#pr relationship

Hi Anon!

pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

warnings: fake dating, PR stunt, slow burn, first kiss, sexual tension, alcohol, emotional chaos, Mat Barzal being everyone’s problem

summary: he said “wear my jersey so i know it’s you” and she showed up at his hotel room with champagne like that wasn’t an invitation for disaster. 

anyway here’s 2k words of emotional incompetence, PR violations, and the first kiss they absolutely should not have had

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist 

Previously: Damage Assessment

Your phone buzzes before you’ve even finished your coffee.

Mat: u alive

You stare at it for a second, thumb hovering.

Then:

You: unfortunately yes

Mat: wow Mat: harsh

You almost smile.

Almost.

Before you can respond again, another notification cuts through.

A new message thread. Not him.

Mara.

Crisis Communications Manager.

Which, honestly, still feels like a sentence you should not have to say about your life.

Mara: good news. we secured a brand alignment shoot.

Mara: editorial feature + controlled interview. high-end fashion house. very clean image reset for you.

Mara: Mat Barzal is confirmed.

Mara: this is very positive for the narrative.

You blink at the screen.

Slowly.

Then glance back at Mat’s text.

You: define “controlled”

Mara: scripted questions. curated visuals. nothing spontaneous.

Mara: PR will be on-site.

Nothing spontaneous.

You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t actually sound amused.

Because of course.

Because obviously.

Because nothing about Mat Barzal has been “nothing spontaneous” since the moment he looked at you like you were something he couldn’t quite decide to behave around.

Your thumbs move before you overthink it.

You: so basically a photoshoot where we pretend to be in love

Mara: professionally speaking, yes.

Mara: do not phrase it like that in front of press.

A pause.

Then Mat again.

Mat: what’s “controlled narrative” mean

You stare at his message for a second.

Then the irony of it all hits you so hard you almost laugh out loud.

Because if anyone in your life needed “control,” it was absolutely not him.

You type back.

You: it means behave

Mat: no promises

You exhale slowly, setting your phone down.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Mara’s voice echoes again:

clean image reset.

You glance at your reflection in the window.

At the version of yourself the world has decided to rebuild.

And then, almost against your will, you pick your phone back up.

You: we’ve got a shoot today

You: brand deal. photos. interview.

You: try not to embarrass me professionally

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Mat doesn’t make you wait.

Mat: no guarantees

Mat: but i’ll look pretty

You stare at that last message for a beat too long.

Then:

You: that’s unfortunately part of the problem

And against your better judgment,

You smile.

Just a little.

Before the day even starts to misbehave.

—

The studio is somehow worse than the hockey game.

At least at the arena there had been distance.

Glass.

Crowds.

Noise.

Here, everything feels close.

Too close.

“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately when you and Mat step onto the set together. “Oh, you two are disgustingly good-looking. This is gonna be easy.”

You nearly walk directly back out.

Mat laughs beside you.

“Good start.”

The studio itself is bright, all soft white backdrops and giant lights that make the entire room feel overheated. Stylists move around with steaming irons and makeup palettes while producers whisper near monitors already discussing social engagement like your lives are a military operation.

You’re trying very hard not to look directly at Mat.

Unfortunately, Mat exists directly beside you.

Which makes that difficult.

Very difficult.

Especially because he showed up wearing dark slacks and a black sweater pushed up to his forearms, hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it on the drive over.

Which feels targeted somehow.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

Your eyes flick toward him.

Big mistake.

Because now you’re remembering: the tunnel his hand on your waist the almost kiss the way he looked at your mouth before getting interrupted

Catastrophic.

“Totally,” you lie.

“That’s a lie.”

“You seem weirdly confident about that.”

“You get this thing right here,” he says, pointing vaguely toward your face.

“What thing?”

“This thing.”

“That clears it up completely, thank you.”

His mouth twitches.

And annoyingly, immediately, you relax.

“Okay!” the photographer claps loudly. “Let’s start simple.”

Simple.

Right.

Sure.

Five minutes later, Mat’s hand is on your waist while a stylist fixes your hair and you’re pretty sure your nervous system is beginning to short-circuit permanently.

“Closer,” the photographer says.

Mat’s hand tightens slightly.

You inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.

His thumb moves once against your side.

Tiny.

Absentminded.

Deadly.

“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately. “That tension right there? Gorgeous.”

Your soul leaves your body.

Mat coughs beside you like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You think this is funny?” you murmur under your breath.

“A little.”

“You’re evil.”

“Probably.”

The photographer circles around you both excitedly.

“Okay, now look at each other.”

Absolutely not.

Unfortunately, you do it anyway.

And there it is again.

That horrible, magnetic thing between you.

You don’t know when it started feeling less like pretending and more like standing too close to the edge of something.

But suddenly it does.

Mat’s eyes flick down briefly.

Your mouth.

Then back up.

Your stomach flips hard.

“Nice,” the photographer says. “Don’t move.”

You immediately move.

Mat laughs quietly beside you while you step back.

“I need everyone here to be less observant,” you mutter.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your stylist says from somewhere behind the monitors, “that ship sailed at the hockey game.”

Fantastic.

The next setup is somehow worse.

A couch.

You know.

For legal reasons.

To destroy you specifically.

“Sit,” the photographer says.

You sit carefully on one end.

Mat drops down beside you a second later, one arm stretching across the back of the couch behind you.

Too close.

Way too close.

“Relax,” he says quietly without looking at you.

“You saying that is starting to become threatening.”

His grin flashes quickly.

The photographer lifts the camera again.

“Okay, Mat, pull her in a little.”

You expect him to hesitate.

He doesn’t.

His hand settles against your waist easily, guiding you closer until your thigh presses against his.

And because the universe enjoys watching you suffer, his hand lands directly against bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly.

The contact burns instantly.

Both of you freeze.

Not visibly.

Just enough.

Enough that you feel it.

Enough that he feels it too.

His eyes cut toward yours immediately.

The photographer practically loses his mind.

“YES,” he shouts. “That. Stay exactly like that.”

You physically cannot breathe normally anymore.

Mat’s fingers flex once against your skin.

Tiny movement.

Massive consequences.

“You okay?” he murmurs quietly.

No.

Absolutely not.

“Peachy,” you whisper back.

His mouth twitches again.

God.

You’re starting to hate his mouth.

The interview somehow goes even worse.

Because apparently the producers decided what America really needs is a “couples compatibility segment.”

Which would almost be funny if it wasn’t actively ruining your life.

“Who’s more stubborn?” the interviewer asks brightly.

You and Mat point at each other instantly.

The crew bursts out laughing.

“Wow,” the interviewer says. “No hesitation there.”

“She’s terrifying,” Mat says easily.

You stare at him.

“You literally body-check grown men for a living.”

“Professionally.”

“Oh, my mistake.”

The interviewer grins.

“Who apologizes first after arguments?”

“He does,” you say immediately.

Mat looks genuinely offended.

“I absolutely do not.”

“You absolutely would.”

“You’ve known me for like two weeks.”

“And yet I’m correct.”

He stares at you for a second before laughing softly under his breath.

The crew collectively melts.

You can literally feel it happening.

“Oh my God,” one of the producers whispers near the monitors. “They’re insane together.”

Your heart does something deeply annoying at that.

Because the worst part?

You’re starting to think she might be right.

By the end of the shoot, everyone is obsessed with you both.

The photographer. The makeup artists. The crew. The PR team.

Which is apparently fantastic news professionally.

Personally, you feel like you’re walking around with exposed wiring.

You and Mat stand together near the monitors afterward while the team reviews shots.

“Holy shit,” someone says behind you. “These are incredible.”

Photo after photo flashes across the screen.

His hand on your waist.

Your head tipped back laughing.

The two of you staring at each other like the room disappeared around you.

One photo stops you cold.

You hadn’t even noticed it happening.

Mat’s looking down at you softly while you’re already looking at him.

No cameras in your expression.

No performance.

Just something warm.

Real.

It hits you strangely hard.

Because for the first time since this stupid arrangement started, you genuinely cannot tell where the act ends anymore.

“You okay?”

Mat’s voice is quieter this time.

Closer.

You look up at him.

His expression shifts slightly when he sees yours.

Concern.

Softness.

Something else underneath it.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

Another lie.

And somehow, you think he knows that too.

—

You should go back to your room.

That’s the thing.

You know you should.

The shoot wrapped an hour ago. You’re exhausted. Emotionally unstable. One accidental hand touch away from a complete psychological collapse.

And yet somehow you still end up standing outside Mat’s hotel room at midnight holding a bottle of champagne like a woman moments away from making deeply questionable decisions.

You stare at the door for one long second.

Then knock.

Footsteps approach almost immediately.

The door opens.

And there he is.

Grey sweats.

Black t-shirt.

Damp hair.

You hate him instantly.

“You know it’s midnight, right?” he says.

You lift the champagne slightly.

“You gonna invite me in or make this psychologically worse?”

His laugh is soft and surprised.

Then he steps aside.

“Come in.”

The room is warm.

Quiet.

No cameras. No stylists. No PR people.

Just him.

Which suddenly feels far more dangerous.

“You always carry emergency champagne?” he asks as you sit on the edge of the couch.

“Only during emotional crises.”

“Good thing we’re having one.”

You laugh quietly.

And then things settle.

Not awkward.

Somehow worse.

Comfortable.

You talk for what feels like hours.

About everything.

The shoot. The internet. His teammates. Your terrible ex. Hockey. Acting.

At some point your shoes end up abandoned near the couch and Mat’s sitting close enough now that your knees brush every few minutes without either of you moving away.

“You know what’s annoying?” you say eventually.

“What?”

“You’re significantly more emotionally intelligent than I expected.”

He looks deeply offended.

“That’s crazy disrespectful.”

“You play professional hockey.”

“And?”

“And statistically?”

He laughs loudly enough that you smile immediately.

God.

That smile is becoming a problem.

“You know,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I almost kissed you yesterday.”

The air changes instantly.

Your pulse stutters hard.

You look at him slowly.

“I know.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Neither of you move.

“You didn’t seem very opposed to the idea,” he says carefully.

Your throat suddenly feels dry.

“That’s because I wasn’t.”

His eyes darken immediately.

The room feels smaller now.

Warmer.

You should say something smart here.

Instead:

“You’re very hard to pretend with.”

Mat goes very still.

Then:

“Good thing I stopped pretending a while ago.”

Your breath catches completely.

And after that, neither of you really stands a chance.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe both of you.

Maybe neither.

All you know is suddenly he’s closer, your heartbeat loud enough to drown out rational thought while his eyes flick down toward your mouth again.

Slowly.

Giving you time to stop this.

You don’t.

Neither does he.

“Tell me to stop,” he says softly.

You stare at him for one suspended second.

Then whisper:

“You first.”

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides into your hair as he kisses you and suddenly every almost moment, every look, every touch crashes together at once.

It’s not gentle.

Not messy either.

Just intense.

Like both of you have been holding this back for far too long.

You grab the front of his shirt instinctively, kissing him back hard enough to pull a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest that nearly ruins you completely.

And God.

His mouth.

Warm. Slow. Devastating.

The kiss deepens gradually until you’re half in his lap without remembering moving there, champagne abandoned somewhere on the table while his hand settles against your waist like it belongs there.

Like it’s always belonged there.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing too hard.

Foreheads pressed together.

Neither letting go.

“This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Mat says softly.

And then he kisses you again anyway.

The second kiss is slower.

Somehow worse.

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt while his hand slides along your waist, warm and steady beneath your palms as the room blurs softly around both of you.

When he finally pulls back this time, neither of you moves very far.

You’re still close enough to feel his breathing.

Still half in his lap.

“This feels extremely unprofessional,” you murmur.

Mat huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth.

“Pretty sure we crossed that line at the tunnel.”

“Fair point.”

Silence settles again.

Not awkward.

Just charged.

Your eyes flick toward the abandoned champagne bottle on the table before drifting back to him.

“So,” you say carefully, “if we hypothetically start sleeping together…”

Mat’s eyebrows lift immediately.

“Hypothetically.”

“Obviously.”

His mouth twitches.

“Obviously.”

You try to ignore how warm your face suddenly feels.

“It technically helps the story,” you continue. “Better chemistry. Better press. We’d just be… committing to the bit.”

“Right,” he says solemnly. “Method acting.”

“Exactly.”

He looks at you for one long second before his hand tightens slightly against your waist.

“Sweetens the deal,” you say softly.

Something shifts in his expression instantly.

Lower.

Hotter.

“Dangerous thing to say to me right now,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips hard.

“But you agree.”

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth again.

Then back up.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

Another pause.

Heavy.

“You’re trouble,” he adds softly.

You smile slightly.

“You kissed me first.”

“Pretty sure you showed up here with champagne on purpose.”

You consider arguing.

Unfortunately he’s completely right.

And judging by the way he’s looking at you now?

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: masturbation, suggestive content, emotional damage, Mat Barzal in compression shirts, unresolved sexual tension, one (1) hockey player causing workplace hazards

Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

His hand slides up your stomach slowly, warm skin and heavy breathing surrounding you until the entire room feels smaller. Hotter. Like the air’s been stolen straight out of your lungs.

“Relax,” Mat murmurs against your neck.

His voice is rough. Sleepy. Heavy.

You feel his mouth just below your ear and your fingers tighten instinctively against his shoulders as he presses you deeper into the mattress.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I’m not thinking,” you whisper.

“That’s a lie.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. Feel it.

His hand slips lower, and your breath catches hard when his fingers drag between your thighs, slow enough to make your entire body tense beneath him. You're already soaking. He circles your clit once, then twice, and he wastes no time in sliding two fingers inside of you. 

“There,” he says softly. “That’s it.”

Your head falls back against the pillow.

The room is dark except for the faint glow spilling through the curtains, enough to catch the shape of him above you. Bare shoulders. Messy hair. The sharp line of his jaw as he looks down at you like he has nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

It feels terrifyingly real.

His fingers curl and you gasp.

“Mat—”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I got you.”

The praise in his voice nearly destroys you.

Your legs part further automatically, your body reacting before your brain can catch up, and he notices immediately because apparently dream-Mat is offensively attentive.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Your entire body goes molten.

You reach for him blindly, needing closer, needing more, your fingers catching in the back of his shirt as his mouth drags along your throat.

“Please,” you breathe.

“Please what?”

You whine softly.

He laughs under his breath. Low. Warm. Cruel.

“Use your words.”

You’re so gone you barely notice it at first. The strange disconnect. The angle. The fact his hand feels slightly wrong.

Different.

Your eyes flutter open halfway.

Dark room.

Empty bed.

Silence.

And then the horrifying realization hits you all at once.

Those aren’t his fingers.

They’re yours.

You freeze completely.

“Oh my God.”

Mortification slams into you at terminal velocity. You yank your hand away like you’ve touched a live wire, staring at the ceiling in absolute disbelief while your heart pounds hard enough to rupture something important.

No.

No, no, no.

Because not only were you dreaming about Mat Barzal fingering you into another dimension, you were apparently so committed to the experience that your body decided to participate.

“This is actually humiliating,” you whisper to yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Which is a mistake.

Because immediately your brain supplies the memory of his hand at your back last night. Steady. Grounding. The quiet way he said you wanna get out of here? like it was the easiest decision in the world.

The way he looked at Sebastian.

The way he listened to you in the car.

No judgement. No impatience. Just there.

Heat coils low in your stomach again.

“Oh, fuck you,” you mutter weakly to yourself.

Unfortunately your body does not listen.

Your fingers slip back down before your dignity can stop them. You take turns circling your fingers around your swollen clit and pumping them in and out while you imagine his hands instead of yours. You come hard with his name trapped somewhere in your throat, thighs tightening as your back arches off the mattress for one embarrassing, catastrophic second before you collapse back against the bed breathing hard.

Silence.

Then:

“You have GOT to get a grip.”

You throw your arm over your eyes dramatically.

Because really.

Really?

You’ve known him for maybe ten days.

Ten.

And now your subconscious has apparently decided he’s the solution to all your emotional problems.

Fantastic.

Your phone buzzes aggressively from somewhere in the blankets.

Then again.

Then again.

With the exhausted resignation of someone being cyberbullied by their own career, you grab it.

Thirty-one notifications.

Texts from your publicist. Your manager. Your stylist.

One from your mother.

Mom: saw the photos

Mom: that man is built like a refrigerator

You bark out a laugh.

Traitor.

You open Instagram first.

Immediate mistake.

Your entire feed is you and Mat.

Photos from last night flood your screen. Him standing close behind you at the gala. His hand at your waist. The two of you laughing near the bar.

One photo catches your attention immediately.

You outside the venue, eyes glassy from almost crying while Mat leans down toward you with one hand shielding your head as he helps you into the car.

The comments underneath are absolute chaos.

@hockeyswifey: oh he is DOWN BAD

@ynnation: the way he looks at her??????

@matbarzalsgfreal: this is the first time she’s smiled in months omg

@nhlupdatesdaily: NHL men being emotionally competent wasn’t on my bingo card

@filmsandpucks: need him biblically actually

You stare at the last one for a long moment.

Honestly.

Fair.

Another notification appears.

A news article.

AMERICA’S NEW FAVORITE COUPLE?

You open it carefully. The headline alone makes you want to fake your own death.

But the article itself is… good.

Disturbingly good.

After months of concerning headlines following her breakup with actor Sebastian Hale, Y/N L/N appears happier and healthier than ever alongside New York Islanders star Mat Barzal.

The pair attended the Vanier Gala together Thursday evening, where onlookers described their chemistry as “effortless.”

“At one point he literally left with her midway through the event because she looked upset,” one source claims. “He seemed more focused on taking care of her than the publicity.”

You blink slowly.

Oh.

That one lands somewhere weird in your chest.

You keep reading despite yourself.

Fans online have already become obsessed with the unexpected pairing, praising Barzal’s seemingly protective nature and Y/N’s noticeably brighter demeanor.

Attached underneath is a compilation of tweets.

@puckbunny444: i fear this man likes her BAD

@celebwatchdaily: the hand on her back every five seconds???

@ynupdates: she actually looks safe with him :(

@sportsandstyle: this is either real or they deserve oscars

You drop your phone directly onto your face.

“This is a nightmare.”

Your phone buzzes again.

Mat.

Your stomach immediately betrays you.

Mat: u alive

Mat: pr people said u might wanna come to the game tonight

Mat: apparently it’s “good optics”

Mat: whatever the fuck that means

You: depends

You: are u gonna violently assault people on live television

Mat: almost definitely

You: tempting

Mat: wear my jersey so i know it’s u

You: this feels psychologically dangerous

Mat: probably

And somehow that’s worse.

———

The arena is loud.

Not regular loud.

Not gala loud.

Not Hollywood loud.

This is different.

Heavier.

The noise vibrates through the floors beneath your feet as thousands of people scream somewhere beyond the tunnel entrance.

You tug nervously at the sleeves of the Islanders jersey your stylist, Ava, forced onto your body an hour ago.

BARZAL.

Across your back.

You still haven’t emotionally processed that.

“You look hot,” Ava says, adjusting the collar of the jersey she forced onto your body twenty minutes ago.

You glance down.

White Islanders jersey.

Blue and orange stripes.

“I look insane,” you reply.

“You look invested,” she corrects.

“That’s worse.”

Ava ignores you completely.

“Remember,” she says as the arena doors open, “camera-friendly but natural.”

You stare at her.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means if they put you on the jumbotron, don’t look like you’re being held hostage.”

“Oh, perfect. Great note.”

The second you step inside, the noise hits you.

It’s overwhelming.

The arena practically vibrates beneath your feet, thousands of voices crashing together under bright lights and pounding music. Everything smells faintly like beer, ice, and adrenaline.

You follow security through the lower corridors toward the private suite, trying very hard not to think about the fact you are currently wearing another man’s name across your back after getting off to thoughts of him twelve hours ago.

The game is absolute chaos.

Loud. Violent. Freezing.

The arena shakes every time someone gets slammed into the boards hard enough to make you physically flinch, but everyone around you just cheers like this is a completely normal recreational activity.

Which apparently it is.

Unfortunately for you, Mat is horrifyingly good at it.

You try to be normal about the whole thing. You really do.

But then he skates onto the ice during warmups, hair curling slightly at the ends beneath his helmet, jaw sharp under the arena lights, and suddenly you understand why hockey fans behave the way they do online.

It’s less of a sport and more of a public health crisis.

And Mat?

Mat is a nightmare.

Fast hands. Sharp turns. Broad shoulders under all that equipment.

One second he’s laughing with a teammate by the bench. The next he’s slamming some six-foot-something guy into the glass with enough force to make your stomach flip embarrassingly hard.

“This should not be attractive,” you mutter under your breath.

A woman beside you hears.

“It gets worse,” she says sympathetically.

She’s right.

Because halfway through the second period, Mat scores.

The entire arena explodes.

People screaming. Lights flashing. Music blaring loud enough to rattle your bones.

And then, somehow, impossibly, Mat looks directly toward your suite.

Toward you.

His grin flashes quick and cocky as his teammates practically tackle him into the boards celebrating, and your stomach drops somewhere near your shoes.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper.

The Islanders win 4-2.

Mat gets first star of the game.

Which means they put his face on the giant screen while the crowd cheers like he personally ended world hunger.

Then the camera cuts to you in his jersey.

The crowd cheers louder.

You consider walking directly into the ocean.

You’re halfway through considering whether death by embarrassment is a medically recognized condition when your phone buzzes.

Mat: u still here?

You glance down at the ice.

Empty now except for arena staff and scattered equipment.

People are starting to leave the suites around you, the energy of the game fading into something looser. Messier.

You: unfortunately

Mat: come downstairs

Mat: tunnel by the locker rooms

Your stomach flips instantly.

You hate that your pulse speeds up the entire walk downstairs.

The arena corridors are quieter now. Distant voices echo somewhere behind concrete walls while staff move equipment past you, the cold air still lingering from the ice nearby.

You round the corner toward the private tunnel and immediately spot him.

And unfortunately.

Unfortunately.

He looks insane.

Game over now, gear gone, suit pants sitting low on his hips with a black compression shirt clinging damply to his chest and arms like the universe itself wants you dead personally.

His hair is wet from the shower, curling slightly at the ends.

You stop walking for half a second.

Mat notices immediately.

His mouth tilts.

“There she is.”

Your stomach does something deeply unprofessional.

“You look disgusting,” you inform him.

He snorts softly.

“Yeah?”

“Like objectively. It’s upsetting.”

“Appreciate that.”

You move closer before your brain can stop you.

Bad idea.

Very bad idea.

Because up close he’s all post-game warmth and expensive cologne underneath lingering sweat, cheeks still flushed slightly from adrenaline.

And all you can think about is the dream.

His hands. His voice. Good girl.

Catastrophic.

“You came,” he says.

“You literally texted me.”

“Still counts.”

You lean back lightly against the concrete wall beside him, crossing your arms mostly to stop yourself from touching him for reasons you’d rather not unpack.

“You’re very cocky for someone who spends his evenings willingly getting punched on ice.”

“We won.”

“You’re impossible.”

“But you had fun.”

It isn’t a question.

Which is annoying because he’s right.

You exhale a laugh.

“It was kind of insane.”

“Kinda?”

“Okay, fine. Watching you nearly kill people was apparently very entertaining.”

His grin widens slowly.

“That so?”

You immediately regret speaking.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“You’re literally smirking.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Your face is a problem.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

The noise from the arena feels farther away suddenly.

Quieter.

And Mat’s looking at you differently now.

Not PR-differently.

Not cameras-around differently.

Just… you.

Your pulse stutters hard.

“You looked good up there,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches slightly.

“The jersey was a nice touch.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You knew exactly what you were doing with that text.”

His smile turns softer around the edges.

“Maybe.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And the thing is, you should step away.

Probably.

Instead you stay exactly where you are while tension thickens slowly between you until it feels impossible to breathe normally.

His eyes flick downward briefly.

Your mouth.

Then back up again.

Your stomach flips violently.

Dangerous.

This feels dangerous.

“You know,” he says softly, stepping closer, “the internet thinks I’m obsessed with you now.”

Your laugh comes out quieter than intended.

“Yeah? Tough break.”

“Mhm.”

His hand settles against the wall beside your head.

Not touching you.

Worse.

So much worse.

Because suddenly he’s close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him and your brain short-circuits entirely.

“You smell good,” he says absentmindedly.

You blink at him.

“That feels illegal after a hockey game.”

He laughs softly under his breath.

And then silence falls again.

Heavy.

Charged.

Your eyes drop to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

Big mistake.

Because he notices.

Immediately.

The expression on his face shifts almost imperceptibly.

Lower.

Hotter.

Your entire body tightens.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs.

Your voice barely works.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Your heart slams hard against your ribs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s a lie.”

The words hit like a pulse low in your stomach because suddenly all you can think about is waking up tangled in your sheets with his name in your mouth.

Heat crawls up your throat.

Mat takes one slow step closer.

Now there’s almost no space left between you at all.

Your breathing turns embarrassingly shallow.

And then his hand touches your waist.

Just lightly.

Barely there.

But your entire body reacts instantly.

“Mat,” you whisper.

It comes out wrong.

Too soft.

Too breathless.

His eyes darken immediately.

“Yeah?”

You should move.

You don’t.

Neither does he.

For one suspended second the entire world narrows down to: his hand on your waist your back against the wall the sound of both of you breathing too hard

Then his gaze drops to your mouth again.

And stays there.

Your brain stops functioning entirely.

He leans in slightly.

Slow enough that you could stop this.

Slow enough that it feels intentional.

Your eyes flutter halfway shut—

“BARZY!”

You both jerk apart instantly.

A teammate appears at the far end of the tunnel looking deeply confused.

“Oh,” he says slowly.

“Ohhhhh.”

You want the concrete floor to open beneath you.

Mat drags a hand over his face.

“For fuck’s sake.”

The teammate grins.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” both of you say immediately.

He looks delighted by this information.

“You owe me fifty bucks,” he calls to someone behind him.

Mat groans.

You stare at the floor because if you look at him right now you might actually lose your mind.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You know without a doubt that if his teammate hadn’t interrupted, Mat would’ve kissed you.

And worse?