⋆⠀author's note & warnings: heavily inspired by this cute concept. fluff (you/your), includes suggestive language. read more for #13⠀⋆⠀series masterlist.
If there was anything you might say was held in common whether dating an actress or dating a hockey player, it was that no two days ever looked the same. Your lives were marked by emergency flights, scratched plans, surprise celebrations, and unpredicted lulls. When you laid in bed thinking aloud, creating a plan for the beginning of an earlier summer than anticipated, neither of you expected that Mat would take the invitation for Worlds, make it all the way to Switzerland, and turn around to come home before the tournament even started.
You had been too nervous to ask, not wanting to press him with questions when you saw the stiffness he held in his shoulders as you packed the last of your things and headed back to New York. In a way, you could tell he was still thinking and processing even two days later. He wasn’t sulking, but he was quieter, moving slower, lingering on decisions before acting on them.
The microwave hummed behind you, the scent of reheated Indian takeout rising as you leaned against the counter, watching him. He sat on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers hovering over the trackpad. A bottle of water remained half empty on the coffee table, positioned perfectly just at the tip of his outstretched fingers when he leaned forward. With his schedule free for the foreseeable future, he was spending a large chunk of his time just like this: studying the chessboard onscreen. Though he played pretty extensively during the season he hadn’t been this immersed in months.
The microwave beeped, pulling your gaze away from Mat’s intensely focused expression. You grabbed your plate, the warmth bleeding into your fingertips immediately as you balanced the steaming Malai Kofta and the garlic naan you chose to heat up first. For a moment, you considered eating at the counter and giving him space to play in peace. But a whispered huff of frustration under his breath made you change course.
You padded across the hardwood floor, bare feet just barely whispering against the grain. The glow from the screen painted his face in soft blues and grays, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the dip of his lower lip where he was biting it absently. You crossed the living room and slid onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his. Without looking up, he shifted slightly, making room for you, and you took the invitation for what it was; to scoot closer.
You settled into his lap sideways, your legs draped over his thigh, your head finding the familiar dip of his shoulder. His free arm curled around your waist automatically, turning his head in your direction just long enough to press his lips against your temple before he returned his attention to the game. You balanced your plate on your knee, tearing off a piece of naan with your fingers before dragging it through the creamy sauce.
“Did I forget something?” His voice was low, distracted, the question half-formed as his thumb tapped against the trackpad.
You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you chewed. “No. Why are you asking me that?”
“You were staring at me pretty hard over there,” he murmured, his eyes still locked on the screen as he moved a knight. The click of the trackpad underscoring his words. “Thought I was in trouble.”
You leaned back just enough to catch his profile, the faint furrow between his brows, the small quirk of a smile as he decided his next move. “No,” you said, dragging another piece of naan through the sauce. “I just think you’re pretty. I love looking at you.”
You offered him a piece of naan, holding it just beneath his nose until he relented and took it with his teeth, his lips brushing your fingertips in a fleeting warmth that sent a tingle up your wrist. He chewed slowly, eyes still trained on the chessboard, but the tension in his jaw softened just enough for you to notice.
“Stop that,” he muttered, his voice grainy as he finally glanced at you, his hazel eyes catching the glow of the screen. “I’ll get hard.”
You froze, blinking at him for a second before letting out a sharp, startled laugh. “You—what?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your face warming as you watched his smile develop.
Mat sighed dramatically, tilting his head back against the couch cushions like he was martyring himself. “You heard me,” he grumbled, using his free hand to push his hair back from his face. “Sitting in my lap, feeding me, telling me I’m pretty. What else am I supposed to do with that?” His fingers tightened around your waist, pressing into the soft curve of your hip.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips pulled into a smile anyway. “You’re so badly behaved,” you said, shaking your head as you tore off another piece of naan. “Like a bad little kid.”
Mat scoffed. “You knew that when you signed up,” he said, nudging his nose against your temple before stealing another bite of naan straight from your fingers. You let out a breathy laugh, shifting in his lap. He groaned. “Dude. See? You’re doing it on purpose now.”
“Doing what?” you teased, dragging another piece of the flatbread through the sauce. “Eating? Existing?” You tilted your head, watching the slight shake of his head, immediately regretting a move he’d just made onscreen.
“You know what you’re doing,” he muttered, turning his face into your hair as if to hide the flush creeping up his neck.
“Can I eat in peace without being accused of seduction?” you asked, popping the last bite of naan into your mouth with a light groan. You could feel the rumble of his laugh against your back and heard him click away from the game, closing the laptop lid, and setting it aside.
Mat leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “No,” he said, making your stomach flip when he settled further into the couch and wrapped both arms around you. “You lost peace privileges when you sat in my lap.” His lips brushed a path over the line of your jaw, humming softly between kisses.
You managed to free yourself long enough to set your plate down on the coffee table and rub a paper napkin between your fingers before falling back into Mat’s arms. His satisfied sigh vibrated against your shoulder blades as he caught you, sealing you tightly against his chest. You didn’t bother resisting when he tugged you closer, just sighed, tipping your head back to rest against his chest, your hair spilling over his shoulder.
“You’ve been quiet,” you murmured, turning your face toward his neck. His pulse was steady beneath your lips, a slow thud that matched the lazy rhythm of his fingers brushing up and down your ribs. “Not in a bad way. Just different for you.”
Mat hummed, a noncommittal sound that resonated through your back. His thumb traced the hem of your shirt, catching on the loose threads where you absentmindedly picked at it last week. “Different how?” he asked, his voice soft.
You pressed your lips to the hollow of his throat, exhaling against his skin before answering. “Different energy,” you said, using the side of your thumb to draw loose shapes on his forearm where it curved around your waist. “Usually you’re singing dumb songs right in my ear, telling me about weird hockey stuff I don't understand.” You began to play with his fingers.
Mat’s took in a shallow breath when you laced your hands together, his grip tightening reflexively before relaxing again. He turned his face into your hair, his nose brushing the crown of your head as he inhaled deeply. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your coils, “just haven’t been in a singing mood.” The words were half-hearted, his sarcasm muted beneath something heavier.
You traced the calluses on his knuckles before pressing your palm flat against his. “You don’t have to be,” you said quietly, feeling the way his fingers felt against yours. “But you don’t have to brood either. I know it was tough to walk away.”
“Couldn’t risk making it worse,” he admitted, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh at the base of your palm. “It was the right decision. But it still feels like shit.”
“I know it does. I’m sorry,” you said, your voice steady.
Mat sighed through his nose, the warmth of it ghosting over your temple. His fingers flexed around yours, squeezing once before loosening again. “Yeah,” he said. “But it’s whatever. Gotta rehab it properly now.”
You nodded, lifting his knuckles to your lips and pressing a kiss to each ridge of bone. “When was the last time we were both unemployed for more than a week?” you murmured against his skin.
Mat laughed softly. “Never. We can do cheesy couple shit now,” he mused, shifting beneath you, his hands sliding up to frame your waist. “Picnics in Central Park. Pretending to be tourists at the Met. Buying weird-ass overpriced groceries just because we can.”
“Sitting in your lap while you lose at chess,” you teased, curling your fingers around his wrist, feeling the faint thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You turned your face toward his, catching the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks as he blinked down at you, his hazel eyes softened by the dim glow of the surrounding mid-afternoon light.
“Okay… well... I wasn’t losing until you knocked me off my game,” he corrected, his voice lilted with mock offense. You rolled your eyes but said nothing. “Can I at least get a kiss to make up for it?” he murmured, nudging your chin upward with his knuckle. The moment you lifted your gaze, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours.
You chased him instinctively, smiling into the kiss when he deepened it.
“Yeesh,” Mat murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to wrinkle his nose. “Let me grab you a mint before you breathe on me again.”
You scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back into the couch cushions. “You literally just ate half my food,” you pointed out, twisting to grab your plate from the coffee table and holding it up as evidence. The remnants of garlic-laced sauce clung to the porcelain. “You don’t get to complain.”
Mat grinned, unrepentant, and caught your wrist before you could pull away and stand on your feet, dragging you back against his chest with a playful growl. “Someone told me there’s mints in your bedroom,” he murmured, nosing along your jawline, his breath warm and teasing. “Maybe we should go get one. Share it.”
You snorted, shaking your head as you let him reel your in, his hands sliding up your sides to settle at your ribs. “I need to train you better. This is a lot even for you,” you muttered, though the warmth in your voice betrayed your amusement. His grin widened, all teeth, boyish and unapologetic as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder blade. The weight of the afternoon pressed against you, a sort of drowsy, unhurried silence you weren’t blessed to indulge with often.
For your mbf series could you do like ex-fwb with mat Barzal for go go juice
Go Go Juice
Mat Barzal x female reader
mbf series masterlist
a/n: i forget how hot mat barzal is until i look him up again good god that man is handsome
wc: 1.6k
How's you's been, what's ups!
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.
“You know,” you said slowly, smiling into your drink, “I think that might be exactly what I’m calling about.”
Maddison had often imagined the day she would graduate from NYU Law School.
She had imagined it when she was still a teenager in her Riverdale uniform, sitting on the floor at the Islanders Children’s Foundation, helping children write their names on coloured cards whilst pretending she wasn’t exhausted after travelling halfway across New York from Long Island. She had imagined it whilst filling in university applications with cold hands, with Matt and Sydney by her side, her parents on FaceTime and the name NYU shining like an impossible promise. She had imagined it during her first year at NYU, when she walked through Washington Square Park with coffee in one hand and too many books in the other, trying to convince herself that she did belong there. She had imagined it during her first year of law school, when she read cases until the letters blurred and cried in the bathroom one afternoon because she thought she wouldn’t be able to cope with it all.
But none of those versions exactly matched reality.
Because in her imagination she had always been more composed, more elegant, more calm.
In reality, she was barefoot in the middle of the flat she shared with Mathew, her hair half-done, her gown draped over the back of a chair, the white dress still open at the back, and a cup of coffee forgotten on the kitchen table.
“Mathew,” she called from the bedroom, with a mixture of urgency and desperation. “I need help with the fastening.”
From the living room, Mat’s voice sounded a little distant “I’m coming.”
“You said that two minutes ago.”
“I’m looking for my cufflinks.”
“Why are your cufflinks more important than my fastening?”
“Because if I turn up with a mismatched sleeve, your brother’s going to judge me.”
Maddison appeared in the bedroom doorway, holding the front of the dress against her chest and looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Mat was bent over a small table by the entrance, rummaging through a box of accessories as if he were solving a criminal case. He was wearing dark suit trousers, a white shirt, and his hair was still a little damp, styled with more effort than he’d admit. Even after nearly six years together and four living in the same flat, Maddison still felt absurd flutters in her chest when she saw him like that.
Too handsome.
“My brother judges you for breathing near me,” she said.
Matt looked up and smiled “Less than he used to.”
“That’s not a high standard.”
“It’s progress.”
Maddison tried not to smile, but failed.
The flat was full of reminders of the day. Maddison’s gown. The mortarboard on the table. A bouquet of flowers that Matt and Sydney had sent over early because, according to Sydney, “she didn’t trust Matt not to forget to buy something sentimental”. A card from her parents, which had arrived from Canada the night before. Maddison’s mobile vibrating every few minutes with congratulatory messages. A box of tissues that Mat had left in plain sight with every intention in the world.
She’d seen him do it “I’m not going to cry that much,” she’d told him.
Matt had just looked at her. “Maddison.”
“What?”
“I know you.” And he was right, of course he was right because Maddison had been crying since seven in the morning.
She’d cried when she saw the dress hanging up. She’d cried when Sydney sent her a photo of Matt already awake at an absurd hour, with the message: “Your brother’s pretending he’s not emotional, but he’s been looking at photos of you from Riverdale for twenty minutes.” She’d cried when her mum texted her that she couldn’t believe her little girl was graduating from law school. She’d cried when she read a message from Donna, from the foundation, telling her that some of the children—not so little anymore—were proud of her.
And they hadn’t even left the flat yet.
Mat finally found the cufflinks, but left them on the table and walked over to her “Come,” he said, in a soft voice.
Maddison turned and faced away from him, tucking her hair over one shoulder.
Mat approached slowly. His fingers found the zip of her dress and pulled it up carefully, in that way he had of touching her as if, even after all these years, he still took nothing for granted.
Maddison closed her eyes, not out of nerves out of memory.
She remembered Mat waiting for her outside Riverdale after Mock Trial. She remembered their first date in the West Village. She remembered their first kiss at the entrance to Matt’s house, after a defeat, with Matt opening the door at the worst possible moment. She remembered the first night Matt slept in her room because of the concussion protocol, her in an uncomfortable chair and him holding her hand as if that were the only thing that allowed her to rest. She remembered moving in with him, the boxes piled high, Matt saying he “wasn’t ready to approve this” whilst carrying furniture anyway. She remembered nights spent studying in that very flat, her surrounded by case files and him arriving late after matches, leaving her food in silence because he knew that if he asked “have you eaten?”, she would lie.
Six years and lmost seven years since that first time at the foundation.
Four years living together and yet it still felt impossible that such a huge part of her life had begun with felt-tip pens and a heart that felt like a potato.
Matt finished zipping her up, but didn’t pull away straight away. His hands lingered for a second on her waist “Ready,” he said.
Maddison opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror in the bedroom.
The dress was simple, elegant, white, with clean lines and delicate sleeves. She looked grown-up. More grown-up than she felt inside. On top of the bed lay the purple and black NYU Law gown, waiting.Maddison swallowed.“I look like someone who knows what they’re doing.”Mat rested his chin gently on her shoulder, watching her in the mirror. “Because you are.”
She let out a small laugh.“Not always.”“You don’t have to know everything to have got this far.” Maddison looked down, getting emotional again. “Mat…”
“Don’t cry before you put your make-up on.”
“Too late.”
He smiled and kissed her bare shoulder, just above the fabric.“I’m proud of you.” the words cut right through her. Mat had told her that many times before. After exams. After interviews. After securing a place at a human rights legal clinic. After submitting her final dissertation. After nights when Maddison couldn’t believe she was surviving NYU Law.
But that day it sounded different, heavier, more definitive.
She turned slightly in his arms and looked at him.“Thanks for putting up with me during law school.” Mat let out a laugh. “Putting up with you?”
“Yes.”
“Maddison, I lived with a hockey team, you crying over Civil Procedure was intense, but manageable.” She gave his chest a gentle tap.“Idiot.”“Your idiot.” His face softened immediately.
“Yes,” she said. “My idiot.” Mat looked at her for a second longer than usual, too long.
Maddison frowned slightly.“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mat.”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar when you’re nervous.” He exhaled through his nose, almost laughing.“You taught me that.”
Maddison studied him more closely. There was something odd about him. Not in a bad way.
Strange as if he’d been carrying a weight all morning and with every passing minute it was getting harder to hide. Mat was calm in impossible matches, in packed arenas, in front of cameras, after defeats, during interviews. But this morning he had a different energy, a gentle tension in his shoulders, a way of looking at her that seemed to hold too many words.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Mat nodded “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Just…” He glanced towards the living room. “Before we go, I’ve got something for you.”
Maddison blinked “Mat, what have you done?”
“That sounds accusatory.”
“Because I know you.”
He took her hand “Come on.”
Maddison followed him into the living room, her heart beginning to beat faster for reasons she still wouldn’t allow herself to name.
The flat was bathed in the crisp morning light. Through the windows, New York lay awake and alive, as always. A city that never seemed to stop, though to Maddison, on this day, everything felt suspended.
Mat led her to the centre of the room, she looked around. “I can’t see a thing.”
“I know.”
“Is that part of the mystery?”
“A bit.”
“Mathew.”
He smiled, but the smile trembled slightly and then Maddison stopped joking.
Because Mat Barzal, the man who’d waited until she turned eighteen to ask her out, the man who’d learnt her impossible schedule, the man who’d watched her grow into an adult without asking her to be any less ambitious, the man who’d lived with her law books piled on the kitchen table and her notes stuck to the fridge, was nervous.
Really nervous.
“Maddison,” he began, his voice came out lower than usual.
She stood still. “Mat…”
He let out a tiny laugh, looking at the floor for a second before returning to her eyes. “I had a longer speech.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“No, wait. Don’t start crying yet.”
“What do you mean, don’t start?”
“I haven’t got to the important bit yet.”
Maddison put a hand to her mouth, Mat took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Okay.”
And then he knelt down and Maddison stopped breathing, literally.
Everything became too sharp.
Mat’s dark suit. The light on the wooden floor. The forgotten coffee cup. The bouquet on the table. The gown draped over the chair. The distant sound of a car horn outside. Her own heart pounding so hard it almost hurt.
Mat took a small box out of his pocket, Maddison started crying before she even saw it open. “No,” she said, but not because she meant no. It was a ‘no’ of disbelief. A ‘no’ of ‘this can’t be happening right now’. A ‘no’ of ‘I’m going to collapse right here in the middle of the room’.
Mat smiled, his eyes shining “Yes.”
“Mat…”
“Maddison, look at me.” She tried to, though the tears were already blurring her vision.
He opened the box, the ring was delicate, elegant, exactly her. Not over the top. Not designed to impress anyone else. A brilliant central diamond on a thin, classic band, with small details that caught the light in a soft way. Maddison couldn’t even look at it for long because she looked back at Mat, and that was worse.
Because he was looking at her as if she were his whole life “I met you sitting on the floor,” said Mat, his voice barely trembling. “With stickers on your sleeve and a little boy telling you your handwriting looked like a mountain.”
Maddison let out a broken laugh through her tears “It was a perfectly respectable M.”
“It was,” he said straight away, smiling. “And I remember thinking you were the most… real person I’d seen in a long time. Not because you were trying to be. You just were.”
She covered her mouth with one hand. “And then I waited,” Mat continued. “Because you were important. Because I didn’t want to mess things up with you. Because I knew that if I ever had a chance to be in your life, I wanted to deserve it.”
Maddison shook her head, crying harder “Mat…”
“You let me be there when you were at Riverdale, when NYU was a dream, when law school was a huge mountain you swore you were going to climb even if it destroyed you a little. I saw you study until you fell asleep over case files. I saw you defend people even before you had a degree. I saw you love your family, the children at the foundation, your brother even when Matt was being impossible—”
“He’s always being impossible,” she murmured, crying.
Mat laughed softly. “Yes. But you love him all the same.”
“Very much.”
“I know.” His expression grew even more tender. “And I saw you become everything you said you were going to be. Not because anyone handed it to you. Not because it was easy. But because you never stopped fighting for the person you wanted to be.”
Maddison could barely stand.
Mat took a deep breath, and now his own eyes were shining “Today you’re graduating from NYU Law. And I could have waited until after the ceremony, or until dinner, or until things had settled down a bit, but the truth is, I didn’t want this day to be just the day we celebrate what you’ve achieved. I wanted it to be the day I promise you that I’ll be right there with you through everything you’re still going to build.”
She let out a soft sob.
“Because I don’t want a life where you’re less of Maddison to make room for someone else. I want a life where you’re exactly you. Ambitious, loving, bossy, brilliant, impossible, with too many books, too many alarms, too many plans, and a heart that breaks for others in the most beautiful way I’ve ever seen.”
Maddison laughed through her tears, completely overwhelmed.
Mat lifted the box a little higher. “I’ve loved you for years. I love you on the big days, like today. And I love you on the ordinary days, when you’re in the kitchen with cold coffee and messy hair, telling me not to downplay an injury or to stop using my ‘sad eyes’ to get my own way.”
“You do use them,” she said, her voice breaking.
“They work on you.”
“Very much so.”
He smiled. “So, Maddison Martin…” He paused, and for a second the emotion almost caught in his throat. “Will you marry me?”
Maddison didn’t answer with words at first.
She simply crouched down too, practically falling to her knees in front of him, and cupped his face with both hands. “Yes,” she said, crying. “Yes, Mathew. Yes. Of course I do.”
Mat’s smile was so wide, so relieved, so deeply happy, that Maddison felt something break inside her chest only to settle back into place.
He pulled out the ring with slightly trembling hands. “I’m nervous,” he admitted.
“Me too.”
“But you just have to stay still.”
“I’m trying.”
Mat took her left hand and slid the ring onto her finger, It fit perfectly, For a second, they both stared at her hand. Then Maddison looked up “How long have you been planning this?”
Mat grimaced. “It depends on how much detail you want.”
“Mat.”
“I bought the ring months ago.”
She opened her mouth “Months?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t say a word?”
“That’s the point of a surprise, Mads.”
“Does Matthew know?”
Mat fell silent, Maddison’s eyes widened “Matthew Barzal.”
“I had to ask for his blessing.”
Maddison pressed her other hand to her chest “Oh my God. Did you survive?”
“Barely.”
“What did he say?”
Mat smiled with a mixture of pride and trauma “First he stared at me for a long time. Then he told me that if I made you cry for any reason other than happiness, he’d ruin my life.”
Maddison let out a tearful laugh “That sounds just like him.”
“Then he said he trusted me.”
Her laughter faded gently. “Did he say that?”
Mat nodded “Yes.”
Maddison started crying again “No. I can’t go to the graduation like this.”
Mat leaned in and kissed her.
It was a slow kiss, salty with tears, filled with such joy it almost hurt. Maddison clung to the lapel of his suit, feeling the ring cold against the fabric, feeling Mat smile against her mouth.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers “Hi, fiancée.”
Maddison closed her eyes “Say it again.”
“Fiancée.” She smiled as if the word were a song “I’m going to marry you.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Matt’s going to cry.”
“Matt already cried a bit when I asked him.”
Maddison pulled away suddenly “What?”
Mat threw his hands up “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“My brother cried?”
“A bit. Barely. Technically I don’t know if it was crying, but his eyes did something weird.”
Maddison stood up so quickly she almost tripped over her dress “I need to see him right now.”
Matt stood up too, laughing “We have to go to your graduation.”
“Exactly. He’ll be there. And I’m going to expose him.”
“Please don’t ruin my relationship with your brother after he’s finally accepted me.”
Maddison looked at him, the ring glinting in her hand “Mathew, you’ve just proposed to me. Your relationship with my brother is now legally my problem.”
“That both reassures and terrifies me.”
She stepped closer, straightened his tie with hands that were still trembling, and looked at him with all the love in the world. “I love you.”
Mat completely softened. “I love you.”
It took them ten minutes longer than planned to leave the flat because Maddison had to touch up her make-up, put on her gown, answer a frantic call from Sydney asking if they were on their way, and pretend she hadn’t just got engaged so as not to shout it over the phone.
“Why do you sound weird?” asked Sydney.
Maddison looked at Mat, who was trying not to laugh as he put the keys away “I don’t sound strange.”
“Maddison.”
“I’m emotional because I’m graduating from law school.”
“That’s true, but there’s something else.”
Maddison closed her eyes, Sydney knew her all too well. “See you there,” she said quickly.
“Mads—”
“See you there!” She hung up, Mat looked at her “That was suspicious.”
“I’m in crisis mode.”
“You’re engaged.”
Maddison raised her hand and looked at the ring again. “Oh my God. I’m engaged.”
Mat smiled. “Yes.”
“I’m not going to be able to act normal.”
“You’ve never been particularly good at that.”
“Shut up and take me to my graduation.”
The drive to the ceremony felt unreal.
New York passed by outside the window, but Maddison barely noticed it. She was sitting in the passenger seat, her gown over her dress, her cap on her lap and the ring on her finger, turning her hand every few minutes to watch the light reflect off the stone.
Mat would glance at her out of the corner of his eye every time the traffic stopped. “You’re going to wear it out looking at it so much.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Just saying.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Maddison turned to him “Did you choose it yourself?”
“With a bit of help.”
“From who?”
“Do you promise not to get emotional again?”
“No.”
“From Sydney.”
Maddison covered her mouth “I knew it.”
“She said she’d know what style you’d like without spoiling the surprise.”
“And Matt?”
“Matt thought it should be ‘something that doesn’t get caught on your books’.”
Maddison burst out laughing “That’s the most Matt-like thing he could have said.”
“He also said nothing too massive because you’d hate feeling like you couldn’t work comfortably.”
Maddison fell silent, her chest tightened .“He knows me.”
“Yes.” She looked out of the window, trying not to cry again, when they arrived at the ceremony venue, the world was a blur of noise again, families walking, graduates in gowns, photos everywhere.
People laughing, crying, looking for seats, adjusting their caps, holding bouquets. The air was thick with that mixture of pride and chaos that only exists at graduations.Maddison got out of the car and Matt took the gown from behind so it wouldn’t snag, “Thanks,” she said.“You’re welcome.”
That word, after the proposal, sounded different, they walked together towards the area where the graduates were to register, but before they arrived, Maddison heard a familiar voice.“Mads!” She turned, Sydney was almost running towards her, wearing a light blue dress and with tears already welling up in her eyes. Behind her came Matt, in a dark suit, his hair perfectly styled and that look of a man trying, with all his might, not to look emotionally shattered.
Maddison’s parents were a little further back, her mum holding flowers and her dad with a huge smile. There were also a few people close to the foundation, a couple of friends from NYU Law, and, further away, some Islanders players who’d promised to drop by if they could.But Maddison only saw Matt, her brother.
The man who had welcomed her to New York when she was still trying to get to grips with the city. The one who had driven her from Long Island to Riverdale. The one who’d been at Steve Bernier’s house on Ivy Day. The one who’d celebrated NYU as if he’d been accepted too. The one who’d pretended to hate Mat until he couldn’t anymore. The one who’d carried boxes when she moved in with her boyfriend and then stood staring at the flat as if he were leaving a part of himself there.
Matt stopped in front of her, for a second, he said nothing.
He just looked at her in his NYU Law gown, his cap in his hand and his eyes shining. “Mads,” he said at last, his voice coming out lower than usual, she smiled, but it faltered immediately. “Hi.”
Matt opened his arms and she threw herself at him, it wasn’t a delicate hug. It was a hug that spanned years. Of childhood, of moving house, of Long Island, of Riverdale, of nights spent studying, of arguments over Matt, of hidden pride, of family.
Maddison buried her face in his chest. “I’m graduating,” she murmured.
Matt kissed the top of her head. “I know, kid.”
“From law school.”
“I know.”
“And you’re crying.”
“I’m not crying.”
Maddison pulled away slightly and looked at him, her eyes were red “Matthew.”
“It’s allergies.”
“It’s May.”
“There’s pollen.”
Sydney came over to her side, crying openly. “There isn’t enough pollen to explain this.”
Matt shot her a look. “Syd.”
Maddison let out a tearful laugh and hugged Sydney, Sydney held her tight. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks for putting up with me all these years.”
“It was an honour.”
“Liar, it was awful.”
“A bit, but still an honour.”
Maddison laughed against her shoulder, when she pulled away, her mum was already crying. Her dad’s eyes were glistening too. There were more hugs, more flowers, more impromptu photos. Matt insisted on taking one of Maddison alone in her gown. Sydney insisted on taking one with Mat. Her mum insisted on taking one where everyone was in it, even though no one was looking at the camera at the same time.
Throughout it all, Mat stayed a little behind, smiling with a calmness that fooled no one.
Sydney looked at him once, then she looked at Maddison’s hand, her eyes widened.
Maddison froze, Sydney stopped breathing. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Matt turned immediately. “What?”
Sydney pointed at Maddison’s hand, unable to form words, Maddison pressed her lips together, Mat ran a hand through the back of his neck, as if he’d just been caught stealing something.Matt looked down, he saw the ring, he stood completely still.
The expression on the face of Sydney flashed through too many emotions in three seconds: surprise, confirmation, excitement, a failed attempt at control, a pre-emptive warning to Matt, pride, the sadness of an older sister, and something so tender that Maddison almost started crying again “Maddison,” said Sydney, bringing both hands to her mouth. “Are you…?”
Maddison raised her hand slowly “Yes.”
Her mother screamed, not a scream of panic. A scream of joy. “Oh my God!”
Her dad opened his eyes and then began to laugh, overcome with emotion, Matt was still staring at the ring.
Maddison approached him cautiously “Matthew?”
He looked up at her. “Before the graduation?” Mat spoke up carefully. “It was before we left the flat.”
Matt looked at him. “Couldn’t you have waited two hours?”
Mat opened his mouth, Maddison stepped between them immediately. “No.”
Matt looked at her. “What?”
“You’re not going to argue about the timing when I’m happy.”
Matt shut his mouth, Sydney, crying and laughing, hugged Maddison again. “You’re engaged!”
“I’m engaged,” Maddison repeated, as if she still found it hard to believe.
Her mum took her hand to look at the ring “It’s perfect.” Maddison looked at Mat “Yes.”
Matt remained silent, that was strange, too strange, Maddison moved closer again.“Matt.”
He swallowed “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me on the day you graduate from law school.”
She frowned, but looked into his eyes, he wasn’t angry, he was overwhelmed. “Doing what?”
“Growing up too much in a single day.”
The phrase took her aback, Sydney let out a soft sound, Maddison looked at her brother, and for a second she was sixteen again, walking down the stairs of their Long Island home in her Riverdale uniform and a rucksack heavier than she was, whilst Matt told her to drive carefully.
“Matt…” He hugged her before she could say anything else, tightly, tighter than before. “I’m happy for you,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m so happy for you.”
Maddison closed her eyes, clutching his jacket “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to threaten Mat?”
“Later.”
She let out a tearful laugh. “Matthew.”
“Not today.”
“How generous.” Matt pulled away and looked at Mat over Maddison’s shoulder. “Barzy.”
Mat stood up straight immediately. “Martty.”
There was a silence, Maddison felt as though the whole family was watching, Matt walked towards Mat.
For a second it looked as though he was going to give him a slap on the shoulder that was a bit too hard or say something intimidating. Instead, he hugged him.
It took Mat half a second to react, but then he hugged him back, Matt whispered something in his ear that Maddison couldn’t quite make out.
Mat nodded, when they parted, Mat’s eyes were shining too, Maddison looked at Sydney. “What did he say to him?”
Sydney smiled “Probably something emotional and threatening at the same time.”
“Just like him.”
The ceremony was a dream, not because Maddison remembered every detail clearly. In fact, she remembered fragments.
She remembered lining up with her NYU Law classmates, all dressed in gowns, all laughing too loudly because they were on the verge of tears. She remembered a friend taking her hand and shouting when she saw the ring. She remembered trying to explain “Yes, he proposed to me this morning” and three people almost hugging her at the same time.
She remembered sitting amongst the other graduates and searching for her family in the crowd. She remembered seeing Matt standing up even though he was supposed to be sitting down, raising a hand when she spotted him, Sydney was by his side, crying again. Her parents were smiling as if they were bursting with joy. Matt stood next to them, looking at her with such a proud expression that Maddison had to look away so she wouldn’t start crying before it was time.
She remembered speeches about justice, service, responsibility, the legal profession as a tool for change. Words that, in other contexts, might sound grand, almost too solemn. But that day, Maddison felt them in her bones.
Because she knew why she was there, not for prestige, not just for the title.
But for Ava and all the children at the foundation. For the families she had met. For the stories that had haunted her since high school. For the years spent studying human rights, childhood, migration, inequality, access to justice. For the persistent idea that laws might be cold on the page, but in the right hands they could become protection.
When they called her name, the world stood still “Maddison Martin.”
For a second, she didn’t move.
Then she heard Matt, she would have recognised that shout in any arena “THAT’S MY SISTER!”
The people around her laughed and clapped, Maddison covered her face for a moment, feeling both embarrassed and overwhelmed.
From somewhere nearby, another Islander shouted something she didn’t catch. Sydney was surely crying. Her mum too. Matt must be grinning like an idiot.
Maddison walked towards the stage, every step felt like a different version of herself meeting the next.
The little girl who left Canada, the teenager who used to drive from Long Island to Riverdale, the volunteer who sat on the floor with children , the student who opened her NYU acceptance letter with trembling hands.
The young woman who moved in with Mat and promised not to lose herself along the way, the law student who often thought she wouldn’t make it, the woman with an engagement ring on her left hand and an NYU Law degree about to be hers.
She received her diploma, she smiled for the photo and when she stepped off the stage, she couldn’t help but look back at her family, Mat had a hand over his mouth, as if he were trying not to get too emotional.
Matt wasn’t trying anymore, Maddison laughed, crying.
After the ceremony, it was all beautiful chaos, h ugs. Photos. Flowers. People jokingly calling her “counsellor”. Matt insisting on taking a photo just with her, then another with Mat, then one where he was holding the diploma as if it were his own. Sydney adjusting her gown every three minutes, her mum saying the ring looked perfect with the diploma, her dad hugging Mat and telling him he was happy he was officially part of the family, even though Mat had been for years.
At some point, Maddison stepped away from the group for a moment to catch her breath, she stood by a pillar, holding the diploma to her chest, looking at her family gathered together.
Mat spotted her almost immediately “Hey.”
She turned towards him “Hey.”
“Overwhelmed?”
“Very much so.”
“Happy?”
Maddison smiled “ very much.” Mat stepped closer and tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her cap back into place “You look beautiful.”
“I look like I’ve been crying.”
“That too.”
She laughed and tapped him gently with the diploma “Careful. I’m a lawyer now.”
“Officially?”
“Almost. But I’ve got my diploma, so I can threaten you with more authority.”
Mat looked at the diploma, then at the ring “My lawyer fiancée.”
Maddison closed her eyes for a second “That sounds too good.”
“It is.”
She looked at him, more tenderly “Thank you for doing this today.”
“Wasn’t it too much?”
“No.” Maddison shook her head slowly. “It was perfect. Because… everything that mattered was on the same day. What I’ve built. And what we’re going to build.”
Matt took her left hand and kissed the ring “So I got it right.”
“Absolutely.”
In the distance, Matt shouted “Maddison! Family photo!" she closed her eyes “He’s found us.”
Matt smiled. “Always.” Maddison intertwined her fingers with his “Let’s go before he comes looking for us.”
They walked back together, Matt watched them approach hand in hand and sighed dramatically “I’m still getting used to it.”
Maddison raised her hand with the ring “Well, get used to it fast, because there’s a wedding on the horizon.”
Sydney squealed with excitement again, Matt put a hand to his face “I can’t process graduation and a wedding on the same day.”
“You’re a professional athlete,” said Maddison. “You handle the pressure.”
One of the players behind them burst out laughing, Matt pointed at her “That was low.”
“But effective.”
Mat leaned towards Matt “She wins almost every argument.”
Matt looked at Mat. “Now it’s your legal problem.”
Mat smiled, looking at Maddison “I like my legal problem.” Maddison blushed, Sydney brought both hands to her chest. “Okay, that was sweet.”
Matt grimaced “Don’t encourage this.”
But when it came time for the family photo, it was Matt who took Maddison’s hand and placed it between himself and Mat. It was Matt who carefully adjusted her gown. It was Matt who, just before the camera clicked, whispered to her “Proud of you, kid.”
Maddison rested her head against his shoulder for a second “I love you, Matthew.”
“I love you too.”
“So much.”
“I love you more.”
“Impossible.”
The camera captured that moment almost by accident: Maddison in the centre, wearing her NYU Law gown, the diploma in one hand and the ring sparkling in the other; Matt on one side, looking at her with the pride of an older brother; Mat on the other, smiling as if he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes; Sydney, overcome with emotion, her happy parents, the whole family gathered round.
📍NEW YORK
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madds.martin law school its officially over and now i'm engaged!
thank you to everyone who accompanied me in all my university years, my friends, my family and Barzy who was with me from the beginning.
view 65 comments
barzal97: congrats baby ilysm🤍
↳ madds.martin: love you more barzy❤️
riley.zegrass: my favorite roommate 🥺 congrats madds, first liv graduated and now you! im going to miss you
↳ madds.martin: thank you ri! im going to miss you too!
livcaufield: 2/3 out of nyu! congrats babe
↳ madds.martin: thank you liv! hope montreal is treating you good!
a/n: happy birthday mat! had this finished in the drafts and was waiting for the perfect time to post it 😌 enjoy!
tw: dirty talk, minor public foreplay, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), nipple play, mutual masturbation, skinny dipping
word count: 4.2k
summary: the sun isn’t the only thing that’s hot during your beach vacation with mat
“Babe,” Mat hovers over you, blocking the sun, “let’s go in the water.”
You frown up at him, shifting to the side so you can get back in the sun, and wave the paperback book in your hand at him, “I need to finish this. I’m only halfway through and we’re having book club next week.”
Mat groans and nearly throws himself to the sand, stretching his legs out in front of him and dragging his fingers in absent patterns. “Okay, but I’m bored and it’s supposed to be our vacation. Come swim with me.”
He starts piling sand on your Steve Madden sandal, making a little mountain on the insole. You roll your eyes at him - sometimes you’re convinced that Mat has undiagnosed ADHD - and flick your toes at him, catching his shoulder. Mat looks at your toes as they press against his skin, laughing and capturing your ankle with his non-sandy hand. He holds your foot against his chest and you wiggle your toes.
“Go take a walk and when you get back, I’ll come in with you,” you promise.
“Yeah?” Mat perks up, fingers tightening subtly on your foot. “Promise?”
He’s like a toddler. You giggle and nod, “I promise. Go take a walk, find me some treasure.”
“On it,” he grins, kissing your ankle bone before dropping your foot back to the lounge chair and scrambling up from the sand. His trunks are coated in a nice layer of the fine sand, like a chicken cutlet, and it makes you laugh as he sheds it when he walks off to the shore.
The beach is private, quiet. You and Mat had dragged the lounge chairs off the house’s patio and into the sand of the beach that formed the rental
house’s backyard. For a huge chunk of the last three days, you’d been out here, soaking up the sun and napping with the crashing waves as your white noise machine.
It’s been a perfect start to summer vacation. Sun, surf, sex. You and Mat have been able to stay up late and sleep in, grilling steaks and veggies every night. It feels like a fever dream, so different from the whirlwind of last summer - your first summer with Mat - and yet, just as fun.
The cocktails are flowing and Mat dutifully follows you around Citarella every morning while you shop for dinner ingredients.
Now, you watch Mat wander up the shore, kicking his feet in the water as he goes. Randomly, he bends down to pick something up. You’re so involved in watching him walk, you’ve read exactly zero additional pages by the time he returns to sit at the foot of your lounge chair.
“Sea glass,” Mat says proudly, emptying his pockets onto your towel. The colorful pieces are still wet, made translucent and shiny by the ocean water. You grin and set your book aside, leaning forward so you can sort through them like a mermaid inspecting her haul. He found a good mix of colors and you sweep them into your hand, depositing them into the small pouch in your beach bag.
“Definitely going in the sea glass jar at home,” you say, already planning on emptying the jar and reorganizing it by color. Maybe if you can find some more pieces before you head back home, you’ll get another jar from Home Goods and have some symmetry on your counters.
Mat waves his hand in front of your face, drawing your attention to the expectant look on his face. His eyebrows are lifted on his forehead and he blurts out, “let’s go in now, it’s so fucking hot.”
“I… okay,” you nod and squeal when Mat hauls you up onto his shoulder, your head flipped upside down and bobbing near his lower back, his forearms banded over the backs of your thighs. You brace your palms against the top curve of his ass and laugh as you bounce, Mat jogging to the shoreline. “Mat, stop! Oh god, it feels cold!”
His feet are kicking up splashes of cold water and you can feel it on your legs, skin hot from baking in the sun. Mat’s teeth scrape over your ass cheek, biting gently before he gives it a light pat.
“It’s refreshing,” he counters, wading in deeper even as you protest. “You were in earlier, babe.”
You wriggle in Mat’s arms, his shoulder digging into your stomach. “Yeah,” you whine, “before I baked in the sun. Mat, please don’t -“ you can feel his grip on you shift and your words are drowned out by the splash your body makes when Mat tosses you into the water. The cold water shocks your system and you flounder for a few seconds, arms and legs kicking until you can find your way upright and your head pops out of the water.
With a gasp, you shake your hair out of your face and windmill your arms to splash water in Mat’s direction. His laugh echoes and you keep splashing him until his arms wrap around you, forcing you to stop. Mat’s lips are warm on your neck, his chest firm against your back, and you give into the laughter bubbling in your chest. Waves rock your bodies up over the swell and back down, the easy way Mat’s holding you keeping you afloat.
“That was dirty, Mathew Barzal,” you grumble when he finally releases you and lets you turn, locking your legs around his waist and looping your arms around his neck. “I could’ve drowned.”
“Yeah right,” Mat rolls his eyes at you. “Your mom told me all about your Safety Swim lessons. You’re apparently a butterfly stroke prodigy.”
You him and squeeze your legs around his waist tighter when Mat bounces on the balls of his feet to float over another wave. “Okay, but when you were gossiping about me, did she tell you I failed my lifeguard certification because I couldn’t grab a brick off the bottom of the pool?” You laugh at the memory of your sixteen year old self floundering and gasping for air as you’d resurfaced, your dad squinting suspiciously at you - he’d never quite believed that you choked, always thinking you failed on purpose to avoid working in the summers.
“She failed to mention that,” Mat grins before diving under a wave without warning, leaving you to splutter water in his face when you resurface. He laughs and wipes at his face, dipping his chin to get a mouthful of saltwater to shoot at your collarbone.
You pinch at his neck and lean in to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his, pressing close against his chest. Mat’s fingers find the string ties on your bikini bottoms and tug gently and then harder when he gets resistance from the double knots you’d tied as protection against his fingers. He groans into the kiss and tugs harder at the strings.
“Stop that,” you mumble, biting down on his lower lip to make him whine. “This is a family beach.”
Mat bounces you in his arms, his cock thick and half hard under your ass. “Beach is empty, Squeaks,” he slips one hand under your bikini bottoms and pinches your ass gently. His palm is warm and broad against your skin. “Look around, we’re all alone.”
“I’m not letting you take my bottoms off in public,” you shake your head, looking over Mat’s shoulder at the empty beach. A little thrill zips down your spine at the thought though. You’re no stranger to public make outs and there’s been a few bars on Long Island and in the city that Mat’s fucked you in the bathroom. But fully out in public feels a little too risky.
“How about your top?” Mat asks, running his nose against your jaw. “Wanna suck on your tits and mark them up.”
The waves pick up around you as Mat’s lips mark a trail down your neck and you can’t even enjoy his ministrations because you’re worried about drowning. You stiffen in Mat’s arms when a wave splashes your face, breaking against Mat’s back, and he pulls back.
“You okay?” Water drips down his face and you push back his hair, slicking it away from his forehead. He’s starting to get a few freckles on his nose and it’s the cutest fucking thing.
You shake your head, “I’m not built for fooling around in the ocean. It’s freaking me out that we could drown.”
Mat lifts an eyebrow. “My feet are firmly on the sand, babe. We’re not going anywhere,” he chuckles. His arms tighten their grip, secure.
With a wrinkle of your nose, you pout, “take me back to the house and we can fool around in the pool.”
“Not even a quick one?” Mat asks, kissing your shoulder. “Wouldn’t take me too long to get you to come on my fingers.”
Said fingers make a slow creep over your ass cheeks, in between your legs. The tip of his middle finger brushes your entrance and you jolt in his arms, feet kicking out slightly. You whine his name and Mat dips his finger in shallowly, rubbing gently against your walls. It’s not enough, never enough after you’ve been spoiled by his cock, but you’re rocking against his finger. You’d blame it on the ocean, but the waves have died down a little for now.
“Mat…” you warn him and he laughs, flashing his teeth in a grin. “I’m not - we can’t -“
“We could,” he says, sliding his ring finger in next to his middle. They sink a little deeper into your cunt and you feel your clit twitch, warmth pooling low in your stomach. “It’s empty, who’d know?”
“The - the fish,” you gasp a giggle. Mat’s fingers twist inside of you and you whine, knowing you’re not going to win this battle. Not that you’re putting up too much of a fight.
Mat bites at your collarbone, flattening his tongue over the spot. “Wouldn’t be the first time an unsuspecting animal watched me finger you,” he teases, flashing you back to the Lees’ end of season barbecue just a few weeks ago and Mat making you come on his fingers in their guest room, not realizing that both Gordie and Howe were napping on the floor. The dogs had barked and scared the shit out of you and Mat, sending you both scurrying back down to the party only half satisfied.
“Let’s not - ah - make that a habit,” you sigh and to your relief and displeasure, Mat’s fingers slip from your cunt. You whine his name and cling tighter to his neck when he starts wading out of the water. “Where -?”
“My girl wants privacy,” Mat replies simply, bouncing over a wave. “So back to the house where I can make you scream.”
Your clit throbs at his words, the ridge of his cock hot and hard against your core. There’s nothing better than summer Mat and you can’t wait to get him naked so you can lick him. Summer also brings out your inner feral animal, call it a residual hormone imbalance from your teenage years spent at Boardy Barn.
Mat adjusts his grip on you as he hits the sand, holding you tighter and practically jogging back to the house. Your arms lock tightly around his neck, your laughter echoing off the sand. It’s not like he could possibly be that hard up for you, but you love his enthusiasm.
And you love it even more when he sets you down on the island countertop, dropping to his knees so he can lick a line up your inner thigh. His fingers find the edge of your bikini bottoms and deftly tug them aside, the air conditioned air on your wet cunt making you shiver. Mat groans at the sight of you glistening for him and without warning, dives face-first into your cunt.
“Oh!” You yelp, grabbing at his hair, hips jolting off the counter. Mat’s tongue circles your clit feverishly, his saliva mixing with your arousal to get you really wet and pliant for his fingers. “Mat, oh my gohhh.”
The bridge of his nose presses hard against your clit and two of his fingers join his tongue, filling you but not enough. He hums against you and you wail his name, your ass slipping on the counter from your wet bathing suit and the pool of arousal dripping out of you. If it weren’t for Mat’s tight grip on your thigh, you’re pretty sure you’d slide right off the counter.
“Stop stop oh god don’t stop,” you babble, grinding your hips against his face and pulling at his hair. His lips curl in a grin against you and it doesn’t take much more for the tight coil of pleasure building in your belly to snap. Mat’s nose rubs harder against your clit and you scream his name as you come, stomach muscles clenching so you crunch up with the force of your orgasm. You gush all over Mat’s face, his fingers pressing hard against your g-spot to prolong your orgasm.
“Oh god,” you wail, slumping back against the counter, feet kicking lazily. Mat laughs and leans back, grinning up at you with a soaked face and a twinkle in his eyes. He kisses the inside of your knee, hand stroking up the outside of your calf, his blunt nails scratching your skin lightly.
“Good?” He asks teasingly, standing to his full height and letting his hands drift from your calves, up over your thighs to rest on your hips. He leans over you and kisses your ribs, his nose brushing against the underside of your breast.
You nod dumbly, “very. What are we doing about this, now?” You let your foot graze over the obvious tent in his swim trunks and Mat jerks back, cock twitching violently from the slight contact. He groans and his forehead drops to rest on your tit. You giggle and run a hand through his hair, tugging lightly to make him groan again, the sound vibrating through your body.
Mat’s lips wrap around your nipple through your bikini top, startling a gasp from you and your back arches, pushing deeper into his mouth. One of your legs hooks around Mat’s hip and he bites down gently, making you squeak with the jolt of pleasure that zips right to your clit.
“Should I,” Mat nuzzles his nose against the swell of your breast, tugging at the damp fabric with his teeth to pull it aside, “go find a condom or maybe I’ll just make an even bigger mess of you.”
“Mess,” you whine, not wanting him to go away for a second. “Make a mess, come on me, Mat.”
He grins and nips at your skin again, pulling back slightly so he can fish his cock out of his trunks. It’s thick and hard and shiny with precome, making saliva pool in your mouth. You whine and Mat laughs, tugging at your thigh with his free hand until your ass is right at the edge of the counter, wet and waiting for him.
“Have I told you,” he grunts, stroking himself with a lazy hand, “how much I love you?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, drops of precome hitting your inner thighs. “Never get tired of hearing it though.”
Mat laughs, a strangled sound, and runs his fingers over your clit while he jerks himself off. You shiver under his touch, playing with your nipples while you watch him, following the bob of his cock as it disappears into his fist. Pressure builds low in your stomach again, a fizzy lighter than air feeling that Mat brings out all too often.
“Gotta say it more often,” Mat huffs, running the head of his cock over your inner thigh and leaving a wet smear on your skin. “Best fucking idea to do this, seeing you in these little bikinis, fucking you all the time.”
His cock is leaking steadily now, his strokes losing their rhythm.
“That’s,” you hiccup when he presses firmly on your clit, “what we do at home.”
“Different here,” he mutters. “More fun. Hold this to the side.”
His fingers fumble at the edge of your bikini bottoms, tugging them over to expose your cunt again. Your fingers brush his when you reach down to hold the damp fabric in place, letting your knuckles hit your clit. A breathy moan from you makes Mat’s cock jerk and a spurt of come dribble from the tip.
“Shit,” he laughs roughly, choking his cock with one hand and rolling his balls in the other. “Perfect little pussy for me to come on, isn’t that right, baby?”
You nod and grin at him, dropping your hand from where it’s playing with your nipple to your clit, shallowly dipping your middle finger inside your cunt. Mat groans, watching you finger yourself, his strokes on his cock growing erratic. “Tell me how much you like watching me, Mat,” you breathe, chest heaving as you get closer to your next orgasm.
“So fucking much,” he braces himself with one hand on the edge of the counter. You’re not sure who comes first, you or Mat, but you’re shouting his name and coming on your fingers and there’s a sudden, hot splash of Mat’s come on your cunt. You whine and Mat continues to finish on you, making a mess of your stomach and thighs for good measure.
He groans your name and a final spurt of come lands on your clit, making you shiver through the aftershocks of your orgasm. You’re limp on the counter and Mat rests his head on your thigh, huffing a laugh against your skin. Hand shaking, you rake your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. His come is still warm on your skin, drying at the edges of the puddles and making your skin feel tight.
“This was such a mess,” you laugh faintly. The counters are going to need to be extremely deep cleaned, multiple times if you’re being honest. You remember seeing bleach in one of the bathrooms, that’s probably going to have to be your cleaner of choice.
“You asked for mess,” Mat replies, wincing as he tucks himself back into his swim trunks. He wipes his hand on the outside of his thigh and snatches up a few sheets of Bounty to clean you off. You swat his hands away and shimmy off the counter, landing on wobbly legs.
Mat grabs your elbow to hold you steady and ducks his head to kiss the corner of your mouth. The dirty paper towels are crumpled in his hand.
Humming into his mouth, you murmur, “let’s go shower off. Be a little classier about the clean up, you know?”
As filthy as you and Mat can get, sometimes a girl just wants to act like a lady. Besides, the paper towel was abrading the faint sunburn that’s developing on your body. You need a nice moisturizing soap and some aloe. Maybe a nap before dinner.
“Whatever my girl wants,” Mat grins, kissing your neck and poking your side to get your squealing with laughter as he chases you up the stairs and into the bedroom.
-
Later, with the air still smelling like the steaks Mat had grilled and the burning wood from the fire pit you can’t stop adding logs to, you lounge against Mat’s chest and watch the sun set. His knees are bent and caging you in, warmth radiating off of his body in a way that’s making you sleepy.
“If you keep playing with my hair,” you yawn, Mat’s fingertips rubbing against your scalp, “I’m going to fall asleep right here.”
“Wore you out today, huh?” Mat laughs, a smug edge to his tone. You pull at his leg hair and he yelps, kicking out his foot to dislodge your fingers. “Fuck, ow! That hurt.”
You hum and let Mat settle his legs back around you, teasing, “you usually like a little bit of pain. Going soft on me in the summer?”
“Never,” Mat scoffs, hands around your waist and warm palms slipping under the fabric of your sweater to ghost over your skin. He sighs happily when he gets his hands on your tits, kneading them absently. You arch slightly into his touch and Mat tweaks your nipple to make you shiver. “Cold?”
The tease makes you exhale a laugh and you tip your head back to look at him, rolling your eyes, “cold shivers are much different than nipple pinching shivers.”
“Who said anything about a pinch?” Mat asks innocently, giving both your nipples a pinch that borders on painful. You whine, pouting at the flood of arousal between your legs. He laughs again, rubbing his palm over your nipple and dropping a kiss to the top of your head.
There’s a breeze off the ocean, unseasonably warm for this early in the summer, and the sky is a perfect pinky-orange. A slow wave rolls and breaks over the sand and a wild idea occurs to you.
“Hey, Mat?” You wrap your hands around his wrists, tugging on them gently. He curls his fingers with yours.
“Hey, Squeaks?” He exhales a laugh against the crown of your head.
You lean forward a little, pulling Mat with you, and turn to look back at him. He raises an eyebrow at the expression on your face and you giggle, “I have a crazy idea.”
“Does it involve you being naked?” Mat asks, kissing your cheek. He wiggles his hands out of yours and covers your tits, squeezing and dragging you backwards into his chest again. You shimmy under his grip and shift so you’re on your knees in between his spread legs.
“Funny enough,” you grab the bottom hem of your sweatshirt and tug it over your head, exposing your bare tits to Mat’s gaze and the cool air, “it does.”
Mat groans at the sight of your pebbled nipples and reaches for them, brushing his thumbs over the tight peaks. You shiver and arch into his touch, continuing, “strip. Let’s go skinny dipping.”
“Seriously?” Mat asks, hands frozen on your tits. His mouth curls up in a sly smile when you nod and then his shirt is joining yours on the sand. He nearly trips over himself to stand up and you giggle, rolling onto your back to shimmy out of your shorts. Mat’s laugh echoes off the sand and he’s stepping out of his shorts too, telling you to, “hurry up!”
You flip him off and Mat’s got his arms around your waist, swinging you to your feet, the both of your laughing. He’s got a tan line from his trunks, his ass pale white and firm, and his cock is already twitching to life as he runs his eyes over your body. Arousal pools low in your stomach and your nipples are tight in the cool air.
“You’re it,” you slap Mat’s shoulder and take off at a sprint towards the ocean, banding one arm over your chest to keep your breasts secure. Mat’s footsteps pound after you, sand kicking up at your feet, and he catches you easily, nearly tackling you into the ocean. His arms wrap around you as he falls, turning so his back hits the water first and you’re caught safely against his chest. The shock of cold water wakes you up and compared to the warmth coming off of Mat, your body has no idea to react except to let out an uninhibited cackle of a laugh.
“Fuck, I love you,” Mat’s arms tighten around you, his lips against the wet skin of your neck, body slippery against yours. Your legs tangle with his, waves rolling and crashing around you. There’s sand everywhere and you’re going to have a hell of a time rinsing off later, but Mat blows a raspberry against your shoulder and everything is a perfect, glowy orange with the sunset.
“Best idea ever or just best idea today?” You laugh, clinging to Mat. You tip your head back to look at the sky, soaking in the fading sunlight and the shifting colors of the clouds.
He buries his face against your exposed neck, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the sensitive skin, mumbling, “you’ve had a string of good ideas, baby. Starting with taking me back and continuing right here with skinny dipping.”
“You can take over decision making tomorrow,” you tease, wiggling against him until you can feel his cock hot and hard against your core. “I want to be so fucked out I don’t have a coherent thought all day.”
“Oh shit,” Mat groans, his cock jerking against your inner thigh just as a wave splashes against his back, “I can make that happen.”
With a wicked grin, you slip out of Mat’s arms and dunk your head under water, letting it cool you off before kicking and splashing away from him and back to shore. He shouts your name and you can hear him moving behind you, the cool air making goosebumps rise on your skin as you sprint back up to the house.
It’s a cliché, but you’ve never felt more wild and free than you do in this moment. It’s the perfect start to a Long Island summer.
You could fucking giggle at the sight in front of you as you sashay into the room, silk robe loosely tied at your waist. Mat is partially propped up against the headboard, one hand cuffed to the rail and his free hand fiddling on his bare thigh. Tufts of his hair stand in different directions from your morning makeout session. A red flush still paints his skin from the sheer shock when you slapped the cuff around his wrist.
“You know it’s my birthday, right? Why am I the one that’s handcuffed?” Mat asks, pushing back the hair tickling his forehead.
“Mmm,” you hum, tapping a finger along your chin in faux thought. “I like to keep you on your toes,” you continue with a single-shoulder shrug.
“What’re you hiding behind your back? Another surprise, maybe something non-constricting?” Mat juts his chin in your direction, moving his head as if he could get a glance of what’s hidden in your hand.
“Don’t worry, hotshot. I won’t be restricting you anymore- unless you ask.” A smirk twists your lips up as your husband grins. No eye roll, huff of annoyance, or pouting can hide the fact that you know he’s enjoying every bit of this.
“One hand cuffed is enough right now. You know I’m going to want to touch. You know I always want to touch you,” the man grits out, straining in his spot as everything in him craves for you to be closer.
Deciding to be a bit of a tease, you move towards the bed. His posture straightens at your movements- the anticipation makes his muscles tense. Another round of giggles dare to slip out when his shoulders fall in disappointment from you stopping at your side of the bed, and hiding the surprise for later.
“What color do you think?” You ask, hand gesturing to yourself. Now, Mat will most likely assume you’re referring to a lingerie set, and you are. However, unbeknownst to him, you’re completely bare.
“Last time it was white, so maybe blue. Or orange, if you’re feeling bold,” the hockey player responds, which just so happens to be his hockey team’s colors. You mentally roll your eyes at his laidback cockiness. Maybe you shouldn’t have made him so accustomed to your fangirl-ism, or maybe he deserves it because he’s the man of your dreams. Shaking the thought out of your head, you file it away for a later time and refocus on the man in front of you.
“Valid guesses, but you’re wrong.”
Mat cocks his head to the side, his eyebrow cocking in a sort of confused tick.
“Wrong? Baby-,” the words die on his tongue and his eyes widen.
“Yeah, wrong,” you confirm as you untie your robe and let it fall off your body.
“Cat got your tongue?” The tease comes out in your signature sultry lilt, and you finally make your way onto the mattress.
“No, but I know where I can put it,” he sighs, eyes eating up every naked inch of you.
Everything in your body short circuits, briefly halting your movements. A hot rush of lust flows through your veins, bringing warmth to your cheeks.
“Easy, Barzy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you chastise, crawling over to him.
Goosebumps break out on Mat’s skin after you peel off the sheet covering his bare bottom half. His length is already hardening, and you have to pat yourself on the back, because knowing that the mere sight of you gets him going is enough to feed your ego for weeks.
With wild eyes, you drag a finger over the prominent vein on his cock. Biting onto your bottom lip, you watch the way his entire body jumps- his hand going forward before snapping back to where it’s captured.
“C’mere,” he huffs, already fraying at his edges.
“Anything for the birthday boy,” you whisper and straddle his lap.
“Hi,” Mat murmurs once you settle on top of him with your hands on his shoulders.
“Hi.” The softness of his voice draws you closer; you press your forehead to his and he bumps your nose with his.
After a second of silence and enjoying each other’s presence, you get the ball rolling again. Every ounce of air turns thick with tension as you roll your hips, letting your pussy glide over his length. Shiny arousal coats him, allowing him to slide between your folds with ease. The head nudges into your clit and you practically fall back as pleasure races through you.
“Mmm fuck. You’re so wet, pretty girl,” Mat breathes into your ear, all low and raspy. His lips ghost against the shell, and his hands squeeze your hips, making your breath hitch in your throat.
Kissing your way down from his cheek to his jaw, you nibble on his skin, giggling at the purring it elicits. There’s nothing you love more than hearing him be vocal about his pleasure. To be fair, he’s never really deprived you of it.
“Come on, baby, I need to be inside of you,” Mat says as his body writhes with impatience.
Ignoring his request, you grip his shoulders tighter, and grind slower against his erection. Earthy eyes stare into your heated gaze, watching with an aching intensity that you unfortunately break when you slip off his lap.
“Where are you going?” Mat asks in a pained whine. The veins in his body are starting to bulge against his skin- the cuffs work overtime to restrain what little sanity he has left.
Crawling to the edge of the bed, you throw him a teasing grin from over your shoulder.
“Don’t worry-“ your words break off into a cry. A thick finger slides between your wet walls; the pad curling into your sweet spot. It catches you so off guard, your entire body could melt off the bed and onto the floor.
“Oh my god,” you say, words muffled from pressing your face into the sheets.
Distractedly, you reach for the can of whipped cream, and begrudgingly push his arm away with your foot.
“This is about you, not me,” you mutter and turn back towards him, hair already a mess from all the movement.
The man hums in slight defiance, turning his head with attitude, like your words cause him ailment.
“Then are you going to finally show me what you’re hiding?” He eyes you suspiciously once you’re upright again, still hiding the can behind your back.
Before you can even answer, Mat licks off your arousal from his finger, and you think if he did it one more time you’d be able to orgasm on the spot. Something so obscene should not be so fucking sexy. But then again, it’s Mat, and anything he does is sexy.
With a faux pout, you pinch his thigh, and then plant yourself back on his lap.
“TA DAAAA,” you giggle, holding out the canned sweetness.
“I can spray it on you?” He’s immediately sitting up, his cuffed wrist already forgotten. His eyebrows raise in delight, every image of you covered in the sweet treat flitting through his mind.
“You can do whatever you want with it.” The man takes it from your hands, inspecting it as if he’s never seen such a thing before.
“I only have one hand, though,” he complains, eyebrows furrowing.
“One hand is enough,” you deadpan, playfully pushing at his chest.
“Then how am I going to touch you?” Mat’s words are sincere. It genuinely pains him to not have at least one hand on you during sex.
“Take turns alternating. Now, relax,” you whisper, eyebrows raising in quiet demand as you push his upper body against the headboard.
The atmosphere of the room switches from easygoing back to being thick with need. The dominant prowess, in which you possess in your actions, reminds your husband that you’re the one in charge.
Reaching down, you stroke his cock; your fist tightening around him pulls shallow whimpers from deep in his stomach. Your core clenches around an angry nothingness, desperately needing to be filled. Guiding him to your entrance, you lift your lower half and let the head prod against your slit. It takes so much willpower to prevent yourself from slamming down on him, your thighs begin to shake.
“Don’t make me wait,” Mat groans, his free hand finding your hip.
“Only because it’s your birthday, baby,” you breathe out. Slowly, you sink down on him. Your pussy flutters around the intrusion as you grapple for something to keep you from tipping over. Metaphorically and literally.
“Holy fuck,” Mat moans, head tipping back with a dull thud. The sound sends another wave of arousal to douse his length.
“No, no, no, Barzy. Look at me,” you sigh, fingers tangling in his hair as you shift around on him. The adjustment period is your favorite part of sex. It allows you to pull each other close, enjoy the fullness of him sheathed inside of you without having to move.
Your hands cradle his face, bringing his lips to yours. Mat’s entire body deflates as a sigh of relief leaves his mouth, and you’re quick to inhale it. The kiss is gentle, lacking any tongue or teeth, yet it’s just enough to savor the intimacy of everything.
“I love your dick so much,” you moan as you lift off him and sink back down.
Mat smirks at you, making your flesh burn and tingle.
Baby pink nails lightly dig into his pecs with each bounce, subtly scratching down his torso until your hands are planted on his lower abdomen. Mat thrusts his hips up, hitting a deep spot within you, and forcing your body to lean into him. Your hair shades your closed eyes as you concentrate on controlling the pace of how fast your release builds.
The sound of something hitting the sheets gathers your attention, and you quickly realize your husband has the uncapped whipped cream in his hand, waiting expectantly.
An airy hiss breaks through the symphony of moans as a white trail is sprayed around one of your nipples. The color of Mat’s eyes darken significantly; he licks at his lips, and looks at you like devouring you is the only option.
“Fuck,” you shriek, body jolting under the path that his tongue takes to slurp up his dessert.
“You like that?” The words are syrupy sweet, pushing you closer to the edge. The quicker you unravel, the quicker he can fill you up. He knows what he’s doing.
More whipped cream is spritzed on your body, fluffy lines starting at your collarbones and going back to your boobs.
“I love it,” you moan, hands traveling back up towards his neck. The pace of your hips quickens.
“How much?” The hockey player’s mouth sucks at your flesh, lapping up every trace of the cream.
“So fucking much.” Each inch he lowers, he nips at you before soothing it with a languid lick.
“I love feeling you touch me everywhere- with your hands or with your tongue. I’m not picky,” you mewl, your hips rotating right to left and left to right- Mat drinks in the sight of your pussy drenching his cock. The wet smack of skin bounces off the walls, making your face twist up in pleasure as your fingers sew themselves in his sweaty locks.
“You gonna cum already? I can feel you squeezing the shit outta me,” Mat growls around your nipple. The sharp sting of his teeth closing around the bud has your body shivering, and your heat clenching.
“You feel so good,” you gasp, another wave of chills rolling through your body when your husband pulls at your hair, exposing your neck.
“Cum for me, pretty,” he moans, but you’re immediately shaking your head “no.” You’re nothing if not bratty, sometimes.
Leaning back, you plant your hands on the small area above his knees- keeping yourself sturdy. Eyes boring into his, you bite onto your lower lip to keep your devilish grin at bay, and you buck your hips teasingly slow. His cock almost slips out of you, but you make sure the angle makes it so he goes nowhere.
“You’re so sexy,” Mat groans, gripping your boob in his large hand, massaging the sticky, supple skin.
“Let go, baby,” he adds, his free hand moving to your ass, and guiding your hips into harder, faster rolls.
The pleasure knots into something fierce in your stomach, slowing your momentum and making your hips ache. You want to hold on just a little bit longer, though.
“Cum for me,” Mat begs, hand slapping your ass.
“No,” you groan, forcing your hips to rock despite your burning muscles and the way he continues to fuck into you.
With each thrust from Mat, the more you start to lose your grip on your climax. The thought of your husband still having control over you while partially constricted drives you insane in the best way possible.
“Oh,” you wail, hands tugging at your already tangled hair before moving down to fondle your breasts.
The view of his heaving chest littered with faint scratches and beads of sweat is too much. Without thought, you lean down and lick up the ridges of muscle lining his torso.
A reverent hum pierces your ears, and everything escalates quickly from there. Mat’s fingers press into the notches of your vertebrae, bringing your body upright from the zap of electricity his touch brings.
“Be a good girl and cum for me. I know you want to; I can feel you leaking all over me,” he grumbles into your ear.
This time you can’t even respond; lust has consumed all your senses, leaving you a babbling mess.
From the corner of your eye, though, you notice Mat pick up the whipped cream. Before he can bring the nozzle back to your body, you take the can from him and toss it away.
“Just touch me,” you whine, bringing his hand down to where you’re both connected.
A rough, thick finger thumbs at your puffy clit, making your entire body stutter. The knot in your stomach becomes taut, and all your nerve endings jump in your body with just a fraction of attention.
“Just like that, pretty girl. Cum for me,” Mat whispers, his hand going to the back of your neck. Your lips crash onto his, and he deliberately licks into your mouth.
Swift circles are massaged into your clit, and all the hair on your body stands. A blinding white clouds your vision, and your pussy contracts around his cock, milking him with every pulse of your walls.
“Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god, Mat,” you cry.
His kisses have moved down to your chin as your mouth falls open with your release.
“I’m gonna cum,” he announces, features pinched up as he sucks on your lower lip, letting it snap back into place as his orgasm shoots into you.
For good measure, he thrusts inside of you with rough strokes- just enough to ensure your orgasm was worthwhile. It always is.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes out through a fit of laughs as you fall slack against his body in your own bout of laughter.
“That was too good,” you hum again his chest, lazily smooching the spot after.
“Best birthday present ever,” Mat cheers, wrapping his arm around your form.
Reaching under your pillow, you find the key to the cuffs and sluggishly reach over to unlock the confines.
“Ugh thank fuck,” Mat gripes as he stretches his wrist.
“My poor baby. Do you need me to kiss it better?” It’s like something awakens inside of you, removing the tiredness of your climax, and kickstarting another round of lust to fill the air around you two.
“Yeah, pretty. I want you to kiss it better,” Mat says with that same air of cockiness from earlier.
This time, he’s the one fully in control. There’s no struggle as he flips the both of you, so that your back is on the mattress. Crawling down the length of your body, his animalistic stare lets you know you’re not leaving the bed anytime soon. The wet kisses leading down south, and the way his tongue slurps at your mixed release are enough to ensure that you wouldn’t mind not leaving the bed.
not in the dramatic movie way people expect. not screaming, not slamming doors, not picking fights at bars every night, like somebody took all the chaos inside him and locked it behind clenched teeth and military posture.
when he first gets back to the outer banks, everyone notices it. the buzzcut. the tattoos crawling up his arms now. the way he scans every room automatically the second he walks in. the way his voice got lower somehow, rough around the edges like gravel.
even ward looks unsettled by him. especially ward.
you haven’t seen rafe in almost two years when he shows up unannounced at the marina where you work. you’re carrying a crate of supplies down the dock when you hear:
“still terrible at lifting properly, huh?”
your head snaps up so fast you nearly trip. rafe’s leaning against one of the posts, sunglasses on, arms crossed over a fitted black shirt. you just stare at him.
because jesus flipping christ.
he was always handsome in a dangerous way, but now he looks unfair about it. sunburnt skin. broad shoulders. dog tags glinting against his chest. and those eyes. still blue, still mean and still looking at you like he remembers every bad decision you ever made together.
“you gonna say hi,” he drawls, “or keep lookin’ at me like i died?”
you recover enough to glare. “thought about it once or twice.”
his mouth twitches. not quite a smile but close enough.
—
you and rafe have history. messy history. the kind with too much vodka, too many late-night arguments, almost-kisses that turned into actual kisses, and feelings neither of you were emotionally equipped to discuss.
before he enlisted, things ended badly. he said cruel things. you said crueler ones. then he left and that was that. except apparently not. because after that first run-in, he keeps showing up everywhere.
at the dock. outside the gas station. leaning against his truck while you finish shifts. not clingy exactly. more like… orbiting you. watching, and one night you finally snap. “why are you here all the time?”
rafe looks genuinely confused. “wanted to see you.”
“you could text like a normal person.”
“where’s the fun in that?”
you roll your eyes, but your stomach still flips. annoying. yet the thing about military!rafe is that he’s calmer now but somehow more intense. before, his anger burned hot and reckless. now it burns slow. he doesn’t yell much anymore. doesn’t need to. one look from him can shut a room up instantly.
but around you? god, around you he’s trying. you can tell. he catches himself before saying something sharp. forces himself to breathe through irritation. lets you mouth off to him in ways nobody else gets away with.
it’s almost unsettling how patient he is with you.
one evening you’re sitting in the bed of his truck eating fries while the ocean wind blows your hair around. rafe’s got one arm draped over his raised knee, watching you steal half his food.
“you always do that,” he mutters.
“do what?”
“take my shit.”
“and yet you keep giving it to me.”
you glance over and he’s already looking at you, the teasing gone completely. “yeah,” he says softly. “s’cause it’s you.”
your breath catches a little. his eyes drop briefly to your mouth before he leans back again like he didn’t just completely derail your nervous system.
jerk.
people are scared of him now. more than before. you see it everywhere. the way strangers move aside automatically. the way people lower their voices around him. the way fights end before they start when rafe walks in. but with you, there are moments where the old version slips through.
the boy who used to sneak into your window at 2 a.m, the one who used to laugh so hard he couldn’t breathe. the one who once admitted — half asleep beside you — that you made him feel “normal.”
those moments are rare but they’re real and so you realize you’re completely screwed during a bonfire. some drunk tourist grabs your wrist too hard while trying to flirt. before you can even react, rafe is there.
his hand clamps around the guy’s arm hard enough to make him wince. “let go,” rafe says calmly.
the guy does immediately. smart choice. rafe steps between you both, broad and immovable while the tourist stumbles off muttering apologies.
you look up at rafe. “i could’ve handled it.”
“know you could.”
“then why’d you step in?”
his jaw tightens slightly because despite all the discipline, all the training, all the control — rafe still has one fatal weakness.
and that's you.
he looks down at you for a long moment before saying quietly: “because i don’t like people touching what’s mine.”
your heart nearly stops.
“rafe —”
“yeah,” he says tiredly. “i know. caveman behavior. whatever.”
summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 2.9k
warnings: 18+ smut/fwb
a/n: for all my super nice, supportive readers already. I appreciate you so much. your likes, reblogs, messages, comments, are motivating me more than you know! and fic timeline wise, it's almost hockey season and I'm excited to write hockey Rafe hehe
banner by @/uzmacchiato
<Part 2
Pretending to go back to normal after a kiss like that with Rafe Cameron felt impossible. You knew if you would let him, he’d take you upstairs. But even with alcohol starting to buzz in your brain, you didn’t want to have just a one night stand with him. You wanted this to go on longer, if he’d let it.
You force yourself to walk away from him, muttering something about finding Meghan. The party is livening up now that the football game has started. A lot of people have moved into the living room to watch, cheering or booing every now and then. But there’s still a few drinking games going on.
Meghan ropes you into a game of flip cup, and as luck would have it, you end up opposite of Rafe. This seems to thrill him, and now competing against him starts to feel familiar to you. He taunts you and you taunt back, and when he flips his cup faster that you it feels like a personal failure. You would never admit it, but the high and low of emotions you felt around Rafe already was getting a little addicting.
Even after flip cup ends, you feel like you keep getting drawn back to Rafe. You aren’t trying to do that. You don’t want to seem clingy. Evan even showed up and you wanted to talk and hang out with him a bit. But it feels like as the football game goes on, and you and Rafe try to talk to other people, you always end up next to each other or at the very least, making eye contact. A game of boom cup starts, and Rafe isn’t even subtle about trying to pull you in.
“I think I’ve had enough to drink.” You admit, hiccupping. “There’s no way I can handle the death cup.” The center cup looked like it was full of jungle juice, of all things. You knew it actually would be the death of you.
“I’ll drink for you, if you play.” Rafe promises, tilting his head down to watch you.
“You serious?” You stammer. “Even the death cup?”
“Even the death cup.” He holds up his pinky. You giggle, holding up your own pinky and locking with his. Rafe was so different than you expected. He could be so fun, so goofy, and it felt like he could be really sweet. If he wanted you enough. You didn’t want to think about what he’d be like once he was bored of you, even as the little voice in your brain insisted that he would. You just wanted to bask in how good his attention felt.
The game starts, and you do pretty good which means at first you aren’t making Rafe drink a lot for you. But you were doing well enough that you could pass the ball to the person next to him, since Rafe had chosen to stand right beside you. And he was struggling, a little drunker than you. He ended up with the death cup all on his own, chugging it down and wincing.
“I’m so sorry,” You pout, genuinely feeling a little bad at his luck.
“My fault for choosing to play next to a fuckin’ boom cup prodigy.” He grins at you, giving you a pat on the back and letting his hand linger.
“I think Meghan’s had enough. She just texted me that she threw up in the bathroom.” You glance at your messages, frowning at the words.
“Oof, that sucks.”
“I’m gonna walk her home. See you in class on Tuesday?”
“Yeah, ‘course.” He says, pulling you into a hug before you can move. He’s so warm, and you can feel the muscles underneath his jersey, and it makes you want to stay. But you don’t want to be a bad friend. So you pull away and say goodbye.
Sunday is a hungover blur. Both you and your roommate, Katy, spend most of the day in bed, chugging Gatorade and ordering food. You find your mind wandering to Rafe, wondering how he was holding up. Wondering if he remembered kissing you and asking you to hang out. You were thinking about him a lot, you realized. The way his Duke football jersey complimented his blue eyes. The way his hands looked any time he had to clutch a cup or a ping pong ball. As much as you didn’t want to be, you were a tiny bit smitten.
Meghan had called you Sunday evening, wanting to know how things had gone with Rafe. A part of you didn’t want to admit to the kiss, like that would jinx everything. Especially since Meghan had a class with you both. But you were so happy that it’d happened that the words spilled out of you anyway, and her excitement had matched yours.
“How were things with Miguel?” You ask her.
“Ugh,” She sighs, and her tone makes you wish you were with her to comfort her. “I feel like I fucked it up. I kept drinking because I was so nervous. I’m not used to attention from a guy like that, and I was too in my head about it.”
Her words hit you hard. When you first came to Duke, you never imagined even being friends with athletes, let alone making out with one. Most of your life you had kept to yourself, only stepping out of your shyness by the end of high school. But even as you gained confidence, you always felt like a bit of an outcast.
The way guys you’d been with in the past had treated you didn’t help. You’d gone on a few dates with the guy that took your virginity freshman year, and he had acted like you were a pure, innocent, almost stupid girl. Like you didn’t know anything, and he had to coddle you. And that led to feeling like he put you on a pedestal, where he didn’t really know you at all. And if he did, you felt he wouldn’t like it. Because you weren’t perfect or ‘pure’.
And the next guy, the one who said all those terrible things. You knew it was because he expected more from you. He’d been with ‘so many girls’ and you didn’t even know what kinks you were into. He made it clear when it ended that he disliked how inexperienced you were, like it was a fault of yours that you needed to fix.
Kissing Rafe had made you feel desired again. Like someone did want you, and they weren’t putting you on a pedestal you couldn’t achieve. It made you want to convince yourself that even if things went wrong, even if he found out how inexperienced you were and didn’t like it, at least you had fun. And he didn’t have to know you well enough to uncover all your flaws.
Tuesday class came soon enough, and you tried to retain even an ounce of chill when Rafe entered the classroom. He hadn’t texted you or made a big deal about anything, so you shouldn’t either. But you definitely wanted to take him up on his offer to hang out. You wanted to hook up with him, even if it wasn’t the smart choice.
Ms. Smith had started another group assignment involving monitoring your study habits and finding your faults. Evan, Rafe, and you had paired up yet again. Rafe took a moment to pull two energy drinks out of his bag, handing one to Evan.
“Hey,” You call him out, pretending to be offended. “You ask me and Evan to be part of your group but I’m the one that doesn’t get a drink? Rude.” Rafe chuckles at you, leaning back in his chair.
“I got you next time. What d’you want?” He asks, and you tell him your drink of choice.
“Rafe gets free drinks from, like, any of the marts on campus.” Evan says with a hint of jealousy. “He flirts with all of them.”
“That’s not true,” Rafe rolls his eyes, but his smirk doesn’t leave. “They just know who I am, that’s all. And I can get anything. Candy, snacks, whatever. Just let me know if you want somethin’.”
“Must be nice.” Evan sighs.
“Yeah? Get good, Liu.” Rafe playfully whacks him on the shoulder. “Then you’ll get whatever you want.”
“So, you’ve been getting free drinks this whole time and are only sharing with us now?” You raise a brow. Evan smirks at you, turning to Rafe and shrugging as if to say ‘she’s got a point’.
“My bad, I’ll make it up to y’all.” Rafe holds up his hands in self-defense.
“Alright, let’s focus. That’s half the point of this class.” Evan sits up straight, lightly slapping the table as if to snap you all out of it. The three of you start discussing your study weaknesses. Evan has test anxiety and sometimes freezes and blanks out during exams. Rafe gets easily frustrated, wanting to give up when he can’t figure something out.
You procrastinate, not studying as soon as you should. It caused you to fail a handful of exams through the years, and was why you signed up for this class as a GPA booster but also in case it might help. You’d noticed most people in this class were athletes who were encouraged to take this, probably by their coaches. It was just supposed to be some extra help for them, but it was something you already needed because you were struggling.
It was honestly part of the reason why just hooking up with Rafe sounded more and more appealing. You wouldn’t have to dedicate time to dating, and could still have time to party and be with your friends while devoting more time to studying. And there was less of a chance of you getting hurt like you did before, and derailing your studies because you were heartbroken. There were so many boys like Rafe who only wanted to hook up anyway, you might as well take advantage of having the interest of one that was actually hot.
You ramp up your studying the rest of the week and into the next, thankful now for Rafe’s energy drinks on days you had class with him. You skipped game day and Friday nights with your roommate. Accounting was killing you slowly, your brain turning to mush. You needed a break, but by the time you allowed yourself one, it was a Wednesday night. Not exactly prime time to go out and get drunk.
But there was another stress reliever you could try. You pulled out your phone and texted Rafe before your nerves could get the better of you.
need a break from studying. you free tonight?
Rafe: yea come whenever. holiday’s not here.
You change out of your sweats quicker than you thought you were capable of, choosing a cute lacey bra and panties before throwing on some jeans and a fitted t-shirt. A little bit of makeup with enough setting powder and setting spray to give you lung cancer, and you felt like you were good to go. The walk to Rafe’s house isn’t long, but the excitement whirring within you made it seem like forever. The evenings are getting cooler now, and yet even as you pull your hoodie closer, you still feel warm. Your heart feels like it’s in your throat when you knock on the front door.
“Hey,” Rafe says when he opens the door, his voice enough to make you melt. He’s got a muscle shirt on and some black sweatpants, and you have to force yourself not to stare at his biceps instead of his smile. He ushers you inside, the house looking much bigger without hundreds of drunk college students crammed into it.
“What game did you have in mind?” You ask him as you sit on the L-shaped black couch. It was so soft and worn that you immediately sink into it.
“Mario Kart,” He says, turning on the TV and booting up his Nintendo Switch. “But with a twist.” He looks back at you, his expression so mischievous that your cheeks flush and you know he can tell.
“Hm, what kind of twist?” You ask innocently.
“Loser has to take off one piece of clothing. Winner gets to decide what that is.” His voice is so casual again, while your heart starts hammering in your ears. Your hands feel shaky already, gripping your phone like it would give you some stability. “You good with that?”
You pause. The thought of hooking up with Rafe, and it feeling so imminent, was nerve-wracking. But it was also already driving you a little wild. He takes in your hesitation, smirking a little.
“Or are you too…chicken?” He chooses his words carefully.
“I’m not.” You answer, but your voice stutters.
“It’s okay if you are,” He shrugs. “We can do something else.”
“I’m not.” You make your voice firmer, louder. His blue eyes have that mischievous glint again.
“Prove it, then.” He says, tossing you a controller. It takes everything you have to push away the thoughts of his hands and lips on your body as you focused on the game in front of you.
Rafe picked Luigi and you picked Toadette. It’d been a while since you played this game, but you always felt like the tinier characters were faster somehow. You’d won a few races against your brothers on the Gamecube in the past, so surely you could beat Rafe at least once, right?
The first race makes it very clear that Rafe had played this many times, and had maybe even been practicing. He knows the courses and the shortcuts. The win is almost easy for him. When he turns to you, he has a satisfied grin as he looks you up and down.
“I’ll be nice. Hoodie off first.” He commands, and you oblige, smiling as his eyes linger on your breasts.
The next round you get a blue shell and knock him out of first. That would be your saving grace against him, a little bit of luck with the items. You don’t win against all the characters, but you do win against Rafe. Which is all that mattered.
“Shirt off.” You tell him a little too happily, gripping the hem and helping him pull it over.
“Bit eager, huh?” He teases, clearly enjoying the way you were looking at his chest. He was so…big. His shoulders were broad, defined abs that you swore he was flexing just to show off his v-line. He practically had you drooling and he knew it.
The next win was his, and he was so hasty with your shirt he nearly ripped it off. You were thankful you chose a nice bra, and he seemed to be too, his eyes darkening. It’d be obvious to him now that you expected this might happen. That you wanted it to happen.
As much as you try, you don’t beat him the next race. And as much as you hated to admit it, you didn’t mind. He unbuttoned your jeans, and you felt the heat flare in your core. While he works to pull them down, his eyes flick up back to yours, gauging your reaction. You can’t help it. Your breathing is shaking. You bite your lip without meaning to, knowing you were supposed to start the next race but wanting nothing more to just ignore it and kiss him.
Rafe tosses your jeans to the side, and as you stay completely frozen, his eyes shift to the game. He makes a comment about you needing to work a little harder to win, but you barely hear him. You’re looking at his chest and his hands like nothing else exists. And it hurts that his attention isn’t on you anymore.
“Rafe?” Your voice is soft, knowing that if you pushed for what you wanted, he’d give it to you. When he meets your eyes, he lets go of his controller, smirk growing as you shift toward him. You initiate the kiss this time, not even caring if it was too eager. You wanted him so much it felt like you were aching.
Rafe’s warm hands slide around your bare waist and you shudder in satisfaction. He kisses you like he did at the party, fast and rough and like he’s been waiting too long to taste you. You slide your hands down his chest, reveling in the way he lets out the faintest growl.
He nips your lower lip and you gasp, pulling away just enough that he starts to slide his lips down your neck. He’s kissing and sucking and marking and you don’t even care because of how good it feels. His fingers brush across the top of your bra and you feel like you’re on fire. And suddenly, Rafe’s hands grip your waist tighter and you’re in the air. You gasp again, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist to keep yourself from falling. He’s picked you up and lifted you off the couch like it’s some kind of movie. Icy eyes meet yours, and you can see his hunger, his desire all over his face. And you’re so turned on by it you can barely think. When you giggle, he interrupts it with another kiss as he carries you into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.
pairing⠀⁎⠀mat barzal x actress!reader.
word count⠀⁎⠀6.4k.
summary⠀⁎⠀a throwaway comment erupts into a full week of frenzied attention that brings a darling within mat's orbit.
author's note⠀⁎⠀some more crumbs but they finally meet each other in this fic.
warnings⠀⁎⠀fluff, 2nd person [you/your], a couple instances of y/n, some language, darling is kind of not nice but that's intentional.
read more⠀⁎⠀mat barzal masterlist / series masterlist.
Your back always got stiff after some time in a styling chair. It was a quirk of yours: something you blamed on poor posture, or genetics, or whatever sounded right enough in the moment when you complained about it. Today was no different. You shifted slightly, your neck protesting the tilt as your stylist adjusted the curling iron near your roots.
“I’m going to burn you,” Zuri warned, nudging your chin back into place with her free hand. The heat of the curling iron grazed your temple, close enough to make you flinch from the heat without making any contact, far enough to prove Zuri’s point without collateral damage. “Stop squirming.”
“My back… hurts…” you muttered, pressing your fingertips into the small of your spine for emphasis.
Zuri sighed, rolling her eyes as she released another curl, letting it bounce against your shoulder. “Did you ever get that cushion I was telling you about?” The hairstylist made a soft grunt, reaching forward for one of the silver styling pins lined up on the counter.
“No,” you huffed. “I forgot.”
Zuri simply hummed, deciding whatever point she was reaching for had been met.
Ameera appeared in the mirror’s reflection, setting her purse down with a light thud before pulling out her phone. The stylist’s station was cluttered with sprays and serums, but Ameera navigated the mess effortlessly, leaning against the counter effortlessly. “You need to see this,” she said, tapping her screen. “And before you complain, just watch it first. Questions after.”
You peered up at your best friend, squinting skeptically at the phone thrust in your direction. “Can you find a pillow for my back? This chair’s fucking with my spine.”
“No,” Ameera stood in place, holding her phone out stubbornly, “watch the video first.”
“My back hurts.” You repeated, dragging the words out with exaggerated emphasis, but Ameera didn’t budge, her fingers remaining tight around the phone as she leveled you with a look.
With a dramatic huff, you took the phone, squinting at the screen where a paused TikTok video waited. “Can you get it while I watch?”
“Girl, watch the video,” Ameera insisted, pressing her lips into a thin line as she resisted the urge to swipe the screen herself. You grumbled, thumb tapping play before settling back into the chair—spine be damned. The video played immediately, men of varying heights in heavy athletic gear shuffling past a camera, eyes catching on the lens with varying degrees of amusement or indifference.
“Who was my childhood celebrity crush?” A light-haired man with prominent smile lines read, then whistled to himself.
You watched, brow furrowing slightly as one after another answered with names you recognized to varying degrees. Some named pop stars from the mid-2000s, others cited supermodels, one even mentioned a morning news anchor from his city’s local news channel. Then came a name you weren’t expecting.
“Childhood celebrity crush…” a man with dark hair tucked under a white helmet mused, leaning against his hockey stick as he squinted at the camera. His eyes brightening with amusement, lips quirking into a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes before he said your name, first and last, adding a “Hands down,” for emphasis.
Your eyes glanced up at Ameera who practically vibrated with restrained amusement, then back at Zuri whose arched brow dared you to react. You pressed your lips together and let the video continue.
“I mean… I think I watched everything that she was in,” the man continued, scratching the back of his neck. The camera jostled slightly as whoever was filming it laughed. “Sixteen-year-old me was just… devastated when she fell off the face of the planet.”
A teammate who had caught the last few words slid into frame, nudging the dark-haired man with his elbow. “Tell them how you reacted when her new movie trailer dropped,” he teased, grinning when the other man’s face flushed.
The dark-haired man shifted his weight, grip tightening on his hockey stick as if it might anchor him. “My sister sent it to me,” he muttered, eyes darting away. The camera zoomed in shamelessly as his blush deepened. “It was… pretty… nice. Happy she’s back.” He laughed at his own expense, shaking his head before ducking away from the frame, the social media admin’s laughter trailing after him.
The video ended there but immediately began to replay, forcing you to blink yourself back into reality. You could feel Ameera’s expectant gaze boring into you with smugness radiating off your best friend without so much as a word exchanged yet. Carefully, you handed the phone back, tilting your head just enough to meet Ameera’s reflection in the mirror.
“That was cute,” you conceded, voice kept casual as Zuri worked on curling another section of your hair.
Ameera blinked, waiting for more, but you just shrugged one shoulder. “What?”
Ameera scoffed, scrolling through the video’s comments. “Cute? That’s it?” She tilted the screen toward Zuri, who paused mid-curl to squint at it. “Three million views in twelve hours. They don’t normally do these numbers.”
You hummed absently, plucking a hair from your zippered jacket as Zuri finished the last curl. The heat from the iron dissipated, leaving behind the faint scent of lingering heat protectant and now the hairspray dissipating over your pinned curls.
“Who even is he?” you asked, glancing at Ameera through the mirror. “He had an accent.”
Ameera smiled, scrolling further down the video’s comments. “His name is Mathew apparently. One ‘t’,” she added with a pointed glance. “Hockey player, so the accent is probably something Canadian.” She held the phone out to you, already pulling up a Google search. “New York Islanders… plays forward, whatever that means.”
You didn’t take the phone, just shifted your eyes toward the screen where a photo of Mat Barzal—one ‘t’— mid-game, eyes sharply focused, the harsh arena lights deepening the shadowed contours of his face, another white helmet on his head, a thin silver chain peeking out from underneath his white, orange, and blue jersey.
“Hockey,” you murmured, pursing your lips together. Ameera scrolled down to his biographical information: age, hometown (he was in fact Canadian), salary, and height all laid out neatly in a brief summary.
“6’1”?”
“You’re so predictable,” Ameera muttered.
You exhaled out of relief when Zuri finally delivered a short tap to your shoulder, signaling you could stand and get changed, catching Ameera’s smirk in the mirror. “Don’t,” you warned, but your best friend only grinned wider.
You rose from the chair, rolling your shoulders back to follow Ameera toward the dressing area, where a rack of garments awaited final selection for the Vanity Fair interview you were due to be on set for in less than 2 hours.
“I’m sending it to Simone,” Ameera announced, tapping her phone screen with decisive finality. You rolled your eyes but said nothing, reaching for a structured maroon faux alligator skin zip-up vest.
The maroon vest hung stiffly over your shoulders as you turned to inspect yourself in the full-length mirror. Ameera leaned against the doorframe, swiping back to the video to read the comments out loud.
Ameera cleared her throat dramatically. “Someone said, and I quote, ‘Barzy’s blush is gonna live in my head rent-free for the next six months.’” She paused, glancing up to catch your eye roll. “‘You see his grip on his stick tighten? Buddy was stressed.’” Another pause, this time with a laugh. “‘Y/N, if you’re reading this, please acknowledge him. He’s been waiting since puberty.’”
You sucked in a breath, zipping up the vest, then turning toward the mirror to adjust the height of your black bra peeking out underneath. “Should I go with the black leather pants or the jeans?” you asked, ignoring Ameera’s annoyed sigh at your deflection.
Ameera tossed the phone onto a nearby plush couch. “Pants.” She reached for the pair, handing them off.
You tugged the leather pants over your hips, the material stretching snug against your thighs. You caught Ameera’s reflection still staring at you in the mirror. “What?” you muttered, running your hands down the front.
Ameera tilted her head, lips pursed in that way she did when she was about to say something you wouldn’t like. “He follows you. You should follow him back.”
“And why would I do that?” you asked, scowling, fingers tugging at the hem of your vest.
“Because,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, “you think he’s cute.”
“That’s not a reason,” you remarked, trying not to smile, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you turned to inspect your profile in the mirror. The leather pants clung to your hips, the vest cinching your waist just enough to accentuate the shape you’d spent years toning in miserable strength training sessions you hated.
Ameera watched you, arms folded, lips pressed together, quietly satisfied in the knowledge that she already knew she’d won some nebulous argument you weren’t even trying to have in the first place.
“Whatever,” you repeated under your breath, turning away from the mirror as Ameera’s knowing smirk burned into the back of your skull. You reached for the pair of black boots lined up beside the couch, shoving your feet into them one by one. “It’s not like I’m going to see him. I don’t give a fuck about hockey, like…”
“Famous last words,” Ameera muttered. The hum of a hair dryer in the next dressing room drowned out your grumbled response as you leaned forward into the mirror to check your lipstick.
[ . . . ]
“What are you doing?” Liana questioned, leaning into the camera as she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at her brother’s distracted expression.
Mat’s eyes slowly peeled away from his small piles of folded laundry and back toward his phone screen where his sister’s face was squished close to her camera. “Folding laundry? What does it look like?” He held up a pair of socks as proof, making a face when she scoffed.
“Lose the attitude,” Liana said, rolling her eyes as she leaned further into the pillow behind her head. “I saw the video of you getting all flustered talking about your celebrity crush.”
Mat froze mid-fold, a sock dangling limply from his fingers. “Okay…” he drew the word out, tossing the sock onto the ‘done’ pile. “And?”
Liana grinned, pressing her phone closer to her face as if proximity could amplify her teasing. “And?” she repeated. “My friends have been sending me tweets about it all day. You’re actively trending for this.”
Mat groaned, tossing another pair of socks onto the pile. “It was just a dumb question. Everyone answered it. I don’t get why it has to be a big fucking deal.”
Liana’s grin widened. “Uh-huh. Sure. And are you still following her on Instagram, or did you panic-unfollow after the video dropped?”
Mat rolled his eyes, picking up a shirt to fold next. “I don’t know—”
His sister cut him off with a long groan. “Oh my god… don’t even, Mat. You’ve been high-key obsessed with her since you were, like, eleven.”
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped himself, taking in a long, exasperated breath. “It’s not like she’s gonna care about some dumb video. Everybody’s gonna forget about it in like three days.”
“You want her to notice you,” Liana singsonged, smiling widely just to watch Mat scowl. “Don’t even try to lie to me right now—”
“Liana…” he muttered, tossing a half-folded shirt onto the bed. The fabric crumpled instantly, protesting the lack of care. “Drop it.”
“No. What the fuck? You’re so bothered.” Her laugh bordered on a cackle, resonating through his phone and paining his ears.
He grabbed the wrinkled shirt again, smoothing it out as his lips pressed into a stern line. He cast her a sour glance but said nothing.
Liana watched him. “Okay, fine, but hypothetically, if she did see it, would you want her to say anything?”
He shrugged. “She’s not gonna see it.”
[ . . . ]
“I fucking hate this class every time I take it with you,” you huffed, setting your tote bag down on the café table.
You took your seat, manicured hands reaching for the sleek menu as Ameera smirked over her own, already knowing you would order the same thing you always did, something she voiced aloud.
“It’s good for you,” Ameera countered. “Your posture’s improving.”
You shot her a withering look before turning your attention back to the menu, your eyes sweeping over the things you always ordered. “Did I tell you I had to turn my notifications off?” you muttered, pinching the laminated edge of the menu in your hands. “People won’t stop tagging me in posts about…”
Ameera didn’t look up from her phone. “About the hockey player?” she supplied, fingers scrolling lazily. “Yeah, I saw one where someone’s doing a thread: tagging you in pictures every single day until you follow him back. It’s at day three.”
You rolled your eyes, setting the menu down on the table, deciding you were done pretending to read. “People have too much time on their hands. They’ve literally been tagging me nonstop about this guy.” You pulled your phone from your bag, unlocked it, and hesitated before tapping the Instagram icon. “I don’t even know who he is.”
“Oh my god,” Ameera whispered, leaning forward, elbows braced against the café table. “Are you pulling his Instagram up?”
You thumbed in his name, your lips pressed together in mock concentration. “Is this him?” You turned the phone toward Ameera, who simply stared back at you with raised brows.
“Girl…” Ameera shook her head.
The café’s ambient chatter faded into white noise as your thumb hovered over Mat’s Instagram profile. His latest post was a standard professional shot of him in a gray suit he dressed down with a plain white t-shirt and his evidently ever-present thin silver chain peeking out just slightly. You scrolled further, finding another post that caught your eye. It was geotagged to Italy, wearing a loose linen button-down that did nothing to hide the broad lines of his shoulders and that same silver chain resting against his sternum.
“He is hot. I’ll give him that,” you conceded, tilting the screen slightly so Ameera could see the photo of Mat under the Italian sunlight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. Ameera didn’t even bother hiding her smirk this time, just leaned back in her chair with the air of someone who was getting what she wanted.
“No,” you warned, thumb already scrolling past a series of hockey-related posts.
“Simone is gonna be breathing down your neck in like one business day,” Ameera said, stirring her iced tea.
You hummed at first, letting Ameera’s words settle over you. “Simone hasn’t said anything about it to me,” you murmured, swiping through his tagged photos. “Did she see it for sure?”
“She saw it,” Ameera said simply, stirring her tea again. “You know how she is. She wants to watch it simmer first.” Ameera’s foot nudged yours under the table. “Just follow him. You’re hovering like a weirdo.”
You pulled in a long breath through your nose. It would be so simple to just tap the button staring back at you in blue, practically begging to be pressed. The hesitation felt stupid, childish even, but for a moment you did consider it. You considered the weight of what it meant, how the internet would react, how Simone would react, how he would react.
The server arrived ready to take your orders before you could decide, giving you an excuse to pocket your phone and feign indifference. But the thought lingered; as did his face, and the way his shy, embarrassed laugh sounded in that video.
The thought clung to you over the course of the day, nagging at you like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Between your late breakfast with Ameera, then a phone call with your team, and finally a nail appointment that ran longer than expected, you found yourself absently opening Instagram every few hours, hovering over the follow button but aborting the tap at the last second. It wasn’t until you were home, tucked into bed with the lights dimmed, that you finally gave in. Your thumb pressed the blue button, watching it animate, transitioning from a prompt to follow back into the comforting neutrality of a mutual connection.
You turned your phone off immediately, setting it face-down onto the nightstand with a softly muttered, “Ugh, whatever,” as if that could erase the action. The duvet swallowed your sigh as you rolled onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cool side of the pillow, trying anything to chase away the ridiculous warmth creeping up your chest and neck.
It was just a follow.
He was just a fan.
This was just a nice gesture.
[ . . . ]
“Adidas is sending you some swag to wear in the next couple of days. No post needed, just wear the shoes and clothes casually if you’re out,” Steven said, scrolling through his tablet as Mat picked at his salmon. “Oh—and ESPN wants you for a quick interview next home game. Obviously, this is… an image rehab opportunity. You’ll get to talk leadership.”
Mat hummed absently, taking a sip of water as Steven continued listing off scheduling notes. He was due to be on the road in two days: Chicago, then Minnesota, before returning for the ESPN spot. His fingers tapped against the tablecloth, the muted thuds barely audible over the restaurant’s ambient chatter.
“Who’s the ESPN thing with? Do you know yet?” Mat asked, around a mouthful of salmon.
Steven glanced up, eyebrows lifting slightly before returning to his tablet. “Uh… not sure yet. Probably one of their hockey analysts.” His fingers tapped the screen idly, scrolling further down his notes. Mat’s phone buzzed on table between them, but he didn’t move to pick it up, having gotten used to the abnormally constant buzzing since that video went viral.
Steven, however, did glance at it before chuckling. “Well. Did you see who followed you back late last night?”
Mat’s fork froze mid-air, a flaky piece of salmon dangling precariously. His eyes flicked to Steven’s phone, then back to his agent’s raised brow. “What?”
Steven’s laugh was slow, like he already knew exactly how this would unravel. He watched Mat think, the gears visibly clicking behind his hazel eyes, the moment of realization, the panic that followed, the way his fingers twitched toward his phone before stopping himself. Steven slid the device across the tablecloth. “Go ahead. It’s not gonna bite you.”
Mat’s fingers took him to Instagram, his followers, and typed your name in the ‘Search’ bar. There it was undeniable, your username, blue checkmark in tact, with a prompt to ‘Message’ you. He swallowed hard, tapping your profile, just to make sure it really was you. Sure enough, your last post was from three days ago, an effortlessly cool mirror picture he had already seen—and liked.
“Did you do this?” Mat looked up to catch his agent’s eye, quickly looking away when he felt heat settle over his cheeks. “Like—is this…?” He gestured to his phone as if the screen might explain itself.
Mat’s phone screen dimmed just as Steven cleared his throat, amusement thick in his voice. “You’re asking me if I hacked her account and forced her to hit follow?” He leaned back, folding his arms. “Are you seriously wondering if this is some elaborate PR move, or are you just trying not to acknowledge that you feel giddy right now getting noticed by your crush?”
Mat’ flipped his phone face-down on the table. “Shut up,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward despite himself. Steven’s laugh was low, allowing Mat a moment to bury his face in his hands.
“We should get her to a game,” Steven mused, tapping his pen against the edge of his iPad.
Mat kept his face in his hands for a few more seconds. “What? Why?”
“Why not?” Steven shrugged, watching Mat’s expression cycle through disbelief, panic, and reluctant curiosity. “She followed you. That’s a conversation starter. We could use that.”
The dark-haired man sighed, choosing his words wisely between chews of his lunch. “She followed me, but that doesn’t mean she wants to come to a fucking… hockey game. She probably just did it to shut people up. Been tagging her all day, she probably has it worse than me. Mine is bad enough.” His voice dipped into a rumble as he rattled on, rambling in that way he did when nerves took over. “And she’s... she’s not just gonna show up somewhere for some random who had a crush on her when he was sixteen.”
The silverware clinked against plates as Steven leaned forward, elbows resting on the crisp white tablecloth. “You’re forgetting something,” he began. “She didn’t have to follow you. That was a choice she made independent of anything to do with you, really. Choices like that are leverage. We’ll see what comes out of it.”
Mat chose to keep quiet, processing Steven’s words while staring at the half-eaten salmon on his plate. He knew exactly what his agent was implying, that your follow wasn’t just a coincidence, that it was a carefully calculated move. But then again, what if it really was just a move to get people to shut up?
“Fine,” he murmured. “Do whatever you think is best. Just… don’t make it feel weird.” Mat frowned, leaning into his hands again, pressing his fingers against his temples.
Steven grinned, already tapping away at his phone, no doubt reaching out to Islanders PR before Mat could backtrack. “I wonder who her publicist is…” the older man wondered aloud, ignoring Mat’s groan. “Because if I were them? I’d be salivating at this opportunity. She needs serious image rehab for the Disney princess thing hanging over her movie’s press tour.”
Mat’s eyebrows furrowed as Steven’s fingers flew across his phone screen with alarming certainty. His voice dropped, questioning, “You’re seriously gonna—”
“She comes to a game. She gets to make an old fan’s dreams come true. You get to bask in the good, innocent spirit of a childhood crush coming full circle. Both of you look good, everyone who’s been tagging you two incessantly feels like their curiosity has been satisfied, then you never interact again but the follow stays.” Steven leaned back. “Clean. Easy. No one gets hurt.”
Mat wasn’t quite sure what Steven was referring to when he mentioned that no one would get hurt, but by the time he returned from his stretch of road games the fact that you even knew who he was couldn’t have been further from his mind. Steven hadn’t followed up with him about any conversations with your publicist or Islanders PR, and aside from some lingering tweets that you had been tagged in, your worlds had remained decidedly separate.
He had been on his best behavior in recent weeks; keeping quiet, deleted his Raya account, stopped popping off at referees, and kept himself in line, all in hopes of proving that he was capable of being the leader the Islanders needed him to be. There were some lingering questions swirling around him, but he thought he was doing well enough to take the heat off himself.
“Fuckin’ crazy pass earlier, Barzy.” The slap on Mat’s shoulder from Cizikas barely registered as he lifted a white towel to dry his hair dampened from his post-game shower in the locker room. He nodded absently at his teammate’s praise, ready to collect his things and return home after being away for a week-long road trip, when Teagan, one of the social media team members, approached him with an unreadable expression.
Mat frowned at Teagan’s expectant stare. “I didn’t think you guys were still here. You good? Do you need me for something?”
Teagan’s smile was all teeth. “Giulia wants you to do something quick before you head out,” she said, already turning on her heel, leaving him scrambling to follow. The fluorescent lights of the arena hallway shone bright overhead as Mat trailed behind, his Adidas slides squeaking against the freshly polished floor.
Mat followed Teagan through the maze of back corridors. He made polite conversation with the fresh college graduate leading him through the arena, catching up from the last time they spoke one-on-one months ago. Eventually, they turned a corner toward one of the private suites overlooking the ice. The muffled hum of conversation grew louder, punctuated by bursts of laughter that sent an inexplicable prickle down his spine.
The suite door swung open before Mat could process the sound of Giulia’s voice, bright, practiced, and unmistakably PR-perfect. His gaze landed first on Steven, catching his head falling back with a bout of laughter, then slid past him to the woman causing his laughter.
The first thing he noticed was the impeccable tailoring of your blue jeans which just barely avoided sweeping the floor by falling perfectly over pointed black stiletto heels. The second was the effortless elegance with which you turned to face him as if you simultaneously had all the time in the world and barely any to gift to him. The third thing he noticed was the eye contact that immediately stole the air from his lungs with its sweep from his damp hair down his body and back up at him.
He wouldn’t say that he didn’t mean to stare. That would be a lie, and he was wrapped up in a redemption tour.
He would say, however, that he didn’t intend to blink quite so slowly when your eyes met. It felt like a reflex, an intake of breath, a factory reset on his brain. He startled at the sound of Giulia clapping her hands together, announcing his arrival with a flourish that made your lips twitch upward in something that wasn’t quite a smile but not quite not a smile either.
The suite was too warm. Mat could feel the back of his neck prickle beneath the weight of your gaze. He flexed his fingers at his sides, suddenly hyperaware of what he was wearing and how damp and messy his hair was.
“So,” Giulia began with practiced cheer, motioning between the two of you as if you were exhibits at a press conference. “Y/N, this is Mat. Mat, Y/N.” Her hands gestured again, like she was physically stitching your names together in the air. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot Teagan filming the interaction from behind him. “We thought it’d be fun for you two to meet properly.”
You were glossy, polished with that perfect ease of someone who had spent your childhood years existing under a microscope. Mat swallowed hard, watching you toy with his breath; giving him oxygen when your eyes lifted from his only to steal it again the minute they returned. Your lips parted as Giulia spoke, smiling as if your face settled into a familiar resting position—one you had practiced in mirrors and behind cameras for most of your life.
“Team’s selling me out for content,” Mat muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as your eyes ran over the Islanders logo stretched across his chest.
That drew laughs around the room, but yours was quieter, almost private, as you tilted your head just enough to hold that intense eye contact with him. “Sounds familiar,” you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting in a way that made his pulse stutter.
He crossed the distance to you first, holding out his hand, worried it was too formal, maybe, but what else was he supposed to do? You took it, your fingers cool against his palm, and there was something disarmingly genuine about the way your grip tightened just a fraction before letting go.
“You’re a lot taller in person,” you said, your voice low enough that the mic clipped to Teagan’s camera probably didn’t catch it. He wouldn’t be surprised if you could pick up on his nerves with the way his pulse hammered under your fingertips when you let go of his hand, the way his chest strained for air when you stepped closer to adjust the collar of his shirt for the photos.
“Relax,” you whispered, fingers brushing the hollow of his throat. “They’re just pictures.”
Your touch on his skin burned. It was bold. The logical part of his brain tried to rationalize the move. You were acting, you were adjusting his collar for the camera, you were doing what you were both there to do: give an audience what they want. But the way your fingers lingered, the slow drag of your knuckles against the base of his throat, the quiet hum in the back of his throat wanted you to be flirting with him.
He swallowed hard, catching the strong scent of your perfume, clinging to the space between you as you made chit-chat for the camera. He felt his brain go on autopilot, steering a conversation about hockey (“I don't know anything about it,” you admitted with a soft giggle, then, “Maybe you can show me a couple things.” He stuttered through his response, “Oh... you could swing by, I’ll take you out on the ice.”) and acting (“I saw the trailer that just came out,” he blurted, then quickly added, “It was good. Cool… cool concept.”). Your laughter at that was real, a soft, breathy thing that made his heart skip a beat in his chest.
The photo op ended with Giulia beaming, already murmuring to Steven about engagement metrics. Mat barely registered their scheming as his entire awareness narrowed to the space where your shoulder brushed his as the two of you walked toward the door of the suite, your stilettos clicking against the floor. You quietly thanked him when he held the door open for you, unable to help the drop of his eyes to catch the comfortable sway of your hips as you stepped past him.
“Fuck…” he mouthed to himself once you were a good few steps ahead of him.
His haze was interrupted by Steven’s elbow digging into his ribs. “Fucking breathe, Barzy,” his agent muttered, though the smile ruined any attempt at subtlety. Mat blinked, realizing he’d been standing frozen in the doorway for a moment.
Mat’s phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket the moment he stepped out of the arena, the cold New York air doing nothing to dull the heat still prickling at the back of his neck. He ignored it, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as he trailed behind Steven toward the parking garage. The silence between them settled amidst unasked questions, until Steven finally exhaled through his nose and clapped a hand down on Mat’s shoulder to wish him a safe drive home.
The car door clicked shut behind Mat, sealing him into the quiet hum of his sedan’s interior. He exhaled, long and slow, dragging both of his palms down his face, trying to calm his flustered pulse. He left his phone face-down on the passenger seat, opting to crank the AC up higher despite the January chill outside.
It felt dumb and irrational, this physical reaction to meeting the woman who had been his celebrity crush since he was a pre-teen. He wasn’t sixteen anymore. He was supposed to be better than this, supposed to be cooler, smoother, more in control of himself. He had met his hockey heroes—hell, he had gotten to share the ice with some of them—without ever reacting like this. You had barely touched him, barely spoken to him, and he was so fucking sprung.
As he slipped into bed that night, he was acutely aware of the likes rolling in on the short 30 second clip uploaded by the Islanders’ social media team. He cursed under his breath at the feeling of his phone growing hot to the touch and finally decided to give in and switch off his notifications, tossing the device onto the bedside table with a groan.
In the back of his mind, it was now evident that his honest answer to a simple question had opened a Pandora’s Box he wasn’t prepared for. And with this meeting, it might never close shut.
[ . . . ]
“You probably won’t like what I’m about to say.” Simone’s voice crackled through your car speakers, the Bluetooth connection hitching as you turned onto the highway. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, already bracing. Simone never led with that unless she really was about to say something terrible.
“But you’re gonna say it anyway because I pay you to,” you muttered, flicking your turn signal and casting a glance at your side mirrors.
Simone exhaled sharply through the phone, the sound crackling with static. “He’s the one.”
Your fingers drummed against the steering wheel, the rhythm stuttering as Simone’s words landed. “The one what?” you asked, though the tightness in your chest told you she already knew.
Simone’s sigh was measured, the kind that always preceded a pitch she knew you would resist. “The one who could help with your image issue. He’s got that boy-next-door charm mixed with just enough edge. Hockey players are perceived as rough but disciplined. He’s perfect.”
You pursed your lips, feeling your heart begin to pick up speed in your chest as you felt the taillights in front of you blur slightly. You turned down the volume on your car speakers, buying yourself a moment before responding. “What does that even mean? ‘Rough but disciplined’? Like…” you scowled to yourself, “What does that mean?”
“He fucks.” Simone had always been blunt but the bluntness was why you kept her around. The silence grew, filed with implications neither of you spoke out loud, the hum of the highway beneath your tires filling the gap. Simone cleared her throat. “He has sex. He’s a man. He’s masculine but not in a way that threatens or scares people. He’s attractive. He’s employed. He’ll be an All Star this season. And most importantly—”
In perfect unison you arrived, Simone’s voice through the speakers and your own thoughts colliding: “He has a documented crush on you.”
Your foot faltered on the gas pedal for half a second, sending your car lurching forward before you steadied it. The silence stretched, cut only by the rhythmic click of the turn signal you’d forgotten to switch off.
You had spoken about this before. And yes, you had agreed to be open to a PR relationship and all its benefits, but you hadn’t expected Simone to pinpoint him. You hadn’t expected him to look like that in person. You hadn’t expected your stomach to flutter when he blinked at you so slowly, hazel eyes shamelessly trailing down your body.
You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. “Simone…” you sighed, already feeling the weight of inevitability settling in your brain. “It’s too obvious. People will see right through it.”
Simone’s laugh crackled through the car speakers. “Sweetheart, obvious is good. Obvious means people accept what’s in front of them. Nobody wants a PR relationship that looks like a math equation. They want the fairy tale.” A pause, then softer: “And let’s be honest, you two already have the chemistry part handled. I saw the full video. Including a clip they wisely chose not to post of you getting real close to each other.”
“What incentive does he even have?” you asked, turning into your building’s underground parking. The tires hummed against the concrete as you rolled to a stop. “He doesn’t need me. Athletes don’t do PR like this.”
“Well,” Simone hummed with a hint of amusement in her voice. “That’s... you’d be surprised. Everyone could use PR. Especially in a huge market, which the Islanders occupy.”
You slowly made your way out of your car and into your building as Simone laid out the existing details. Mat’s agent had already initiated talks to get you out to the arena again early next season, the Islanders’ PR team was salivating at the opportunity to gather some good PR for their star who had run into a couple of questions about his maturity the last few seasons, and Simone had already taken the liberty of reaching out to his agent with a proposal for a meeting.
The next time you came face to face with the hockey player was at an upscale restaurant in Tribeca. No cameras, no PR reps, just the two of you, Steven, and Simone at a secluded corner table hidden from the view of the other guests, draped in soft candlelight.
There were terms laid out in neat serif text on crisp white paper in a coldly transactional language that didn’t match the warmth of Mat’s leg unintentionally brushing yours under the small table.
The contract lay between you like an uninvited guest, its sterile language at odds with the flickering candlelight. By the end of the dinner it was folded into Simone’s bag, tucked away for three days of consideration. Outside the restaurant, the cold New York air clung to your skin as you and Mat waited on the sidewalk for your cars to be brought around by valet, watching Mat shrug into his jacket. His fingers fumbled with the zipper before he caught you staring and stilled.
“Are you gonna say ‘yes’?” Mat’s voice carried the same nervous lilt as when he’d admitted to watching her movies as a teenager, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to laugh or take him seriously. The streetlight caught the curve of his bottom lip, bitten pink from the cold and anticipation.
You tilted your head, letting the city lights catch the line of your jaw before you answered. “Are you?”
“I asked first,” he muttered, but the defensive edge in his voice was undercut by the way he nervously swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing under the glow of a streetlight. You knew that gesture. You had seen it in auditions, in green rooms, backstage, and in mirrors.
The tell of someone who hated having to wait for an answer.
Mat’s car pulled up first, tires crunching over salt-strewn pavement. The valet stepped out, holding the door open with a practiced smile. You watched Mat hesitate before he stuffed his hands into his pockets instead. “Guess I’ll… see you,” he said, the words half-mumbled.
“So you are saying ‘yes’?”
He shrugged, shifting his weight back onto his heels. He still refrained from making eye contact with you for too long.
Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.
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
The car door opens before you’re ready.
It always does.
“Y/N, over here!”
Flashbulbs hit first. White, blinding, relentless. Your name follows half a second later, pulled apart and thrown back at you from every direction like it belongs to everyone but you.
You step out anyway.
Because that’s the job.
Because Mara said Saturday, and Saturday turned into the Vanier Gala, and the Vanier Gala turned into this, standing under lights that make everything sharper, harsher, more visible.
Chin up. Shoulders back. One hand smoothing over the fabric of a dress that fits perfectly and still feels like armor.
You smile.
Not too much. Not too little.
Controlled.
Effortless.
Fine.
You are very, very good at being fine.
“Y/N, how are you feeling tonight?”
You turn automatically, smile already in place.
“Good,” you say easily. “It’s a beautiful event. I’m really happy to be here.”
It sounds real.
That’s the trick.
“Any comment on everything that’s been happening lately?”
You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering it.
“I think people love a story,” you say, light, almost amused. “Sometimes more than they love the truth.”
A ripple of laughter. Pens moving. Cameras flashing like you said something clever instead of something tired.
“Do you have any upcoming projects?”
“I’d love to,” you say, smiling just enough, “but I enjoy having a job, so I probably shouldn’t.”
More laughter.
God, you’re good at this.
“Y/N,Sebastian was seen earlier this week,”
You step back before the sentence finishes.
“Thank you so much, guys,” you say smoothly. “Enjoy the night.”
You don’t rush.
You never rush.
You move like nothing touches you.
Even when everything does.
Inside the Vanier Gala, the lighting softens.
Golden. Expensive. Intimate in a way that feels staged.
It’s quieter here, but not really. Conversations overlap. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls like it’s being performed for the room.
People look at you.
Then look away.
Then look back when they think you won’t notice.
You notice.
You always notice.
You take a glass of champagne from a passing tray, lifting it to your lips just to have something to do.
It tastes like nothing.
Or maybe that’s just you.
Across the room, a couple stands too close. Her hand rests on his chest like it’s always belonged there.
You look away.
Your fingers tighten around the stem.
You could leave.
The thought is sharp. Tempting. Immediate.
You’ve done enough. You showed up. You smiled. You gave them something to write about that isn’t you falling apart.
You could disappear. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere dark. Somewhere,
“Don’t.”
Mara.
You don’t look at her.
“I wasn’t going to,” you say.
A lie.
“Mm.”
She lets it sit.
“Give it ten minutes,” she says. “You’ve already done the hard part.”
You let out a breath.
“This is the hard part.”
“Not if you play it right.”
Of course.
“You see him yet?” she asks.
Your stomach drops.
“No.”
“Good,” she says. “He’s here.”
Of course he is.
Your gaze drifts, slow, reluctant, and then, you find him.
He’s not where you expect.
Not front and center. Not orbiting attention.
He’s off to the side, talking to someone older, nodding along, one hand loose around a drink he hasn’t touched. His tie is slightly undone, collar just open enough to look like he stopped caring ten minutes in.
He laughs.
Head tipping back slightly.
And it’s,
easy.
God.
It’s so easy.
Not rehearsed. Not curated. Not trying.
Just… him.
You stare a second too long.
“That’s him?” you ask quietly.
Mara follows your gaze.
“Yes.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because now that you’re actually looking,
really looking,
He’s,
Right.
Okay.
That’s,
That’s not what you expected.
Because Mara said safe.
Mara said clean image.
Mara did not say,
that.
Because he’s,
annoyingly,
really hot.
Not in a polished, camera-ready way. Not in a look at me way.
Just,
effortless.
Like he doesn’t know.
Or worse,
like he knows and doesn’t care.
Your stomach does something traitorous.
“Okay,” you murmur. “That’s… not terrible.”
Mara glances at you.
That’s all it takes.
She’s gone.
You’re left standing there, staring at a man who is about to become part of your life for reasons that have nothing to do with either of you.
Your pulse picks up.
You tell yourself it’s the room.
It’s not.
It happens quickly.
Of course it does.
“Y/N, good to see you.”
A hand. A smile. A name you half-remember.
You play along.
“Of course, yeah, you too.”
“I don’t know if you’ve met,”
You turn.
And,
he’s there.
Closer now.
Close enough that you don’t have the distance to observe safely.
Up close, he’s,
You blink.
Oh.
That’s,
worse.
Because somehow he’s even better looking up close.
There’s something about him that doesn’t photograph the same. Something sharper. Warmer. Real in a way that cameras flatten.
His eyes flick over your face, not lingering, not assessing.
Just… taking you in.
Like a person.
Not a headline.
Not a problem.
Not something already explained to him.
“I know who she is,” he says, easy.
His voice is lower up close.
That’s also a problem.
You smile, because that’s what you do.
“Good,” you say. “That would’ve been a really awkward introduction.”
His mouth lifts, just slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Would’ve been tough to come back from.”
There’s a beat.
And it’s,
not awkward.
Not forced.
Just… there.
You feel it settle.
You don’t like that you feel it settle.
Up close, he doesn’t feel like a plan.
He feels like someone you could accidentally like.
Which is worse.
“So,” you say, tilting your head, slipping into something safer. “Do you usually get set up at charity events, or is this a Vanier Gala exclusive?”
There’s the edge.
The test.
He doesn’t flinch.
“If I say no, does that make this better or worse?” he asks.
You let out a quiet laugh.
“Depends,” you say. “Are you lying?”
He thinks about it.
Actually thinks about it.
“No,” he says. “But I feel like I should be.”
You blink.
That,
lands.
“Why?” you ask.
He glances past you briefly,toward where Mara disappeared,then back at you.
“Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t a coincidence,” he says. “And I’m not usually this lucky.”
Your brain stalls for half a second.
Because it’s not smooth.
It’s not rehearsed.
It’s not even particularly clever.
It’s just,
honest.
And for some reason, that hits harder.
Okay.
Okay, this might not be so bad.
The thought slips in, quieter this time.
Followed immediately by,
He’s really hot.
You almost laugh.
God.
You are unbelievable.
“Hey, can we get a photo?”
The moment snaps.
You turn.
Cameras.
Of course.
This is it.
This is the point.
You glance at him.
A question.
He catches it.
And instead of stepping in,
instead of assuming,
he pauses.
Just enough.
Like he’s giving you the choice.
It’s small.
It’s everything.
You nod.
He steps closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
His hand settles at your waist, light but steady.
Warm.
You feel it instantly.
Your breath catches,just slightly.
You hope it doesn’t show.
“Over here!”
“Together!”
You turn into him, your hand resting against his chest like it belongs there.
Like this is natural.
Like this is easy.
Like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
His hand doesn’t tighten.
Doesn’t pull you in.
Just stays.
Grounded.
For a second,
it feels real enough to forget it isn’t.
The flashes slow.
“Perfect, thank you!”
You step back first.
Of course you do.
Space returns.
You feel it more than you should.
“This part always this weird?” he asks, glancing at the cameras.
You let out a breath that turns into a soft laugh.
“Only when people care,” you say.
He looks at you.
“And they care a lot?”
You glance around the room. The watching. The whispering. The story already being built.
“Tonight?” you say. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
He nods, like that makes sense.
Like you didn’t just admit something heavier than it sounded.
“Okay.”
Simple.
No follow-up.
No performance.
Across the room, Mara is watching.
You don’t need to look.
You can feel it.
Everything is working.
Exactly how she planned.
And yet, when you look back at him, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re just, you, not something broken, not something to manage, not something temporary, something shifts.
Because this was supposed to be easy.
Fake.
Controlled.
But standing here, with your pulse still slightly off and his hand still a phantom warmth at your waist, you realise, quietly, that this might be the first time in weeks that something hasn’t felt like damage control.
Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.
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
The car door opens.
Flashbulbs hit immediately.
“Y/N! Over here—!”
“Mat! Look this way!”
Your name and his name, tangled together like they’ve always belonged in the same sentence.
You step out.
He’s right there a second later.
And then—
his hand.
Light. Steady. At the small of your back.
Not grabbing. Not pulling.
Just—
there.
Grounding.
“Are you two together?”
“When did this start?”
“Is this official?”
You smile.
Of course you do.
“We’re just here to support the event,” you say smoothly. “It’s a great cause.”
You feel him glance down at you, amused.
“Yeah,” he adds. “What she said.”
You move together.
Not perfectly. Not like you rehearsed it.
But it works.
It looks—
convincing.
Inside, the noise softens into something warmer.
Less sharp.
More contained.
You exhale, just slightly.
His hand drops from your back.
You notice.
Immediately.
“Well,” you say, glancing at him. “That was subtle.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I thought we really sold the ‘we just met five minutes ago’ vibe.”
You smile.
“Very organic.”
“Very natural.”
You fall into step beside him.
And for a while, it’s easy.
That’s the part that throws you.
You move through the room together, stopping when you have to, slipping away when you can. People talk to you. To him. To both of you.
He’s good at this.
Not in the polished, media-trained way you’re used to.
Just… normal.
“So what is this event actually for?” he asks quietly as you both escape another conversation.
You blink.
“You don’t know?”
“I was told to show up,” he says. “That’s about as far as I got.”
You laugh.
“Yeah, that tracks.”
You grab two drinks from a passing tray, handing him one.
“Some kind of foundation thing,” you say. “Rich people feeling better about themselves.”
He nods.
“Love that.”
You take a sip.
“You’re doing really well, by the way.”
“At what?”
“Pretending to be into this.”
He shrugs.
“I’m having a decent time.”
You glance at him.
“…you are?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“You’re funny.”
You choke slightly on your drink.
“Wow,” you cough. “That’s bold of you to admit out loud.”
“Just being honest.”
“Careful,” you say. “People might think you like me.”
“Would that ruin the narrative?”
“Completely.”
You’re still smiling when it happens.
It’s not loud.
Not obvious.
Just… a shift.
Your eyes catch something across the room.
And then you see him.
Sebastian.
It’s like someone pulled the floor out from under you.
Sudden.
Sharp.
He’s standing near the bar.
Laughing.
She’s next to him.
Hand on his arm.
Leaning in like she belongs there.
Your chest tightens.
Hard.
Because it’s not just seeing him.
It’s seeing him like that.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Like nothing happened.
Like you didn’t matter.
“You okay?”
Mat’s voice cuts through it.
You blink.
Force your face back into something neutral.
“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I’m fine.”
You’re not.
You’re absolutely not.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” he says after a second. “You want anything?”
You shake your head.
“No, I’m good.”
He hesitates.
Just slightly.
Then nods.
“I’ll be right back.”
You watch him go.
And the second he disappears—
“Hey.”
You freeze.
Of course.
You turn slowly.
Sebastian stands there like this is casual. Like this is fine.
“Hey,” he says again.
You stare at him.
God, he looks the same.
“Hi,” you reply.
Your voice is steady.
You don’t know how.
He smiles.
Like he always does.
Like it still works.
“You look good,” he says.
You almost laugh.
It comes out sharper than you mean it to.
“Thanks,” you say. “You too.”
Your eyes flick to her.
Then back.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Yeah,” he says. “This is—”
“I know,” you cut in.
You don’t need the introduction.
You really don’t.
There’s a beat.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says.
You tilt your head.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Funny how that works.”
He shifts.
Like he’s uncomfortable.
Good.
“I was gonna call you,” he says.
You let out a short laugh.
“You didn’t.”
He exhales.
“I just thought—”
“What?” you cut in. “That I’d see it online like everyone else?”
Because you remember.
The message.
Not meant for you.
A name that wasn’t yours.
A timeline that made you feel sick.
The confrontation.
Your voice shaking.
His… not.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“That’s funny,” you reply. “Because you absolutely did.”
A pause.
“It wasn’t serious,” he says.
That what does it.
You stare at him.
“Wow,” you say softly. “That actually makes it worse.”
“I just think you’re making it a bigger deal than it was,” he adds.
There it is.
You let out a breath.
Shaky.
“Right,” you say. “Because getting cheated on is famously not a big deal.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“Look, we were both busy, things got complicated-”
“Don’t,” you cut in.
“Don’t rewrite this like it was mutual.”
There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression now.
“You’ve clearly moved on,” he says, glancing past you.
You follow his gaze—
Mat.
Standing a few feet away.
Watching.
You look back at Sebastian.
“Oh my god,” you say quietly. “Is that what you think this is?”
He shrugs.
“Looks like it.”
You laugh.
It sounds hollow.
“Yeah,” you say. “Because God forbid I don’t sit around crying over you forever.”
His jaw tightens.
“You’re making a scene,” he says.
There it is.
Not what he did.
Not how he hurt you.
Just how it looks.
You swallow hard.
Your eyes sting.
And then—
“Hey.”
Mat.
He steps in beside you like it’s nothing.
Like this isn’t loaded.
Like he didn’t just read the entire situation in half a second.
“Sorry,” he says easily. “I stole her for a second.”
His hand settles at your back again.
Steady.
Familiar.
Sebastian looks between you.
Mat smiles.
Polite.
Friendly.
Just enough edge underneath it.
“You good?” he asks you quietly.
You nod.
Too fast.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“Cool,” he says anyway.
Then, to Sebastian—
“Nice to meet you, man.”
Sebastian nods stiffly.
“Yeah,” Mat adds, like it’s an afterthought, “we were just heading out.”
You weren’t.
Not technically.
But you don’t correct him.
Sebastian glances at you.
Then at him.
“Right,” he says.
Mat’s smile doesn’t change.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Have a good night.”
There’s something in the way he says it.
Not aggressive.
Not confrontational.
Just final.
Sebastian doesn’t push it.
He turns.
Back to her.
You watch them go.
Your vision blurs slightly.
“Hey,” Mat says softly.
You blink.
Hard.
“You wanna get out of here?” he asks.
No hesitation.
No we should stay.
No this is good for PR.
Just you.
You nod.
“Yeah,” you say.
And that’s it.
He doesn’t make a scene.
Doesn’t explain.
He just keeps his hand at your back
guides you through the room
past the noise
past the people
past everything
Until you’re outside.
The air hits cold.
Sharp.
You make it three steps.
And then you break.
It’s not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just your breath catching, your chest tightening, tears you can’t quite stop.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says quickly.
You shake your head.
“It’s so stupid,” you manage. “I’m fine, I just—”
You’re not.
He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t tell you to calm down.
“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get in the car.”
He opens the door.
Waits.
You slide in.
He gets in after you.
Tells the driver something low and quick.
The car pulls away.
You wipe at your face, frustrated.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “This is—”
“You don’t have to apologise,” he says.
You laugh weakly.
“Yeah, I do. I’m supposed to be, like, fun tonight.”
“You were,” he says.
That doesn’t help.
And also does.
There’s a beat.
“Who was that?” he asks, quieter now.
You stare out the window.
“My ex,” you say.
Simple.
He nods.
“He cheated on me,” you add.
Because apparently you’re just saying things now.
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I found out from a text,” you continue. “Not even a good one. Like if you’re going to ruin my life, at least be creative about it.”
A shaky laugh slips out.
“And then when I confronted him, he didn’t even fight for me,” you say.
Quieter.
“He just… ended it.”
You swallow.
“And then three days later he’s out with her,” you add. “And I get to find out about it the same way everyone else does.”
Public.
Clean.
Humiliating.
You let your head fall back against the seat.
“I looked like such an idiot,” you say.
There’s a pause.
“That’s not on you,” he says.
You glance at him.
His expression is steady.
A little tighter now.
“He didn’t even try,” he adds. “That’s on him.”
Simple.
No bullshit.
You exhale.
“I kind of lost it after,” you admit.
“Like, drinking, going out, doing dumb shit with people I didn’t even like.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“Really great coping mechanisms.”
He doesn’t judge.
“Then suddenly I’m the problem,” you say. “Photos, headlines, ‘spiralling actress’—all that shit.”
You shake your head.
“It’s just… exhausting.”
Silence.
Soft.
“You don’t seem like the problem,” he says.
You blink.
“That’s because you met me after the breakdown,” you reply.
He smiles slightly.
“I think I’d have the same opinion,” he says.
You look at him. Really look. And for the first time all night, you feel something shift.
Can you write mat barzal fluff? Maybe him meeting a girl at a karaoke bar or something fun?? I’ve had Man I Need by Olivia Dean stuck in my head all day and it makes me think of him
setting the tone | mb13
requests are open | navigation
a/n: is now a good time to mention that i genuinely don't know anyone on the islanders lol. also realizing now that i didn't read this req properly i'm so sorry lol i hope you still enjoy this
The thing about Mat is that he's good at a genuinely alarming number of things.
He's good at hockey, obviously, which isn't a small thing to be good at. He's good at reading a room. He's good at making people feel like the most interesting person in the conversation without appearing to try. He's good at parallel parking, which you've told him is not a flex and he has told you is absolutely a flex and you've agreed to disagree. He remembers the names of everyone he's ever been introduced to. He tips well. He knows how to pick a restaurant without spending forty-five minutes on Yelp.
These are facts. You've lived with them long enough to accept them as the furniture of your relationship, present and unremarkable, just the conditions of loving someone who happens to be good at things.
What Mat is not good at is singing.
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.
summary: After a game, a contusion forces Mat to spend the night at the Martins' house under Maddison's care, between alarms, worry and an overprotective Matt.
wc: 5.7k
masterlist // series masterlist
The first time Mat Barzal slept over at the Martins’ house was not romantic.
There was no carefully planned invitation, no long dinner that ran late, no awkward excuse not to drive back. There were no candles, no confessions under the soft glow of a bedroom light, no perfect scene where they both pretended they didn’t want it to happen.
It was after a game.
And it was because of a concussion.
Maddison could still hear the hit.
Not literally, because from where she was sitting in the family section, the sound had gotten lost in the murmur of the arena, the scrape of skates against the ice, and the collective reaction of the crowd. But she had felt it. She had felt it in her stomach, in the way her whole body tensed before she could even understand what had happened.
Mat had taken the contact near the boards. It wasn’t the most brutal hit Maddison had ever seen in her life, nor the dirtiest, nor the kind that made everyone immediately rise from their seats. But something in the way he fell, in the way it took him one second too long to get back up, made her blood run cold.
Sydney, sitting beside her, noticed right away. “Mads,” she said quietly.
Maddison didn’t answer, her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ice.
Mat got up, that should have calmed her, It didn’t.
Because he stood with that strange expression, too still, as if he were trying to convince his own body that everything was fine. A trainer came over. Mat nodded at something. Then he went to the bench and, shortly after, disappeared down the tunnel.
Maddison stopped hearing the game.
For the next few minutes, everything happened as if she were behind glass. People applauded. Someone yelled. The players changed. Matt was still on the ice. The puck moved back and forth.
But Mat did not return, Maddison took out her phone with cold hands, she had no messages, Sydney rested a hand on her arm. “He’ll be with the doctors.”
“I know.”
“That’s good.”
“I know" But her voice came out tense, sharp, small. Sydney didn’t push.
By the end of the game, Maddison couldn’t clearly remember the score. She knew the Islanders had won, because the arena had that sound of relief and celebration that came after a home victory. But to her, the night didn’t feel like a win.
She waited in the family area with Sydney, still, too still, Matt came out of the locker room first, and one look at his face confirmed everything.
He didn’t look relaxed, he didn’t have that tired smile after a win, he looked serious, his hair damp, his suit only half put together, his jaw tight.
Maddison stepped toward him. “Where’s Mat?”
Matt exhaled through his nose. “With the doctor.”
“What did they say?”
“Mads—”
“Matthew.”
He closed his eyes for a second, as if he had known he wasn’t going to get away with a half-answer “Probable concussion. They’re doing the evaluation. He’s not driving tonight.”
The sentence landed in her chest like ice, Sydney stepped closer too. “Is he conscious? Is he talking?”
“Yes,” Matt said quickly, looking at Maddison. “He’s conscious. He’s talking. He’s annoyed they pulled him from the game, which probably means he’s still Barzy.”
Maddison didn’t smile. “Does he have anyone staying with him?”
Matt hesitated, and that hesitation was enough. “No,” Maddison said.
“Mads—”
“No.”
Matt ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say the team can figure something out.”
“Something out like what? Leave him in his apartment and have someone call? No.”
“Maddison.”
“He can’t stay alone.”
“I know.”
“Then bring him home.”
Matt looked at her, Sydney said nothing, but Maddison could feel she was on her side, Matt lowered his voice “I am not bringing Barzy to our house so he can sleep with you.”
Maddison opened her mouth, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t start.”
“He has a concussion and that’s what you’re thinking about?”
Matt tensed. “I’m not thinking about that.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m thinking about the fact that you’re my sister.”
“And I’m thinking about the fact that Mat needs someone to wake him up during the night, check if he gets worse, pay attention if he gets dizzy or throws up or stops responding properly. I’m thinking about protocol, Matt. You should be thinking about the same thing.”
Matt went quiet, the hardness in Maddison’s face wasn’t anger, it was fear, That was what disarmed him.
Because Maddison could be intense, dramatic, sarcastic, stubborn. But in that moment, she was none of those things. Just raw fear, hidden behind a voice that was trying too hard to stay steady.
Sydney spoke calmly. “We can set alarms. You’ll be there too. I’ll be there too. He won’t be alone.”
Matt looked at Sydney, then at Maddison, Then toward the hallway leading back to the locker room. “Fine,” he said finally.
Maddison let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding “Thank you.”
Matt pointed a finger at her, still serious. “But under my rules.”
Maddison almost laughed, but couldn’t. “Fine.”
“Door stays open.”
“Fine.”
“I sleep nearby.”
“Fine.”
“And if the doctor says he needs to go to the hospital, he goes to the hospital.”
“Obviously.”
Matt looked at her for a few more seconds, then he nodded and went back toward the locker room, Maddison stayed there with Sydney, feeling her legs shake just slightly.
Sydney wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Breathe.”
Maddison swallowed. “I am breathing.”
“Not well.”
“I’m trying not to go in there and start demanding information like a crazy person.”
Sydney hugged her against her side. “I know.”
Almost twenty minutes passed before Mat appeared and Maddison, who had tried to prepare herself, was not prepared.
He came out with Matt at his side and a staff member behind him. He was wearing his suit, but his tie was loose and his coat was slung over his arm. He was walking on his own, but more slowly. His eyes looked tired, his face pale, and he had that annoyed expression of someone who hated being watched.
When he saw Maddison, he tried to smil, it was a small smile, too weak for him, that broke something in her.
“Hey,” Mat said.
Maddison stepped toward him immediately, but stopped herself before touching him, as if she didn’t know what she was allowed to do. “Hi.”
Mat looked at her gently, noticing everything she was trying to hide “I’m fine.”
Maddison let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That sentence just made me worry more.”
Matt stepped in. “The doctor said he shouldn’t be alone tonight. There are clear instructions. He needs to be woken up at intervals and monitored for symptoms.”
Mat looked at Matt. “Marty, you’re saying it like I’m dying.”
“I’m saying it like you got pulled by protocol and can’t drive.”
“I’m fine.”
Maddison looked at him. “Mat.”
He closed his mouth, because when she said his name like that, with no teasing and no irony, he knew there was no room to argue.
Sydney stepped closer with a soft smile. “Let’s go home. You can complain in the car.”
Mat looked at her, a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
Maddison answered before anyone else. “You’re not a problem.”
He looked at her. “I didn’t want to ruin the night.”
“The night?” Maddison blinked, incredulous. “Mat, you hit your head.”
“I know, but—”
“No.”Her voice came out firmer, Mat went still, “Don’t do that,” she said, quieter. “Don’t minimize this just so the rest of us can feel comfortable.”
There was a short silence, Matt looked at his sister with something close to pride, though he would never say it out loud.
Mat lowered his gaze. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
The drive back to Long Island was strange.
Matt drove, Sydney sat in the front, and Maddison sat in back with Mat, though Matt had hesitated for exactly three seconds before allowing it. Mat was by the window, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed but not asleep. Maddison kept her hands clasped in her lap, fighting the urge to ask him every two minutes if he was okay.
Sydney twisted slightly in her front seat.“Nausea?”
Mat shook his head slowly. “No.”
“Dizziness?”
“A little, but manageable.”
Maddison tensed, Mat opened one eye and looked at her “Maddie.”
“What?”
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“Yes, you are. It’s your ‘I’m about to sue someone’ face.”
Matt muttered from the driver’s seat “That face exists.”
Maddison ignored him “Does your head hurt a lot?”
“A little.”
“How much is a little?”
Mat sighed “Maddison.”
“No, seriously. One to ten.” He looked at her for a few seconds. “Four. Matt spoke immediately, “You sure?" Mat closed his eyes again. “Five.”
Maddison leaned toward him. “Mat.”
“Five and a half, but only because everybody is interrogating me.”
Sydney shot Matt a look. “Let him breathe.”
“I’m driving,” Matt said.
“You’re interrogating through the rearview mirror.” Despite her fear, Maddison almost smiled.
Mat did too.
When they got to the house, everything moved with quiet efficiency. Sydney went straight to the kitchen for water. Matt carried Mat’s bag and checked the instructions they had been given. Maddison ran upstairs quickly to clear off the bed.
She didn’t think about the fact that Mat Barzal was going to sleep there, not at first, she only thought about moving the books off the comforter, straightening the desk, transferring her Riverdale notes to a chair, pulling out an extra blanket, leaving a bottle of water on the nightstand, and finding a more comfortable pillow.
But when she stopped in the middle of the room, hands resting on the blanket, the reality hit all at once, Mat was going to sleep in her bed, in her room, under the same roof as her.
With a concussion.
The combination was so absurd she almost felt like laughing and crying at the same time, her room, which was usually her little refuge, suddenly felt too personal. There were photos on the walls. Underlined books. A NYU hoodie hanging over the chair, even though she hadn’t officially started yet. A pair of sneakers by the closet. The book Mat had given her for her birthday on the nightstand.
Just Mercy.
Maddison picked it up and moved it to the desk, as if that could somehow make the room feel less vulnerable.
Sydney appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea and a careful expression, “You okay?”
Maddison nodded too fast “Yeah.”
Sydney walked in and set the cup on the desk. “Matt’s downstairs pretending he isn’t worried about Mat and you at the same time.”
“He must be having a terrible time.”
“Very.”
Maddison smoothed the blanket for the third time, “Do you think it’s okay that he sleeps here?”
Sydney looked at her gently, “It’s the most comfortable, quiet room. And you’re going to be watching him.”
“Matt thinks…”
“Maddison.” Sydney cut in kindly. “Tonight is not about that. And Mat is not going to turn it into that either.”
Maddison lowered her eyes. “I know.”
“Then there you go.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m scared.”
Sydney stepped closer and took her hand. “I know.”
“I didn’t like seeing him come out like that.”
“Nobody did.”
“But when I saw him…” Maddison swallowed. “He looked so pale. Sydney squeezed her fingers. “He’s here. He’s conscious. He has instructions. We’re going to take care of him.”
Maddison nodded, though the knot in her throat didn’t fully go away.
Downstairs, Matt helped Mat up the stairs even though Mat insisted three times that he could do it himself. “Marty, I’m walking, I’m not broken.”
“Shut up and go up slowly.”
“What hospitality.”
“I’m two seconds away from putting you in the guest room with the hard mattress.”
“Matt,” Maddison called from upstairs, stepping out into the hallway, both of them looked up at her, she crossed her arms. “Don’t threaten him with the hard mattress when he has a concussion.”
Mat lifted a hand toward her. “Thank you.”
Matt pointed at her. “Don’t take his side.”
Mat put a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”
“Yes,” Maddison said seriously. “That’s why we’re here.” The humor faded a little, Mat lowered his gaze, like he had remembered everyone was worried about him. “Sorry.”
Maddison softened her voice. “Don’t apologize.”
When they stepped into her room, Mat stopped in the doorway for a second, as if he didn’t want to invade.
Maddison noticed. “You can come in.” He looked around with a tired smile. “So this is the famous headquarters.”
“Famous?”
“Your brother talks about your desk like it’s an academic war zone.”
Maddison glanced toward the desk piled with books and half-organized papers. “It is an academic war zone.”
Matt dropped Mat’s bag next to the chair. “You need anything else?”
Mat shook his head.“No. Thanks.” Matt looked at him too closely “Pain?”
“Five.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Do you know where you are?”
Mat sighed. “In Maddison’s room, being interrogated by my teammate and possibly judged by my girlfriend.”
The word hung in the air.
Girlfriend.
Maddison went still,It wasn’t that they weren’t that. By that point, they basically were, in every way except having said it in some formal conversation with carefully assigned labels. But hearing it like that, in her bedroom, with Matt present and Mat half pale from a concussion, was so unexpected she felt heat rise up her neck.
Matt heard it too, His eyes moved from Mat to Maddison, Sydney, from the doorway, pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
Mat seemed to realize it one second too late. “I… I mean…”
Maddison looked at him. Despite everything, despite the fear, despite how strange the night was, a small smile appeared on her face “Girlfriend?”
Mat looked at her with something vulnerable in his eyes. “If you want.”
Matt opened his mouth, Sydney put a hand on his arm without looking at him. “No.”
Matt closed his mouth, Maddison took one step toward Mat. “I think we can officially discuss the title when you don’t have a concussion.”
Mat nodded, but smiled a little. “That’s fair.”
“But I didn’t mind.” His smile turned more real. “Good.”
Matt took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling as if asking some higher power for patience. “Okay. Great. Very cute. Now, protocol.”
Maddison let out a quiet laugh, Sydney gave Matt a light smack to the chest. “Thank you for your sensitivity.”
“I’m being sensitive.”
“Sure.”
They organized the night like a military operation, Matt set alarms on his phone, Sydney set others on hers.
Maddison set three, with different labels: check pain, wake Mat, water / symptoms, Matt looked at her when he saw the screen. “Three alarms?”
Maddison lifted her eyes. “Would you like me to make it four?”
“No.”
“Then don’t criticize.”
Mat, sitting on the edge of the bed, watched the whole scene with a mixture of exhaustion and fondness. “I do not need three people taking care of me.”
Maddison looked at him immediately. “Yes, you do.”
“Okay.”
Matt pointed to the door. “I’m staying in the room next door.”
“Matt, that’s the guest room.”
“Exactly.”
“You sleep with Sydney.”
“Not tonight.”
Sydney crossed her arms. “Excuse me, did you decide to switch rooms without consulting me?”
Matt looked at her. “It’s for safety.”
“It’s for drama.”
“It can be both.”
Maddison shut her eyes. “I’m going to lose my mind before Mat does.”
Mat let out a small laugh, but immediately winced and put a hand to his temple, Maddison stopped smiling. “Pain?”
“Laughing was not a brilliant choice.”
“Then don’t laugh.”
“It’s hard around you.”
Matt muttered “Terrible taste.” Maddison shot him a glare, Sydney stepped in again, gentler this time. “Okay. Everyone breathe. Mat needs to rest.”
Matt nodded. “Door open.” Maddison didn’t argue. “okey, door open.”
“Lights low.”
“Yes.”
“And none of—”
“Matt,” Sydney said.
Matt stopped.
Mat raised a hand from the bed. “I promise I am far too concussed for whatever you’re imagining and even if it wasn't, your house would be in the last place where it would happen.”
Maddison covered her face. “Oh my God.” Sydney pushed Matt toward the door. “Goodnight, Mat.”
“Goodnight. Thanks, Syd.”
Matt pointed at Mat one last time. “I’m waking you in two hours.”
“I’ll wait with excitement.”
When they finally left, leaving the door cracked open, the room settled into a strange calm, not fully silent, because there were footsteps outside, the house settling, Sydney and Matt talking quietly in the hall. But between them, inside Maddison’s room, there was a different kind of stillness.
Mat was still sitting on the edge of the bed, Maddison was standing in front of him, not knowing what to do with her hands. “Do you want to change?” she asked, pointing toward the bag. “Matt brought your things.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“I can step out.” Mat nodded. “Thanks.”
Maddison stepped into the hallway, closing the door almost all the way but leaving a gap like she had promised. She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms.
Matt was a few steps away, pretending to check something on his phone. “I’m fine,” Maddison said before he could ask.
Matt looked up. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Yes.”
Sydney came out of their room with an extra blanket. “Mads, where are you sleeping?”
“In my room.”
Matt looked up sharply. “No.”
“In the chair, Matt.”
“No.”
“Then where? In the hallway?”
“You can sleep with Sydney.”
Sydney raised an eyebrow. “And where would you sleep?” Matt hesitated. “In the hallway.”
Maddison looked at him. “This is absurd.”
“All of this is absurd.”
“He needs someone watching him.”
“I can watch him.”
Maddison lowered her voice. “Matt, I need to be the one watching him.”
That stopped him, Honesty, again, got through where the argument could not, Matt looked at her for a few seconds.
He saw his younger sister, yes. But he also saw an eighteen-year-old girl who was in love and scared, trying to make herself useful with that fear.
Finally, he exhaled.
“Chair.”
“i know.”
“Door open.”
“Door open.”
“If you fall asleep, my alarms are set.”
“So are mine.”
Matt nodded. And then, quieter, he said “You’re doing good.” Maddison blinked. “What?”
“Taking care of him.” She swallowed. “Thanks.”
Matt stepped closer and kissed her forehead, brief, like he used to when she was younger. “But I still hate this.”
Maddison smiled weakly. “I know.”
When she went back in, Mat had changed into a comfortable T-shirt and sweatpants. He was under the blanket, propped against the pillows, eyes half closed.
Maddison turned off the overhead light and left only the bedside lamp on. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled her desk chair closer to the bed and sat down, folding one leg underneath her, Mat opened his eyes. “Are you really going to sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“Maddison.”
“Mat.”
“That is not comfortable.”
“You have a concussion. This is not the moment to compete over comfort.”
He looked at her with exhaustion, but also with something soft. “You can sleep in the bed. There’s room.” Maddison felt her heart jump, but shook her head. “Matt is three feet away and probably developed bat hearing for tonight.”
Mat smiled a little. “Fair.”
“Besides, I need to see you when the alarm goes off.”
His expression changed. “Mads…”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No guilt face.”
“I’m making a normal face.”
“No. You’re making your ‘I feel bad for worrying everyone’ face.” Mat went quiet, Maddison rested her elbows on her knees. “I do not care about losing sleep. I do not care about sitting in a chair. I do not care that Matt is acting like this is an FBI operation. I care that you’re okay.”
Mat looked at her, the low lamp light sharpened the exhaustion in his face, but his eyes were clear. “I got scared when I saw you go off the ice,” she admitted, her voice cracked slightly at the end.
Mat stretched his hand out over the blanket, Maddison hesitated for only a second before taking it. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for hitting your head.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t say you’re fine if you’re not.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t try to be brave with me.”
Mat squeezed her hand gently. “Okay.” Maddison lowered her gaze to their joined fingers, the silence that followed was no longer awkward. It was heavy, but intimate. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filling because both people are too tired to pretend.
The first alarm went off at one in the morning.
Maddison woke with a start, even though she had barely dozed in the chair, her head tipped back against it and one of Sydney’s blankets over her legs. She silenced the alarm quickly and leaned toward Mat.
“Mat.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Maddison’s heart stopped. “Mat.”
He opened his eyes slowly. “I’m awake.”
She exhaled.
“Do you know where you are?”
“In your room.”
“What day is it?”
“After the game.”
“Mat.”
“Friday. Well, technically Saturday.”
Maddison nodded, trying not to show how relieved she was. “Pain?”
“Four.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“Less.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
Matt appeared in the doorway, hair messy, hoodie on. “Everything okay?” Maddison turned her head. “Yes.”
Matt looked at Mat. “Name?”
Mat blinked. “Mine or yours?”
“Yours.”
“Mathew Barzal.”
“Team?”
“Islanders.”
“Who’s unbearable?”
Mat looked at Maddison. “Can I say both?” Maddison let out a quiet laugh, and Matt, against his will, smiled. “He’s fine,” Matt said. “I’ll be back in two hours.”
“I can’t wait,” Mat muttered.
Matt pointed at Maddison. “Wake me if anything changes.”
“I know.”
When Matt left, Maddison picked up the water bottle and handed it to Mat. “Drink a little.” He obeyed. “You’re very bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I like it.”
Maddison raised an eyebrow. “You’re injured. Don’t use that to flirt.”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled, though carefully this time so it wouldn’t worsen the pain, Maddison took the bottle back and set it on the table. “Sleep.”
“Are you going to sleep?”
“I’ll try.”
Mat looked at the chair. “Maddison.”
“Don’t start.”
“Just… come here for a second.” She looked at him suspiciously. “What for?”
“So you don’t destroy your back in that chair.”
“Mat.”
“I’m not trying anything. I just want you to be comfortable. And honestly, it calms me down having you close.” That silenced her, because it was different when he said it like that. Not as a joke. Not as an excuse. As a truth.
Maddison glanced toward the open door.
The hallway was dark, but she knew Matt was nearby. She knew Sydney was too. She knew the whole night was being held together by alarms and worry.
Then she looked back at Mat, pale and tired, looking at her with a vulnerability he didn’t usually show. “Just for a little while,” she said.
He nodded. “Just for a little while.”
Maddison got up from the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, over the blanket, careful not to jostle him too much. She didn’t lie down next to him at first. She just stayed there, close.
Mat took her hand again and closed his eyes. “That helps,” he murmured. Maddison felt something inside her soften so much it hurt.“Good.”
After a few minutes, she ended up lying on her side, still on top of the blanket, with enough space that Matt wouldn’t have a heart attack if he walked in, but close enough that Mat could keep holding her hand.
The second alarm went off at three, this time Matt got there before Maddison even finished silencing it.
He stepped in, saw Maddison lying on the bed, and froze, Maddison lifted her head immediately. “I’m on top of the blanket.”
Matt looked at her. “I can see that.”
“The door is open.”
“I can see that too.”
“He’s holding my hand because it helps him sleep.” Matt opened his mouth. Mat, half awake, muttered “Marty, I have a concussion. Please let me at least have her close to me.”
Sydney appeared behind Matt, hair loose, sleepy expression “Everything okay?” Matt was still looking at Mat and Maddison’s joined hands, Sydney saw it Then she looked at Maddison. Then at Mat.
And her face softened. “Matt,” she said quietly. “Leave them.”
Matt took a deep breath.
“Questions first.”
Maddison nodded.
“Yes.”
Mat opened his eyes with effort.
“I’m in Maddison’s room. It’s Saturday. My pain is four, maybe three and a half. No nausea. No blurred vision. Matt is still intense.”
Sydney covered her mouth to hide a laugh. Matt looked at him. “You’re too fine to make jokes.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
Matt stayed in the doorway for one more second. His gaze fell on Maddison,she looked tired, messy-haired, worried-eyed, her hand still caught in Mat’s. There was nothing irresponsible in the scene. Nothing that justified his instinct to pull her away from there.
Just his sister taking care of someone, just Barzal letting himself be taken care of, Matt swallowed, uncomfortable with the tenderness that crept into his chest. “Wake me anyway,” he said finally.
“I will,” Maddison replied.
Sydney took his hand and gently led him away, when they were alone again, Mat cracked one eye open. “I think I survived.” Maddison whispered “Don’t push it.”
“He’s scared of me.”
“Mat.”
“Okay. I’m scared of him.”
“More realistic.”
He smiled faintly, At five, Maddison woke him again. This time the pain was down to three. Mat answered all the questions well, drank some water, and fell back asleep almost immediately.
Maddison couldn’t sleep after that.
She lay there staring at the ceiling of her room, listening to Mat’s slow breathing beside her and the tiny sounds of the house in the early morning. She had never imagined the first time he would sleep in her room would be like this: with the door open, her brother nearby, alarms every two hours, and a list of symptoms on the nightstand.
Mat shifted slightly without fully waking and tightened his grip on her hand, Maddison turned her head toward him. “I’m here,” she whispered, even though he hadn’t asked.He didn’t open his eyes, but his body seemed to relax.
When the light began to filter through the curtains, Maddison finally fell asleep, Not for long.
She woke to the smell of coffee and Matt’s voice in the hallway. “Are they alive?”
Maddison opened her eyes slowly, Mat was awake beside her, looking at her with a tired smile. “Morning,” he said.
She blinked, disoriented. “How do you feel?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Mat.”
“Better. Pain’s a two. No nausea. No dizziness. I know where I am. I know who I am. I know your brother is standing outside like a royal guard.”
From the hallway, Matt said “I heard that" Mat shut his eyes.“I know.”
Maddison sat up quickly, moving a little farther away and fixing her hair with one hand. The door was still open, Matt walked in with two cups of coffee and a less harsh expression than the night before. Sydney came in behind him carrying a tray of toast “Coffee for Maddison,” Matt said, handing her a cup. “Water for Barzy. Don’t argue.”
Mat accepted the bottle Sydney handed him “I wasn’t going to ask for coffee.” Matt looked at him “Lie.”
“Yeah.”
Sydney set the tray down on the desk and smiled. “How are you feeling, Mat?”
“Better. Thanks for… everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Matt leaned against the doorframe. “I called the staff. They’re going to check you again later.” Mat nodded. “Okay.”
Maddison looked at him “And you’re going to follow the instructions.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to say you’re perfectly fine just to try to come back early.” Mat opened his mouth. Maddison pointed at him. “No.” He shut it.
Matt laughed. “Welcome to my life.” Mat looked at Maddison with a small smile.“Your sister is terrifying.”
Matt took a sip of coffee. “Finally, someone admits it.” Maddison crossed her arms. “You’re both unbearable.”
Sydney, happy to see them arguing with something close to normalcy, sat down in the chair. “That means everything’s better.”
Breakfast was strange, domestic, and slightly awkward, Mat sitting on Maddison’s bed with a bottle of water, Maddison beside him with coffee and dark circles under her eyes, Matt at the door pretending not to look too much, Sydney acting like all of it was completely normal.
At one point, Matt had to go downstairs to answer a call.
Sydney followed after giving Maddison a look that said don’t overwhelm him, but don’t step away either if you need to stay.
When they were alone again, Mat looked around the room. “Sorry for invading your space” Maddison shook her head. “You didn’t invade anything.”
“I slept in your bed.”
“On medical instruction.”
“I think that is the least romantic excuse possible.”
Maddison smiled. “The first time you slept in my room was because we had to check whether you remembered your own name. Not everyone gets a story like that.”
Mat laughed softly, this time without wincing. “Memorable.” She looked at him more seriously. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
His smile faded a little. “Me too.” There was a silence.
Mat looked down at his hands. “Thank you for insisting Matt bring me here.”Maddison went still. “He told you?”
“I overheard. A little.”
She sighed.“I was worried.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want you alone.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t care if that sounded intense.”
Mat looked up. “It didn’t sound intense.”
“Lie better.”
“I don’t want to lie.” His voice dropped a little. “It sounded like someone who cares about me.”
Maddison felt her heart beat slow and hard, she said nothing, Mat held her gaze. "And I liked that. Not the part where you were worried. But… knowing it.” Maddison swallowed.“Of course I care about you.”
The words came out before she could stop them.
It wasn’t exactly some huge confession. It wasn’t “I love you.” But it wasn’t small either, Mat looked at her like those four words had done more for his headache than the whole night of rest.
“I care about you too,” he said, Maddison lowered her gaze, smiling shyly. “How convenient that you’re saying it with a concussion.”
“I can repeat it once I’m fully medically cleared.”
“Do.”
“I will.” Downstairs, Matt’s voice called for Sydney, and both of them shifted apart a little out of pure habit.
Mat smiled. “I think your brother has radar.”
“He does. It’s a disease.”
“Do you think I’ll ever stop being scared of him?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
Maddison stood and picked up her coffee cup. “I’m going to get more water.” Mat followed her with his eyes. “Maddison.” She stopped in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for staying awake.” The way he said it was so simple it almost hurt, Maddison rested a hand on the frame. “Always.”
When she went downstairs to the kitchen, Matt was standing by the island, talking quietly with Sydney. When he saw her, he stopped talking.
Maddison narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Matt.” He sighed. “Just… thank you.” She looked confused. “For what?”
“For taking care of him.” Maddison softened. “He’s your friend too.”
“Yeah.” Matt nodded slowly. “But he’s more than that to you, "Maddison lowered her gaze, Sydney smiled softly, but said nothing.Matt stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to say I love it.”
“What a shock.”
“But last night…” He paused, searching for the words like it irritated him that he needed them. “Last night I saw the way you look at each other.” Maddison felt her chest tighten. “And?” Matt exhaled. “And I trust you.”
Maddison smiled faintly. “Thank you.” Matt leaned down and kissed her forehead “But the door stays open.” Sydney laughed. Maddison rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”
That morning, when Mat drifted back to sleep for a little while longer in her room, Maddison sat down in the chair again, this time with hot coffee and less fear in her chest. She watched him rest, his face calmer, his breathing even, one hand on top of the blanket still seeming to search for hers even in sleep.
Can you write something about Mat doing no nut November wit some of the guys and we all know he’d def lose on the 2nd day
oh my god okay i’m so sorry it took me all of november to write this 😭 mat certainly didn’t last this long lmaoo
on the morning of november 1st, mat comes into the house after practice and says, “we’re doing no nut november.”
you lift your eyebrows and point between your chest and mat’s with the spatula you’re using to scramble some eggs. “who? me and you? because i don’t remember signing up for that,” you say, accepting the kiss he plants on your lips
“me and the guys,” mat says, lifting talia out of her high chair and hugging her close. she squishes his face with jam covered hands and he laughs, kissing her cheeks. “talked about it after practice, leesy doesn’t think we can do it.”
“it’s supposed to be team bonding, mrs. b,” schaefs says, coming into the kitchen with his backpack slung on one shoulder. he gives talia a high five over mat’s shoulder
you shake your head at your husband and adopted son. “that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard,” you snort. “and i’m not participating in that, so,” you wave your hand in mat’s general direction, “you’re on your own, buddy.”
schaefs grins wickedly, his eyes twinkling, “that’s kinda the point! plus, everyone thinks barzy’s gonna be the first man out”
knowing your husband, you tend to agree with his teammates. “what does he have to do when he loses?” you ask, plating up brunch for the boys
“wow,” mat deadpans, holding talia on his lap and feeding her pieces of toast, “i feel the love and support, squeaks. loser, which won’t be me, has to perform a song of the winner’s choice at karaoke at borrelli’s.”
“oh god,” you laugh, “that’s amazing and i really hope you lose now”
schaefs cheers, “woohoo! mrs. b’s gonna sabotage from the inside, i love it”
mat tosses a piece of crust at the rookie and talia shouts, “no, daddy! bad!” making you all laugh
-
in bed later, you lay out the rules on mat’s no nut november challenge. he’s not allowed to come, but you can and a quick text to the group chat clarifies that mat’s not allowed to make you come either, which he protests as being unfair
“shouldn’t have agreed to it,” you reply primly when he whines about not being able to eat you out for a whole month - “or less if you decide to lose”
“no way,” mat shakes his head. “i just have to hold out longer than at least one other guy. shouldn’t be hard.”
you bite your tongue against the quip that something else will be hard all month with no relief, but you figure he’s suffering enough.
besides, the guys are going on a seven game road trip, it should be easy for mat to resist.
and then on november 2nd? they beat columbus in a 3-2 thriller and mat comes home amped the fuck up. he can’t help but kiss you in the way that you always know will lead to fun in bed, his cock hard and thick against your thigh when he crushes you to his chest.
honestly, you’re surprised that he has enough willpower to pull away after grinding into you through your clothes. he whines and flops into his side of the bed, his cock clearly tenting his pants, and mutters, “stupid fucking shit. should’ve pushed for no shave november”
“oh that would’ve been nice,” you grin, pulse racing. unfortunately for you, he’s worked you up into a state of arousal. “i always like the feeling of your stubble on my thighs”
“fuck, squeaks,” he groans. “can’t say shit like that to me when i’m this hard up”
“what if you just come in your pants like a teenager?” you giggle, tracing your fingers over the veins on the back of his hand. “ does that count?”
per the group chat - yes, it counts, and jesus fuck, barzy, you’re that weak? it’s only the 2nd!
they lose to the bruins and the wild on the 4th and 7th and despite mat’s assists in both games, he comes home cranky and grumpy and you’re pretty sure part of his mood has to do with the blue balls in addition to the losses. as far as you know, none of the other guys have quit or lost or whatever, so mat’s still pretty invested in not being the one to lose
he’s also annoyed because he came home after the bruins game to find you mid-orgasm, vibrator in hand and sheepish grin on your face when he rolled his eyes at you and grumbled, “who’s too horny to last a month now?”
that all goes by the wayside after the 5-0 drubbing of the rangers on the 8th. you’re at the game, screaming and cheering and just generally losing your mind as the clock ticks down and sorokin posts a shutout. mat finds you in the stands and grins at you and you know, he’s not going to win the challenge
and what a way he goes out - he’s on you the second he gets home, claiming every inch of your skin with his mouth, licking and sucking marks that will last for a few days
“fuck, been too goddamn long,” he groans into the valley between your tits, dragging his mouth over to suck at your nipples. his fingers are between your legs, thumb at your clit and middle and ring fingers making a home in your cunt. his hips work and he’s grinding into the mattress, his bare ass bouncing deliciously
you whine and tug at his hair, hooking a leg over his side to open up for him. “it’s been a - ah, oh god, there there please mat more - week. it’s only been a week!” you laugh and it breaks off into a wail that you have to muffle into your palm when mat makes you come on his fingers. you drip down his wrist and he looks up with wild eyes and a wicked grin
“never felt so good to be a loser, squeaks,” he laughs, a rough, delighted sound and then disappears between your legs again
he makes you come on his tongue, fingers pressed against your g-spot so you’ll squirt all over his face and be nice and wet for him to slam his cock into you. the stretch of his cock feels good, amazing after the always disappointing use of your vibrator. you’ve been spoiled by mat in all your years together and orgasms are the most satisfying when he gives them to you
mat fits inside of you like he was made for you and he tosses your legs over his shoulders to stroke even deeper and sweat pools at your lower back, drips down the side of his face, his skin slick against yours
“come on, baby,” he croons, “give me one more, make it really worth losing the challenge”
you nod, feeling untethered from your body, and mat pulls out a few inches before slamming into you again, the final thrust and clench of your cunt around his cock dragging him over the edge
he fills you and fills you, coming for longer than he usually does, built up over eight days. mat drops his weight on top of you, cock twitching and releasing into your cunt until his come spills out around him. the bed is a mess, you’re a mess. mat’s breathing hard into your neck and you’ve never felt more satisfied
you go another round before climbing into the shower and then back into bed, mat’s completely spent from the game and the sex and you card your fingers through his hair, kissing his shoulder softly
“what song do you think they’ll make you sing at karaoke?” you giggle
“who gives a fuck?” mat laughs, rubbing his palm over your side and up to cover your breast. “whatever it is, it was so fucking worth it. no chance i was gonna go on a seven game roadie before getting some love from my wife”
“it’s a road trip, not a deployment,” you tease, secretly pleased that mat can barely keep his hands off of you, even after having a baby. he yawns and tucks closer to you, falling asleep quickly
-
the next morning, you’ve got talia on your hip while you cook breakfast and schaefs pops up in his game day clothes, shaking his head at you
“what?” you ask, handing talia over when she lunges for him.
“is it true barzy is a big bieber fan?” he asks, making faces at talia to get her to laugh.
you cock your head at him and nod. “he’s been known to pop the biebs onto a playlist, yeah. why?”
your eighteen year old adopted son grins and says, “just brainstorming songs for him to sing at karaoke”
“i have no regrets,” mat announces, rubbing his hands through his hair as he comes into the kitchen. “and if you checked your phone ever, you’d know that i already self reported”
“how honourable,” you deadpan. “now who wants breakfast?”
Ryder has never cared, not then and definitely not now he is in high school.
He doesn’t come home from the party until late.
Mat is still up, sitting in the kitchen, lights low, phone in his hand but not really looking at it.
Ryder walks in quiet, shoulders tight, jaw clenched in that way Mat knows too well.
“Hey,” Mat says.
Ryder shrugs, heading straight for the fridge.
“Don’t,” Mat says gently. “Come sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Ryder slams the fridge door harder than necessary. “She was there.”
Mat leans back slightly. “Yeah?”
“With him,” Ryder says, voice sharp now. “Some football guy. Like it was nothing.”
Mat studies him. “And that bothers you because…?”
Ryder lets out a harsh laugh. “Because I liked her. I just didn’t… say it like that.”
Mat nods slowly. “So you didn’t tell her?”
“I didn’t think I had to,” Ryder snaps. “I mean… she knew.”
Mat exhales. “No,” he says quietly. “She didn’t.”
Ryder looks at him, angry and hurt and confused all at once. “So what, I just lose her because I didn’t say the right thing.”
“Yeah,” Mat says simply. “Sometimes that’s exactly how it works.”
Ryder scoffs. “That’s stupid.”
“It is,” Mat agrees.
Then Ryder mutters, “Did you ever… mess it up like that?”
Mat huffs a quiet laugh.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “I messed it up bad.”
Ryder looks up, surprised.
“Your mom,” Mat says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “First time we were seeing each other, nothing serious yet. When she worked for the Islanders, I thought that meant she’d just… be there.”
Ryder leans forward. “And?”
“And I didn’t say anything. Didn’t make it clear. Didn’t show up for her how I should’ve.
From the hallway, Mama pauses.
She wasn’t supposed to hear this but now she’s very much listening.
Mat keeps going.
“So she started seeing someone else.”
Ryder’s eyes widen. “Mom?”
“Yeah,” Mat says. “Casually. Some guy from Jersey.”
Ryder blinks. “No way.”
“Yeah way,” Mat mutters. “Nate Bastian, devils?”
Then from the hallway, Mama’s voice cuts in.
“…Excuse me?”
Mat freezes.
Ryder’s eyes go wide.
Mama steps fully into the kitchen, arms crossed, brows raised. “You’re telling him this story?”
Mat coughs. “In my defense, I didn’t think you were listening.”
“I’m always listening,” she says flatly. “Continue.”
Mat sighs. “Anyway. She starts seeing him. And I realise… oh. I messed up.”
“Messed up is an understatement,” Mama adds.
Mat ignores her. “So I did what any rational guy would do.”
Mama already knows this is about to be bad.
“What did you do?” Ryder asks.
Mat points at him. “Don’t copy this part.”
Mama narrows her eyes. “Mathew?”
“I drove to Jersey,” he says.
Mama’s mouth drops open.
“You did not.”
“I found his address,” Mat continues.
“You did not.”
“I knocked on his door.”
“You absolutely did not!”
Ryder is staring, fully locked in.
“And when he answered…” Mat hesitates for half a second.
Mama finishes it for him. “Don’t you dare.”
Mat winces. “…I punched him.”
Silence.
Mama stares at him like she’s deciding whether to kill him or kiss him.
“You punched Nate in the face?” she repeats slowly.
“He was standing between me and you,” Mat mutters.
“You weren’t t even dating me!” she fires back.
“I wanted to be.”
“You could have used words,” she snaps.
“I tried,” he says defensively. “After i broke his nose.”
Mama lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “All these years and I am just hearing this.”
Mat looks back at their son, serious now. “Point is, I didn’t say what I felt until it was almost too late. And it cost me.”
Ryder’s shoulders drop slightly.
“So what do I do?” he asks quietly.
Mat thinks for a second.
“You decide if you actually want her,” he says. “And if you do, you say it. Clearly. No games. No guessing.”
“And if she’s already moved on?”
Mat glances at Mama.
Then back at Ryder.
“Then you learn from it,” he says. “And you don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Mama sighs, leaning against the counter now, still processing. “Go to bed baby, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed tomorrow.”
He nods, kissing her cheek as he goes with a mumbled, “Night mom.”
Once Ryder leaves, she turns to Mat.
“I cannot believe you punched him,” she mutters.
Mat smirks just a little. “You married me.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a smile fighting through it now.
