller man.

He makes small talk with your friends that gives you no choice but to smile, unable to ignore the feeling that comes from seeing the most important people in your life overlap. The warmth in your chest grows as they debrief him on your shenanigans from the night, him filling the gaps with questions and reactions when appropriate.

You try not to melt when he makes sure they’ve all got a way home tonight before he wrangles you up himself - yes it’s the bare minimum, but you just can’t help it.

And yeah, maybe you stumble ever so slightly when you pull away from his chest. Not enough that it’s problematic or particularly concerning, but enough to pull a couple of laughs from your friends.

“I’m thinking maybe you might’ve had one drink too many,” he says amusingly with a smile on his face, hands gripping your shoulders to keep you steady.

“Did not,” you squint at him in jest as you defend yourself halfheartedly before promptly stumbling off of the curb you didn’t know was there, saved only by the heavy arm still wrapped around you.

“Okay, maybe,” you correct with a giggle as he walks you carefully to the car, him settling you into the passenger seat and buckling you in as you wave to your friends one last time over his shoulder.

On the drive home he opts for no music, knowing you’d prefer soft chit chat after hours of loud voices and louder music.

“Feet hurt so bad,” you mumble out from the passenger seat, head pressed against the cold of the window. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing over to you briefly with his bottom lip jutting out in a pout, not mockingly but empathetically.

“‘s okay.”

He can’t help but glance over again with an involuntary smile at your soft tone before checking in, “you had fun though?”

“S’ much,” and your head lulls over to him lightly, “missed you.”

And that makes him chuckle, “I know you did, baby.” 

He reaches an arm over to squeeze your knee lovingly, a silent way to say I missed you too, letting his hand rest gently on your thigh for the remainder of the drive - not suggestive, but grounding.

He knows the regret is starting to catch up to you from the silence that consumes the car, you being too locked in on the nausea creeping up on you to contribute to any further conversation, so he just keeps his hand steady on you and glances over when he can.

Once he pulls up to your place, it’s go time. He walks around to the passenger side and helps you back out of the car, wordlessly walks you through the entryway, through your living space, and right to the bathroom where you proceed to empty your stomach of every mistake you made at the bars. 

And, like clockwork, somewhere between heaves you start crying.

It’s not so much to do with being sad, you just hate the feeling of being sick and, well, you definitely are maybe a little too drunk.

All it takes is Mat noticing the wet streaks on your cheeks and a whispered you’re okay for it to become a sob fest, you choking out I'm sorrys out of sheer embarrassment.

“Hey, none of that,” he says softly, cradling your face and gently brushing your tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

He reaches beside you to grab a wad of toilet paper, wiping spit off of your chin before folding it, bringing it to your nose with a gentle instruction of blow. 

“I feel like such a baby,” you mumble, still trying to compose yourself.

“Maybe, but you're my baby.”

And that. That gets you to laugh, and he can’t help but smile.

“You’re disgusting,” you giggle with a weak smack to his chest.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with endearment in his eyes, “you love it.”

And you let out a wet yeah as the waterworks fight their way through again, and he cackles.

“No, crying is over,” he laughs out, “let’s get you to bed, missy.”

He flushes the toilet and lifts you back to your feet, makes you eat a quick snack of a few crackers to help settle your stomach, brushes your teeth and has you swish around a little mouth wash, then lays a fat smooch on your lips because yeah, he knows you need it.

Helps you climb into your bed before doing the same on the other side, lets you curl into his torso whichever way feels right to you.

Runs his fingers through your hair carefully so you can be certain he’s there, but otherwise remains as still as humanly possible because he just knows the room has got to be spinning for you, and then you’re both out like a light.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

When morning comes you wake alone, but you can tell by the smell coming from your kitchen that he hasn’t gone far.

You take your time getting out of bed, head throbbing, and when you finally resurface from your room your knees just about go weak.

Without any questions, planning, or encouragement, he’s made you breakfast, complete with a fresh bagel you already know is from your shop of preference which you know he had to go out earlier to get, some chopped up fruit, two ibuprofen, and a fresh pot of coffee with a pint of creamer.

You don’t have to speak for him to know you’re there, the soft patter of your feet down the hall having alerted him of your presence, and he’s already looking at you with a smile when your gaze flicks to him.

You can feel the slight prick of tears behind your eyes when you jut your bottom lip out in a pout, looking at him with a soft spoken Mat, and he’s laughing at you again.

“No, we’re done with that,” he jokes, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“You’re too good to me,” you say, arms around his waist and soaking in his warm hold. 

“Well, it’s my job,” he laughs, pressing his lips to the top of your head with a firm kiss, “love you, baby.”

And you’ve both said it before but it still feels new, and your heart feels so warm, and you both already know that this is something good.

And it feels as natural as breathing when you lean into him, no second thoughts when you hold him tighter and say I love you, too.

Because yeah, how could you not?

﹌﹌﹌