Page 6

6

MATTHIEU

Matthieu sat on the edge of his bed, his hands clenched so tightly between his knees that his knuckles ached, but he barely noticed. His eyes locked onto the bedroom door, unblinking, listening—waiting. The silence of his room pressed against his ribs like a vice, squeezing out the air, leaving him hollow, but he heard her.

How could he not?

Jeannie was crying – not just little tears, either. She was sobbing like her heart was breaking; like her entire universe had crumpled around her, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix this.

The one person he had chosen to be by his side, the one person he had let in past every carefully built wall, the one person he had wanted to share this chaotic, thrilling, uncertain adventure with… was utterly miserable.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.

He had been so happy to see her at the airport. Jeannie looked so beautiful, so whole, so easy-going that his stomach did flip-flops as he watched her unsuspecting profile as she made her way to baggage claim and when her eyes met his?

He sighed in relief at the recognition in her gaze. That was his person, his partner, his friend. He spent the last few days wanting to make the house perfect for her arrival because he desperately wanted her to be happy here with him.

The last two weeks had been so different, so wonderful, seeing her smile at the end of each day. Leaving the practice rink had always been a good thing but coming home felt like a place to relax and unwind. He had never felt like he belonged until the moment he truly saw her. It had caught him off guard. He was exhausted, his body aching from practice, and there she was—pulling a frozen pizza out of the oven, her face lighting up when she saw him.

“Hey, you—are you hungry?” she’d asked so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And at that moment, he had known.

He had known how incredible it was to have someone. To belong somewhere. To belong with someone.

In hockey, the guys had their favorites—a well-worn stick that felt like an extension of their arm, a pair of socks riddled with holes but steeped in superstition, a brand of stick tape that had to be wrapped just right. Precision mattered. The wrong grip could throw off their entire game. If it was too tacky, it slowed them down. If it wasn’t wrapped perfectly, it became a nagging distraction, an imperfection they couldn’t shake.

Jeannie was his favorite of everything .

She fit him in ways he hadn’t realized he needed. She gave him space when he craved quiet, yet her presence filled every corner of his world. She never demanded his attention, but somehow, she had all of it. And when she smiled—those rare, fleeting smiles—it was like the sky shifted. Like the sun burned just a little brighter. She would glance away, cheeks tinged the prettiest shade of pink, composing herself as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t just upended his entire existence with a single look. But he felt it—every time.

She made him wish for things he’d never considered. He was falling for his make-believe wife, and it was wrecking him.

If it were anyone else, he would know exactly what to do. At a bar, he’d send a drink and let his reputation do the work. At an event, a simple glance usually set things in motion. Confidence had never been his problem. He knew what he brought to the table—what women saw when they looked at him. But Jeannie? With Jeannie, he felt like some rookie scrambling for footing on fresh ice, outmatched and out of his depth.

She was brilliant and meticulous, always thinking ten steps ahead while he barely thought past the next day. He’d seen it in the way she handled everything—how she had utilities set up before they even arrived, how she mapped out every detail of their move while he stood there, useless. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to do those things because she just did them.

Jeannie was the details of his own life. She made his world brighter. And he was just now realizing how much he needed her. And now, his detail—his heart—was breaking into a thousand pieces in the other room.

The sound of her sobs gutted him. It wasn’t a quiet, repressed cry. It was raw, unfiltered pain, tearing through the walls and sinking into his bones. He could feel every shuddering breath, every ounce of grief she tried—and failed—to contain.

He’d bought the roses, hoping they would make her smile, picturing that small, shy happiness that always warmed his chest. He’d even gone for a used car, knowing she’d never accept something extravagant. She would’ve outright refused a BMW or a Porsche and would’ve given him heck for even thinking about it. That was Jeannie. She was careful, considerate, determined to live within her means—never even pausing to wonder what his might be.

She had no idea how much he made, how much he had saved. She never asked, never cared. Because, in her mind, it was about making sure they lived responsibly, that they didn’t take things for granted. She was always looking out for him. Always making sure he had enough.

But in his mind?

He never wanted her to do without. Not for a single second. And now, despite everything, despite how hard he tried, she was in the other room, falling apart. And he didn’t know how to fix it.

He sat there, helpless and alone, for what felt like forever. He thought about knocking on her door, asking if she was okay, if he could help, if he could do anything to stop her from crying - and he didn’t move. He was terrified that the reason she was so upset… was because of him.

T he next morning he woke up early and crept into the kitchen to make the coffee, hoping to entice her into sitting with him for a bit before he had to head to the arena for the last practice of the week.

He waited…

And waited…

And waited some more, before realizing that she was up and moving around in her bedroom and not coming out. That sickening fear that he had last night, wondering if the problem and the reason she was crying was due to something he did?

That came crashing back down on him – hard.

He had obviously done something to upset her and had no clue what it was. He bought her a car, bought her some flowers, heck, he bought her the house he wanted to see them living in twenty years from now… and had no idea how to make her happy.

If it wasn’t things, was it gestures?

Maybe she needed a symbolic gesture to feel special? But what would that even look like? This was killing him on the inside, knowing she was miserable, and if tonight involved another round of brokenhearted sobbing – he would cry himself. How did you make someone fall for you if they were miserable?

“Hey Jeannie?” he called out, trying to be nonchalant. “Would you like some coffee? I thought maybe we could have breakfast together on the overlook and see if we can hear any birds chirping, cars driving by, ships… uh, shipping or whatever cause I feel like a fool,” he finished lamely, his voice getting quieter and quieter the more he spoke, before uttering under his breath. “Just come out, and I’ll make any noise you need to draw you out of that shell…”

To his surprise, her bedroom door opened, and he felt his stomach give a painful rumble seeing her swollen eyes and reddish nose. Apparently, she had been crying this morning, too.

Don’t say anything…

Don’t say anything…

Don’t say a word…

“Allergies bothering you? Your face is red…” he blurted out and saw her eyes meet his, widening in horror, just before she looked away. He hesitated, mentally shrieking at himself in disbelief.

Oh, you freakin’ moron! You gotta fix this!

“It’s not bad…”

Oh my gosh, Mouth – you’ve gotta stop!

“Just a little puffy and red.”

Noooo! I just told the girl I adore that her nose is puffy and red. I am never going to kiss her or get her to stay with me – why would she?

Brain, you’re up!

Save me?

“Claritin is in the cabinet,” he continued, obviously panicking.

Good save, Brain.

Keep going, buddy…

“Coffee?”

Again, safe zone.

Thank you, Brain.

“Would you like breakfast?” Brain – three for three, good buddy… “Or are you on a diet?”

No, Mouth!

What-in-the-ever-lovin-heck, dude?!

Shut-the-heck-up!

Diet?

Are you kidding me?

“No,” she mumbled under her breath, not looking at him. “Do you have practice today?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, okay.”

“But I’ll be back around five or so… do you want to grab dinner with me tonight?” And saw her turn curiously, her eyes glistening as she looked at him in disbelief. Was that it? Did she want to go on a date? Oh man – jackpot! I can do this! I can date my wife in a heartbeat.

“I thought maybe we could go out, see the town, and, you know, just hang out together to get used to the feeling,” he offered, trying to play it cool while his palms were sweating. He was considering wiping them on his pajama pants because he was afraid to drop his coffee mug. “I mean, would you like to do that? Would you like to go out… with me?”

Her eyes searched his, and he realized that glorious blue reminded him of a crayon he loved when he was a child – cornflower blue.

“Anyone ever tell you that your eyes remind me of a crayon?” he said softly, feeling himself falling into them… only to see her smile a second before she started laughing nervously. She could laugh at him all day long for being stupid.

Heck, he’d take it.

“No,” she smiled, shaking her head. “You’re the first person that told me something like that.”

“First person you’ve ever met with brains, eh?” he teased, tapping his head pointedly and saw her shaking hers, but that beautiful smile was still there. “Are you sure you don’t want a muffin or something? – They are blueberry, and I picked them up from a bakery yesterday afternoon. You know, it’s against the law to come to Canada and not have blueberries, raspberries, or some sort of maple item when you first arrive,” he continued, desperately wanting to hear her laugh again… and she did.

She turned, looked at him, and smiled shyly.

“I suppose I could be talked into a blueberry muffin so I don’t get in trouble with the law,” she said softly, taking a sip of her coffee, and smiled at him again over the brim. “And I would love to go out sometime.”

“Cool,” he whispered, letting out his breath.

H ours later, Matthieu was still on the ice, sweat soaking into his undershirt beneath his heavy pads. His breath came in sharp, short bursts as he dropped to his knees again, the sting of cold biting through his gear. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself up, bracing against the tremor in his thighs. Across from him, Lafreniére stood like an unshakable wall, watching his every move with the scrutiny of a man who expected nothing less than perfection.

Salas lined up another shot, his expression unreadable. Matthieu barely had time to brace himself before the puck came flying at him.

“Get up faster…” Lafreniére’s voice cut through the pounding in Matthieu’s skull.

“I’m trying…” he panted, his voice edged with frustration.

“Try harder …”

Matthieu gritted his teeth. The ice beneath him was slick, unrelenting. He could feel his body wearing down, his reaction time lagging, but he forced himself back up.

“You do it…” he snapped, irritation creeping into his voice.

Lafreniére didn’t flinch. “You’re practicing – and I can do it. I have done it. I stop them all the time, and I’m flying to my knees in seconds less than it takes you to start climbing back up.” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was relentless, pushing him, testing him. “That’s why I was so hard on you and telling you to push into the stretches. You’re gonna feel this later—trust me.”

Salas fired another puck without warning.

Instinct took over, and Matthieu dropped, his body slamming into the ice. His thighs burned as he snapped his legs outward in a butterfly, deflecting the shot just in time. His breath was ragged now, his pulse hammering in his ears.

“You’re getting better,” Lafreniére said, nodding, but the moment of praise was short-lived. Salas sent another puck hurtling at him, zero notice, zero recovery time.

“Uh, Lafreniére…” Matthieu gasped, his voice strained. Another drop, another save. His arms were starting to shake.

“What’s up?” The other man barely looked at him, casually, like he wasn’t watching Matthieu struggle to keep up. “You can call me Dustin, you know.”

Matthieu hesitated, his heart slamming against his ribs for an entirely different reason now. “It’s just weird calling your idol…” He dropped again, stopping another shot. His entire body tensed with the effort. “…by their first name.”

“Sheesh, kid, don’t idolize me,” Dustin laughed, but there was warmth in it. “You make me feel old, and I’m barely ten years older.”

“No, I know…” Matthieu exhaled heavily with his hands braced on his knees. His mind was spinning, his thoughts a chaotic mess that had nothing to do with the game, nothing to do with hockey at all.

“Whatcha need?” Dustin asked. Matthieu flicked his gaze toward Salas, suddenly uncertain. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want anyone to know what was clawing at him from the inside out. But he needed to say something—because the fear was suffocating him.

Dustin must have sensed the shift in his posture. “Salas, give us a second. Matthieu, drop into a stretch so you don’t tighten up.”

Matthieu obeyed automatically, falling into a deep stretch on the ice, grateful for the moment to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell unevenly, a storm building inside him. But then, to his surprise, Dustin sank down beside him, full gear and all, mirroring his position like this was just another drill, just another conversation between teammates.

“What’s going on?” Dustin’s voice was quieter now, laced with something that almost resembled concern. “You seem distracted, and our first game is tomorrow.”

Matthieu stared down at the ice, his breath fogging against his visor. His pulse pounded in his throat. The words wouldn’t come. How could he explain it? The way his stomach had twisted when he signed that contract. The way his hands had trembled when he saw the clause, black ink sealing a future he hadn’t even figured out yet. Two weeks later, he was here, having thoughts he never imagined having about Jeannie. He was twenty-five. He was supposed to have time. He was supposed to have years before he found someone who made his chest ache before he had to decide if this was it. If she was it – and it couldn’t be this easy— could it?

They had been strangers.

Met randomly.

Now he’d asked her out?

She wasn’t his type – or was she?

“How firm is the whole…” He hesitated, his hands flexing against the ice. His voice felt too small, too raw. “You can’t say anything, Dustin.”

“I’m not,” Dustin said easily.

Matthieu swallowed hard, his throat dry. The words felt massive and impossible, like they would shatter the moment they left his lips.

“How firm is the whole ‘marriage’ thing on the contract?”

Dustin stilled beside him. The air shifted, tightening. When he finally spoke, his voice was blunt, razor-sharp.

“What are you saying?”

Matthieu felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Nothing,” he blurted out, unwilling to let it slip any further the secret he shared with Jeannie – because if that secret got out, then everything was over. His job, his marriage, his future, her friendship… and right now, he wasn’t sure which of those was more terrifying to lose.

S ix grueling hours later, his body was exhausted, and his mind was still rolling around all the possibilities in his head. If he married Jeannie for real, what if she decided six months from now that she wasn’t interested in him? He sure didn’t want to be divorced at such a young age – much less married. Marriage meant no more having fun on the weekends, no more parties, no more wild dates, and divorce would be ten times worse.

When he heard a girl was divorced, the first thing that hit his mind was ‘ what happened ’ – being divorced was like marking ‘ rejected ’ across you somewhere or ‘ I-make-bad-life-choices ’… wasn’t it?

The problem was that living with Jeannie felt like the best ‘life choice’ he’d ever made. His mind kept flip-flopping back and forth with the game tomorrow. He just wanted to rest, relax, maybe soak in a bath or something and walked into the house, dropping his keys on the kitchen counter before grabbing a glass of water.

He was gulping it down when Jeannie walked into the room – dressed and ready to go – and he remembered at that moment, he’d asked her out.

The water he just drank sprayed everywhere in horror in front of him like a massive fan —arcing across the sink. Her eyes widened in shock, and he cussed, saying a foul word openly between them.

“I forgot…”

“It’s no biggie.”

“Jeannie…”

“I’m not even hungry…”

“Were we going to dinner?”

“I thought you asked me to dinner…”

“I asked you out – and well – I guess that could be dinner. I’m sorry, I completely forgot with the game tomorrow and…”

“It’s fine, Matthieu,” she said calmly, like she didn’t have a care in the world, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I was in the middle of something anyhow, and I really didn’t want to lose my place.”

“Phew… I mean, that’s good, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

“I feel bad,” he admitted carefully and saw her wave him off. “Jeannie…”

“Seriously – don’t apologize. It was nothing, you know?” And she was already turning away to go back to her room to change.

He saw the flowing material of her skirt swishing gently from the sway of her hips and felt like an even bigger heel.

She never dressed up.

Jeannie was always in jeans, leggings, or even scrubs – which surprised him. He asked her about the scrubs once, and she shrugged, saying whatever she found on clearance that served a function.

Jeannie had dressed up for him. She had put in the effort. His practical, no-nonsense Jeannie, who rarely paid attention to frills or fuss, had taken the time to look beautiful tonight— for him.

And what had he done?

Let her down.

Matthieu stood frozen, staring at the wreckage around him. Water pooled on the floor, splattered across the counter, dotting the walls—each droplet a reflection of his own scattered, chaotic emotions. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as the weight of his failure settled deep into his bones. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, the sweat of his earlier run still clinging to his skin, an uncomfortable, sticky reminder of his own shortcomings.

“I am such a loser,” he muttered to himself, the words tasting bitter as they left his lips.

His gaze drifted toward her closed bedroom door. The urge to fix this, to undo the damage, twisted inside him like a knife. He could call his mom, spill everything, and beg for advice like he always had when life left him lost.

But Jeannie—who did she have?

In the two weeks he had known her, not once had he seen her call anyone. No one ever called her. The only proof she even owned a phone was the one time it had buzzed from a wrong number.

She lived in a quiet, lonely bubble, spending her days doing things he couldn’t quite figure out. And tonight, he had reached for her, finally tried to bridge that chasm between them—and then snapped that fragile connection in half with his carelessness.

A sickening realization punched through him.

Was she going to cry again?

His stomach twisted at the memory of her muffled sobs the night before, the way her pain had curled through the walls and kept him wide awake, staring at the ceiling, helpless and gutted.

No.

Not tonight.

Pain and exhaustion could wait—he couldn’t take another round of Jeannie’s tears.

With renewed urgency, he moved. His footsteps were quick and decisive, cutting through the water-streaked floor. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t second-guess himself. He stormed through the living room, straight to her door, and without a thought, turned the handle.

The sight that met him stopped him cold.

Jeannie stood with her back to him, her figure silhouetted by the soft glow of her bedside lamp. She was barefoot, the sheer fabric of her stockings shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her dress, once perfect, now hung half open, the zipper stuck at an awkward angle. And her hands—her delicate, trembling hands—were pressed against her face, as if trying to hold herself together.

Something inside him cracked.

“Jeannie…” His voice was low, hesitant, almost a plea.

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound, but instead of turning, she let out a tearful, broken laugh. The sound of it carved through him, deep and merciless.

“Can you believe that the stupid zipper broke?” she whispered, her voice fragile, laced with unshed tears. “Everything is broken, and this is just one more thing…”

Matthieu swallowed hard. He could hear it, the unspoken weight in her words. This wasn’t about a zipper.

“It’s not broken,” he said quietly, taking a cautious step forward, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He felt a deep, visceral fear—because this moment felt too important, too raw. “We’re not broken. We are just… learning.”

She let out a shaky breath, shaking her head. “We’re broken, Matthieu.” Her hand lifted, gesturing vaguely behind her. “The door lock. The zipper. Us… everything. Just leave me alone.”

He hated the way she said it. Defeated. Like she had already decided that this—whatever they were—was doomed before they even had a chance.

Matthieu exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, with all the tenderness he could muster, he whispered, “I’m sorry about tonight.”

Her back remained turned, but he saw the slightest tremor in her shoulders.

“I don’t want to let you down,” he murmured, taking another step closer. “Or ruin your night.”

He swallowed hard, heart thudding against his ribs as he forced himself to say the words that mattered most.

“So let’s go.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not taking pity from you or anyone else…”

“It’s not pity. I don’t ‘pity-date’ women.”

“I don’t ‘pity-date’ men who forget we have plans, put me second, or treat me like I’m a side note,” she hissed angrily and swatted at his hand as he reached for her zipper. “Just leave it, and I’m going to tear the seam to get out of it.”

“Don’t tear it. It’s pretty on you. Let me try the zipper.”

“Just go away.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I would rather be alone again,” she bit out harshly, her voice raw as she spoke the words that filled his soul with dread. Both of them stiffened, froze, as it was tossed out there between them almost like a grenade, and the fear taking hold was multiplying tenfold within him.

“I can’t,” he breathed, reaching for her – not the zipper. His arms slipped around her waist, and he felt her tense. His arms tightened around her, holding her to him, as he bent his head just over her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of her delicate perfume that was just her—orange flower and soap – a heady yet simple combination that shot straight to his heart.

He hugged her, desperate to keep her close, needing to feel some sort of bond with the woman that seemed so confusing and elusive to him – and he spoke as he heard the first sniffle escape her, standing ramrod stiff in his embrace.

“I’m an idiot,” he whispered shamefully, “I’m scared, the biggest dope on the planet, and I don’t know what to do to fix this, and I’m terrified that you’re gonna leave.”

And she started to soften as he tightened his grip slightly, the two halves melting together – only to feel his heart shatter as he heard her low, tearful voice.

“I have no place to go, or I’d be tempted…”

He closed his eyes against the hurt, feeling so many questions on the tip of his tongue and unsure how to ask them. Instead, he just held her. Her hand was on his forearm, and by some miracle, he felt her other reach up and sink into his hair, holding his head against hers, almost like she was hugging him back.

“Are you coming to the game tomorrow?” he whispered and winced at how selfish it sounded even to him, quickly rushing to add to that sentence so she didn’t think the worst of him. “I hung your jersey in the closet and hoped you would come and cheer me on. I’d love to see you there.”

“I saw it,” she whispered. “Do you want me there?”

“I do,” he admitted, his voice rough with honesty.

Without thinking, he leaned in, pressing the lightest kiss to the curve of her neck. The moment his lips met her skin, she stiffened—just barely, but he felt it. Regret surged through him.

He shouldn’t have done that.

He had no right.

“Sorry,” he murmured, already pulling back.

“No, it’s okay,” she whispered, and he could hear something uncertain in her tone, something fragile.

He swallowed hard, exhaling slowly. “I just felt like it.”

“It was nice… this hug is nice.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “We should do it more often,” he whispered, the confession slipping free before he could second-guess it. “I like the way you feel in my arms.”

Her breath hitched, and he wondered if she felt it too—the slow, quiet ache that hummed between them, the longing neither wanted to name. Then, so softly he almost missed it, she admitted, “I think I needed this hug.”

His throat tightened, an invisible weight pressing against his ribs. “You know what we need?”

She let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, thick with emotion. “Our heads examined?”

“Maybe.” He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against her skin. He couldn’t resist—he pressed another lingering kiss against the side of her throat, the scent of her shampoo filling his lungs. Gosh, he could get lost in this. In her. But instead, he exhaled and whispered against her skin, “Come with me…”

She hesitated. “My zipper…”

“No one is going to see,” he assured her, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “And it’s my little secret to know.”

He reluctantly pulled his arms from around her, missing her warmth immediately. Instead, he took her hand, turning her gently so she faced him, their eyes locking. He wanted to say something, something profound, something that would make her stay , but instead, he settled for a soft smile. “We’re going out, the simplest of ‘outs,’ so I don’t have to walk, and you don’t have to change, and we can be ourselves… together.”

She studied him, her expression shifting from hesitation to something deeper—something that made his pulse quicken. Then, with quiet concern, she asked, “Are you hurting?”

He should have lied. Should have shrugged it off. But this was her , and she deserved the truth. “I’m stiff from doing butterflies all day and getting smacked with a puck here and there,” he admitted.

Her frown was immediate, her brows drawing together. “What? What exactly is a butterfly?” she asked, her curiosity evident.

His lips twitched, and he reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “C’mon, and I’ll tell you on the way…”

And just like that, something inside him felt lighter.

A n hour later, the car was filled with the sound of their laughter, echoing through the small space as they clutched their sundaes, half-melted but barely touched. The glow of the streetlights flickered through the windshield, illuminating the lingering tears of amusement streaking down their faces.

Matthieu couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this hard, this freely—like a shadow had been lifted from his soul, even if just for a moment.

“You should have seen their faces…” she gasped between breaths, her laughter still bubbling up uncontrollably.

“I bet,” he managed, his grin wide and unguarded.

“I skate with penguins, huh?”

“And steal nectar from butterflies,” she added, smiling.

“Evil things…” his tone mock-serious.

Their laughter crashed over them again, wild and uninhibited, rolling through the confined space like waves breaking against the shore.

Matthieu let himself soak it in—the sound of her joy, the light in her eyes, the sheer rightness of this moment. It was nothing extravagant, just two people sitting in a car, their frozen treats forgotten, sharing in something that felt both simple and profound. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t overthinking, wasn’t drowning in expectations or pressure.

This was nice .

Not just nice— needed .

“I felt like the biggest idiot,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, the laughter fading into something softer, more vulnerable.

He studied her in the dim light, the way her gaze flickered down for a second like she wasn’t sure she should say it out loud. He understood that hesitation all too well.

“I did earlier tonight,” he confessed, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them. He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers—a simple touch, but one that sent something unspoken crackling between them. “I never meant to hurt you, but I honestly forgot about our plans. I wasn’t thinking about anything except getting home, getting out of these clothes, and soaking in a bath to rest before the game tomorrow.” He exhaled, shaking his head at himself. “That doesn’t excuse it, though.”

Her fingers twitched under his, but she didn’t pull away.

“We didn’t have to do this,” she murmured, her voice unsure, as if she was giving him an out.

“But in the pecking order of priorities, you come first,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “And I hate it when I’m the reason you’re no longer smiling or happy. That’s why I wanted to be here. That’s why I wanted to fix it. You mean a lot to me—even if this feels strange, or weird, or like we’re fumbling our way through this friendship, this relationship…”

His voice trailed off when he saw it—that shy, hesitant smile tugging at her lips. The kind of smile that made something deep inside him clench, like he’d somehow gotten something right for once.

“Thank you for saying that,” she whispered. “It means a lot to me.”

“Your happiness means a lot to me, too,” he admitted. “Even if I don’t always know how to make you happy, I want the chance to try.”

She bit her lip, studying him for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, almost teasing. “You know I know nothing about hockey…”

He huffed out a laugh. “But you’ll be at the game, cheering me on?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

“You might learn something.”

“Maybe.” A pause. Then, more gently, “Are you nervous about the game?”

Matthieu exhaled slowly, his breath misting slightly against the cool night air filtering through the cracked window. The car smelled faintly of chocolate and caramel, remnants of their half-melted sundaes sitting forgotten in the cup holders. The soft hum of the radio played a song neither of them was paying attention to, the low melody filling the spaces between their words.

“Oh yeah,” he admitted without hesitation. Lying would be pointless. “The team we’re playing tomorrow is really good. It’s gonna be a tough game, and there’s so much pressure on us to win.”

His voice was steady, but its weight settled in his chest like a stone, pressing down, tightening with each passing second. The anxiety was always there before a big game, coiling inside him like a beast waiting to strike. But tonight, with her beside him, that familiar pressure didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

And then—her hand.

Beneath his, it gave the faintest squeeze. Barely there. A whisper of a touch. But he felt it. Felt it deep in his bones, like the warmth of a fire on a bitter winter night.

His gaze drifted to their joined hands, the contrast stark—her delicate fingers under his broader palm. He should have pulled away. Should have kept the distance that had once been so clear between them. Instead, he shifted, adjusting his grip and lacing his fingers through hers, a silent claim that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

“I’m sure you’ll be amazing on the ice tomorrow,” she said, her voice soft, filled with something he didn’t dare name.

Her faith in him made his throat tighten. It was ridiculous, really—he’d had countless people tell him he was talented, that he was a force to be reckoned with on the ice. But coming from her? It hit differently. It mattered in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Matthieu turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto hers, the space between them suddenly crackling with unspoken words. He should have looked away. He should have let it pass.

But he didn’t.

“There’s only one person I want to impress tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something lower, something meant only for her.

She inhaled sharply, her lips parting slightly, her body going still. The teasing glint in her gaze dimmed, replaced with something uncertain, something fragile.

“The coach?” she whispered, the hesitation in her voice making his chest tighten.

A smirk ghosted across his lips, but it wasn’t confident, wasn’t arrogant—it was softer, more real. He shook his head slightly, watching the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the air between them turning thick with something unspoken.

“Okay, maybe two people then,” he relented, his smile widening when he saw hers finally bloom in response.

The tension in the car didn’t dissipate—it shifted, deepened. The warmth in her expression, the way her eyes shone with something he desperately wanted to name, made his pulse pound.

He was falling for his fake wife.

Hard.