#rathew

Matt blinks sleepily awake, a soft grin on his face when he remembers the night before. 

“The best game Calgary has seen in recent history” one of the commentators had called it.

He finds himself reaching for his phone. He wants to call - 

His fingernails are digging into his forearm before his head can think even a whisper of your name. He hasn't spoken of you, much less thought of you, in a little over three months. Not since he watched you walk away from him.

You don't get to start acting like you care about me now.

Matthew flinches when his last words to you echo inside his head. He shakes his head violently in an attempt to shake thoughts of you away. 

Instead, he checks his phone, scrolling through scores of people congratulating him. He scrolls through friends, teammates, his parents, brother sister, and - 

And...you. 

Stanley Cup bound! Proud of you endlessly. 

Without thinking Matthew taps on the notification, opening the text thread. His eyes drift upwards, where all of his desperate, pleading texts had gone unanswered. 

I’m sorry.

Please call me. 

Can I come over? 

Please let me know you're okay. 

I messed up. 

I'm sorry. 

Please. 

The last was sent just under a month and a half ago - a last resort of sorts. Matty had caught a glimpse of you - just a flash of your hair disappearing around the corner, but never caught up in time. But he had a sneaking suspicion that you saw him too. 

He’d hoped that the one word plea conveyed his desperation. He hoped that you had read between the lines, like you always do, and hear his silent scream of I miss you! I’m sorry! Please come home! 

Matthews thumbs hover over the keyboard uselessly. He doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't know what to say that'll make you keep talking to him. He doesn't know how to get you to stay. 

-

The world is silent outside, dark, and blanketed in white. The snow storm had slowed down, and the plane was set to take off in 18 hours, which means that this is happening. He's on a run for the Cup with the C on his chest. Everything that he’d worked for, everything he’d watched his father work for his entire career, is happening. 

Matthew feels sick. 

He wishes - 

Matt hesitates, and for the first time in three months, let's himself think what he's been wanting to since the door clicked shut behind you. 

He wishes you were here. He does. From the deepest parts of his soul, he knows that this would be easier with you. Matthew leans forward to lean his elbows on his knees, before dropping his head in his hands. 

Jesus, he can hear Brady laughing at him in his mind.

Matt wonders what his mom would say, what his sister would say, what his father would say. Matt is the first to say that his father gives shit advice - the first time he saw Matthew and Brady drop gloves on the ice he’d laughed as they traded punches - much to their mother’s distress - eyes gleaming with nostalgia as he shook his head and cackled, “Brothers.” 

In this case Matt thinks his dad would slap him on the back and tell him that he's being dramatic, that sitting around, thinking and moping was useless and wasn't going to get him what he wants. 

For maybe the first time in his life, Matt thinks he might do what his dad would. 

He reaches for his phone - 

There's three soft knocks at his door, and he falters. Matt is on his feet and moving towards the door before he can think. 

A soft creak - 

Matthew’s breath hitches.

“Hi.” 

A soft exhale, a cloud of condensation. 

The tiniest curve of your lips and the smallest of smiles.