Page 11

11

MATTHIEU

Savage skated over, his expression sharp, eyes scanning Matthieu’s face with quiet intensity.

“Hey, is your head on straight—are you good?”

The question hit home.

Hard.

Matthieu knew exactly what Savage was asking. The weight of the moment still pressed against his chest, an invisible force that made his ribs feel too tight. He had just renewed his vows in front of the whole world. Cameras flashing, fans roaring, the kiss still lingering on his lips like a ghost that refused to let go. But his teammates knew the truth—this wasn’t just a show. This was real. And for all his years of steel nerves and split-second reactions, that reality was almost too much to process in the heat of the game.

He was a married man.

His fingers clenched inside his gloves. The cool weight of his wedding ring pressed against his skin, grounding him. Jeannie. His wife. The thought should’ve been a comfort, but right now, he needed to shove it aside, bury it deep, because this wasn’t the time to get lost in the storm of emotions threatening to pull him under.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he muttered, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

Savage didn’t look convinced. “If you’re not, it’s okay. We can put in Lafrenière…”

Matthieu’s head snapped up, eyes dark with defiance. “No. I’m good.” His voice was harder this time, sharper, laced with the fire that burned in his veins. “We’ve got a game to win.”

A grin flickered across Savage’s face, the kind that spoke of blood and battle. “Amen, brother… amen.” He skated off, signaling to the bench before taking his position.

The moment the puck dropped, the ice exploded in a wild fervor of sticks, limbs, and angry bodies shoving at each other. Men were slammed into the boards with sickening force, and sticks slashed through the air like weapons, the ice beneath them hissing as blades carved it up with violent precision. The air was thick with curses, threats, and the raw, unfiltered hunger of men who would do anything to win.

Matthieu could feel the fight in every breath, every collision, the tension so thick it felt like it could shatter. He was locked in, eyes tracking the puck as it flew across the rink like a bullet. Then—there.

A shot was fired in his direction. He dropped instantly, instincts screaming as he sprawled to block it. The puck hit him like a cannonball, rattling his bones, but he held firm.

And it was on the line.

Noooo!

His heart pounded like a war drum.

Too close.

Too fast.

He could hear the scramble, the chaos of sticks slamming down, bodies converging like vultures scenting blood.

Can’t let go.

“BACK OFF—” he snarled, voice raw with fury.

“Stick it, traitor ,” came the sharp retort from an opposing player, his stick hacking at Matthieu’s glove, trying to pry the puck free. He recognized that voice, knew it was one of the guys he’d once played with, and obviously, there were some hurt feelings with him leaving so abruptly. They didn’t care if he got fired or cut by the coach, but heaven help him if he traded up in the world.

“On the line! On the line!” Matthieu bellowed, but no whistle came. No salvation.

Where’s the ref?

Where’s the ref?!

WHERE IS THE DARN REF?!

He was taking a beating—skates scraping too close, a boot smashing into his wrist, ice spraying in his face like needles. Someone raked their stick across his glove, trying to pry him open. His muscles screamed, fire licking up his arms as he clung to that puck with everything he had.

Not today.

Not on his watch.

Not in front of his team.

Not with Jeannie watching.

Not on his freakin’ wedding day.

Finally— finally —that piercing whistle cut through the madness. Matthieu shoved off the ice, surging to his feet with rage burning in his eyes.

“’Bout time,” he growled, turning on the referee with all the fury of a man pushed too far. His chest heaved, sweat slicking the inside of his helmet as his glare locked onto the official. “If I get any more men up in my space, I’m gonna need a pregnancy test. I have never felt so screwed before in my life. Where the heck were you?”

The arena thundered around him—a relentless cacophony of jeers, howls, and venomous curses. The boards rattled from fists and sticks pounding against the plexiglass, a chaotic war drum of the enemy’s home crowd. Matthieu could barely hear his own thoughts over the noise, but he didn’t need to. He already knew the score—both on the board and in the way the refs were calling this game.

It was one thing to play dirty. It was another to watch the officials let it slide like it was part of the game plan.

His pulse pounded in his ears, matching the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he adjusted his stance. His muscles were tight, coiled like a loaded spring, ready to explode at the next drop of the puck. He shot a glare at the referee, the anger in his veins boiling hotter than his body heat trapped under layers of pads.

“Are you kidding me?” he barked, his breath fogging in the frigid air. But the ref didn’t even acknowledge him or didn’t spare him a glance. Just skated away, eyes locked on the puck like Matthieu’s outrage didn’t exist.

That was it. That was all he needed to confirm what he already knew. They weren’t getting a darn thing this period. No calls. No breaks. No mercy.

Fine. He’d play like a man who knew it.

He shifted his weight, his skates biting into the ice as he crouched slightly lower in the crease. From this distance, one quick shot—one sniper with a clear lane—and they could bury another goal behind him before he even had a chance to react. He had to be on his toes. Had to block everything. Had to fight.

But all he wanted to do was look at Jeannie.

No.

No distractions.

Focus.

Focus.

And it’s down—darn it!

The puck hit the ice once again.

The opposing center won the faceoff clean, snapping the puck back to the point. A slapshot rang out like a gunshot, the puck whipping toward him at breakneck speed. Matthieu’s heart slammed against his ribs as he dropped into position. He barely got his pad on it, the rubber rebounding off his thigh with a dull thud, but the play was still alive.

Skates slashed the ice like knives. Sticks clattered, chopping violently, battling for possession inches from his crease. The air was thick with the grunts and snarls of players shoving, muscling, clawing for control.

“ACTON, GET HIM OFF OF ME!” Matthieu roared, his voice ripping through the chaos as bodies crashed in front of him.

No room.

No space.

They were swarming.

He twisted, throwing his stick down just in time to deflect another shot, the impact reverberating up his arm. But before he could even process the save, the puck was dragged back again—lined up, ready to be fired.

No!

His instincts took over.

He lunged forward, throwing himself down, smothering the puck beneath him as bodies slammed into his back, sticks hacking at the ice beneath him, trying to pry it free. The force of his own momentum knocked the wind from his chest despite the layers of padding protecting him. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as he fought to keep the puck buried.

The whistle shrieked.

The weight lifted.

For a fraction of a second, the world paused, his pulse hammering in his skull.

Twenty more minutes of this.

I got this.

Then I can trade off for a minute with Lafreniére.

Maybe.

He was done playing nice.

And the next person who came at him was going down.

T hey won.

Holy cannoli.

They actually pulled it off.

Matthieu’s chest heaved as he stood there, bent slightly at the waist, gripping his stick so hard his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, his pulse still thundering in his ears. Every muscle in his body screamed in exhaustion, but it didn’t matter—not when the scoreboard flashed in their favor, not when the crowd roared like a tidal wave crashing through the arena.

Overtime. One point. A freak shot that had somehow—by sheer dumb luck or fate or whatever force ruled the universe—slipped right through the opposing goalie’s knees.

Matthieu almost pitied the guy.

Almost .

He knew that feeling. That gut-wrenching, bone-deep horror when you realize you’ve just cost your team the game. That second of suspended disbelief—the silent, stomach-plummeting oh no —before it detonates into a sickening ‘are you kidding me ?’ He’d been there before, standing in the crease, eyes locked on a puck that had found its way past him, pulse hammering as the buzzer sealed his failure.

Yeah, that was a hard one to swallow.

But not tonight.

Tonight, it was someone else’s burden to carry, and Matthieu couldn’t muster enough sympathy to care. His veins still ran hot, his anger from the brutal, dirty game simmering under his skin. He should’ve traded out with Lafreniére, let someone else take the last shift, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. The calls had been bad, the hits cheap, the tension thick enough to choke on. He needed this win, needed to burn off the wildfire raging inside him before it followed him home.

Before it touched her .

Jeannie.

His Jeannie —all soft smiles, gentle touches, and the kind of warmth that could melt the ice beneath his skates. She was everything good in his world, and she deserved that same goodness in return.

As he skated off, his gaze darted through the swarm of bodies, past the jostling, grinning teammates slapping each other’s backs, past the roaring fans, until— there .

She was waiting for him.

The moment their eyes met, the world shrank. The noise dulled to a hum, the burn in his muscles faded, and suddenly, all that mattered was the way she was beaming at him, like he’d hung the stars just for her.

He opened his mouth, ready to warn her off—he must have reeked , sweat-drenched, and still thrumming with adrenaline—but before he could get a word out, she surged forward, cupped his face , and kissed him.

Heat exploded in his chest.

Her lips pressed against his, warm, eager, unbothered by the stench of sweat or the salty sting of his damp skin. A growl rumbled low in his throat, an exhale of pure need, and for a second— just a second —he forgot where they were. Forgot they were surrounded by his team, forgot the crowd still watching, forgot everything except the woman in his arms.

She pulled back, her fingers tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, her eyes full of something that made his heart stutter.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, voice full of awe , of adoration , of something sacred .

His stomach flipped.

“You are a monster on the ice…”

He let out a breathless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as heat crawled up his face. Dannnng . That did something to him—being praised like that by the hottest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. And she wasn’t just his girlfriend, wasn’t some passing fling.

She was his .

His wife. His forever. The woman he got to go home to, climb into bed with, and worship until neither of them could think straight.

“I love you, babe,” he murmured, grinning like a fool, completely undone by her. A chorus of catcalls and whistles erupted around them as hands ruffled his damp hair, jostling him like a pack of rowdy brothers who lived to embarrass him.

He barely had time to react before he saw it—a single droplet of sweat sliding from his hair and landing right on her glasses.

Jeannie flinched, blinking fast before wrinkling her nose, and he barely held in a laugh as he turned, throwing a glare over his shoulder at the guilty culprits.

“Knock it off, guys,” he hollered, wrapping an arm around Jeannie’s waist, tugging her in protectively. “You’re spraying sweat on my bride.”

That earned him another round of jeers, a few suggestive winks, and at least one muttered ‘ whupped’ from somewhere behind him.

He didn’t care.

He’d take every jab, every taunt, every ounce of teasing if it meant getting to hold her like this. Because in the end, the game, the sweat, the exhaustion—none of it mattered.

Jeannie did.

That made every second of tonight worth it.

And the night wasn’t over.