:: You hated William Nylander. But a city-wide ice storm had a way of changing the rules.
A/N: So sorry, this is not proofread 🙈 I just needed to get it out of my system 🤭
William Nylander x Reader, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, 18+ Mature Content: explicit sexual content: oral sex (f receiving), unprotected penetrative sex
Word count: 2.3K
You hated William Nylander.
It wasn't a quiet, passive dislike. It was an active, searing loathing that made your blood boil. It wasn't professional; it was deeply personal. He was your best friend’s teammate, which meant he was an unavoidable, infuriating fixture in your life.
He was cocky, effortlessly charming, and treated your presence with a casual amusement that drove you insane. He called you "Knies's little shadow," a nickname that made you want to dump a beer over his perfectly styled hair. Every time you were out with the team, he’d find you, leaning in close to murmur some infuriatingly witty observation just to watch you bristle.
Tonight was no different. You were at a bar, celebrating a hard-fought win over the Canadiens. Matthew was deep in conversation with another player, and you were nursing a drink, trying to remain invisible. You failed.
"Slumming it with the common folk, Tiger?" a low, familiar voice drawled in your ear.
You didn't even have to turn around. "Go away, Nylander."
He chuckled, sliding onto the barstool beside you. "Ouch. And here I thought we were friends."
"We're not," you said, turning to face him. He looked entirely too good in a white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the thick muscle beneath. "We're not even friendly acquaintances. We're people who are forced to tolerate each other because of our mutual affection for Matthew Knies."
"Is that what we are?" he grinned, his blue eyes dancing. "I thought we were in the middle of a very passionate, albeit one-sided, rivalry."
"The only thing one-sided here is your ego," you shot back, taking a sip of your drink.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, for someone who hates me so much, you spend an awful lot of time looking at my lips."
Your face flushed, and you hated him for it. "I'm looking at the source of all my problems."
He laughed, a full, genuine laugh that made your stomach clench. "I love getting under your skin. It's my favourite hobby."
You hated him. You absolutely hated him.
_
Two weeks later, the universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humour.
A freak ice storm had shut down the city. Flights were cancelled, roads were impassable, and you were stranded at a downtown bar, kilometres from your apartment. Your phone buzzed with a text from Matthew. ‘This storm is insane. You okay? I'm stuck at home.’
‘Fine, just trying to figure out how to get back to my place,’ you typed back, a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. All the Ubers and Lyfts were down, and a cab was a fantasy.
A moment later, your phone rang. It was him. "I can't get my car out of the garage," he said, his voice crackling with worry over the phone. "The roads are a mess. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine, Matt, just stuck," you sighed, watching the snow swirl outside the bar windows.
There was a muffled sound on the other end, and then Matthew's voice returned, clearer this time. "Okay, hang on. Willy's here. He says he's got his truck and can get you. Willy, you there?"
You heard Nylander's familiar, confident voice in the background. "Yeah, man. Tell her I'm heading out. I'll get her home."
Matthew came back on the line. "He's coming to get you. Just stay inside, okay?"
You wanted to protest. You would rather walk home in a blizzard. But you couldn't do that to Matthew; he'd worry himself sick. So, you just sighed again. "Fine. Tell him thanks."
Twenty minutes later, a text lit up your screen from an unknown number. ‘I'm outside. Black SUV.’ You grabbed your coat, bracing yourself for the longest, most awkward drive of your life.
_
The drive was tense and silent, the city outside a blur of swirling white. He navigated the treacherous streets with a confidence that annoyed you almost as much as his smirk. When he was just about to finally turn onto your street, you felt a surge of relief. Freedom.
But it was short-lived. The road was completely blocked. A massive snowdrift, taller than his SUV, had been ploughed right across the intersection, sealing off your entire block. It was an impassable wall of ice and snow.
"Well, shit," he muttered, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. "That's not happening."
Your heart sank. "So, what do we do?"
He was quiet for a long moment, staring out the windshield at the wall of snow. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, weighing options he clearly didn't like. Finally, he sighed, a heavy, reluctant sound. "My place is five minutes from here," he said, his voice low. "The roads are clear on this side. You can take the guest room."
Panic flared in your chest. "Absolutely not."
He turned to look at you, his expression tired and unimpressed. "Don't be difficult."
"I'm not being difficult! I'm not staying at your place. I'll just… I'll find a hotel."
"A hotel?" he let out a short, humourless laugh. "In this storm? With every other stranded person in the city? You'll be sleeping in the lobby."
"Then I'll sleep here!" you shot back, gesturing at the car. "It's better than your place."
He stared at you, his patience finally snapping. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, firm growl that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. "You are not sleeping in a frozen car on the side of the road. You are coming back to my condo. You are going to sleep in a warm bed. And we are not going to argue about this for another second. Do you understand me?"
His eyes, usually so full of mirth, were hard and intense. It was an order, not a suggestion. And for reasons you couldn't begin to decipher, you found yourself nodding, your resistance evaporating under the weight of his command.
"Good," he said, his tone softening slightly as he put the car back in drive. "Wouldn't dream of making you unhappy, Tiger," he added, a ghost of his usual smirk returning, but it was different now.
_
His condo was exactly what you’d expected: sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the now-blurry city lights. It was also warm.
"Make yourself at home," he said, his voice flat as he tossed his keys on the counter. "Guest room is down the hall."
You changed into the spare t-shirt he gave you, the soft cotton smelling distractingly like him. When you emerged, he was standing by the window, staring out at the storm. The air was thick with unspoken words.
"Look," he started, turning to face you. "Can we just… not? For one night. Can we not do the whole… thing?"
"What 'thing'?" you challenged, crossing your arms. "The thing where you act like an insufferable jackass, and I have the audacity to call you out on it?"
His jaw tightened. "I was trying to be nice."
"You were trying to be condescending. There's a difference."
"Oh, here we go," he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Miss High and Mighty, ready to pass judgment on everyone. God forbid anyone just try to exist around you without your approval."
"My approval? You're the one who needs constant validation! You have to be the funniest guy in the room, the best player on the ice, with your fucking fashion and YouTube! It's exhausting!"
"At least I have a personality!" he shot back, his voice rising. "Yours is just 'hate William Nylander' on a perpetual loop! Do you even have any other thoughts in that head?"
"Plenty! Just none I'd waste on you!"
"You're insufferable!"
"You're an arrogant, self-absorbed—"
You didn't finish. You didn't have to. In three long strides, he closed the distance between you. His hand shot out, cupping the back of your neck, and he crashed his lips to yours.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. It was all the months of frustration, all the sharp words and biting insults, all the unspoken, unwanted attraction boiling over into a single, desperate act. It was angry and punishing and impossibly good. His teeth nipped at your lower lip, and you gasped, giving him the opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue claiming yours with a dominance that made your knees weak.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. You wanted to win this fight, whatever it was. You wanted to consume him.
He broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. "Tell me to stop," he rasped, his voice thick with a need that mirrored your own.
You couldn't. Instead, you surged up and kissed him again, pouring every ounce of your hate and desire into it.
He groaned, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you down the hall to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours. He laid you down on his bed, his body covering yours, his weight a delicious pressure. The city lights cast a soft glow over his room as he stripped off your clothes, then his own, until you were both naked, skin against skin.
He was beautiful. All thick muscle and golden skin, his body a testament to his discipline. He looked at you with an awe that made your breath catch, his blue eyes dark with a hunger that was finally, thrillingly, for you.
"You're fucking sexy," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ve wanted to feel you… for so long."
The admission hung in the air between you, raw and vulnerable. It was the truth behind all the smirks and taunts, the real reason for the tension that had been simmering for months. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You didn't trust your voice to speak, to give him the words he wanted to hear.
You reached up, your hand cupping his jaw, your thumb stroking the rough stubble there. You pulled him down for a deep, lingering kiss, pouring every unspoken feeling into it. “Me too,” you said hoarsely against his lips.
He groaned against your mouth, the sound one of pure relief and triumph. He didn't wait. He began his descent, his lips tracing a path of fire down the column of your throat. He wasn't rushing; he was savouring. He tasted the salt on your skin, nipped gently at your collarbone, his hands roaming the curves of your hips and waist as if memorising your shape.
When his mouth finally closed over your breast, a sharp cry escaped you. His tongue swirled around your peaked nipple, teasing and tormenting until you were arching off the bed, your fingers digging into the powerful muscles of his shoulders. He paid the same reverent attention to the other, his hands holding you steady as you writhed beneath him.
He continued his slow, deliberate journey south, his lips brushing over your ribs, your stomach, the dip of your navel. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing them open. The anticipation was a sweet, exquisite agony. His hot breath ghosted over your most sensitive skin, and you whimpered, your hands tangling desperately in his hair.
"Please," you begged, your voice barely a whisper. "Willy, please."
He didn't make you wait. He flattened his tongue and licked a slow, broad stripe up your slit, and you saw stars. It wasn't a tentative exploration; it was a claim. He did it again, and again, his movements deliberate, maddening. He circled your clit, teasing it before finally closing his mouth around it and sucking. Gently at first, then with a growing pressure that made your toes curl. He worked you relentlessly, his tongue flicking and stroking until you were a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him, the pleasure building to an impossible peak.
"Willy," you cried out, your hips bucking against his face as a blinding wave of pleasure crashed over you, stealing your breath and your vision.
He didn't stop, drawing out your orgasm until you were spent and trembling. Only then did he move back up your body, positioning himself at your entrance. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with lust and something more. Something tender.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. "Show me how good I make you feel."
He entered you then, a slow, deliberate thrust that stole your breath. He paused, letting you adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely, perfectly full. He began to move, his hips rocking into yours with a slow, steady rhythm that was designed to undo you completely. Each drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of ecstasy.
"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "Tighter than I ever imagined."
You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. This wasn't just fucking. It was a confession. It was an apology. It was everything you hadn't known you needed to say. He shifted his angle, hitting that perfect spot deep inside you, and the coil snapped. Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, shattering wave of pleasure that left you screaming his name.
He followed you over with a hoarse cry, his body tensing as he found his own release, his hips jerking against yours as he emptied himself deep inside you.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pinning you to the bed. You were both breathing heavily, your bodies slick with sweat, the only sound in the room your ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city.
For a long moment, you just stayed like that. Then he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. He kissed your forehead, a soft, gentle gesture.
"So," he murmured into your hair, his voice a low, contented rumble. "Are we still hating each other tomorrow?"
You laughed, a breathy, happy sound you couldn't contain. "Don't push it, Nylander."
He chuckled, holding you tighter. "Just checking."
The storm was still raging outside, but in here, in his arms, there was only peace. You hated William Nylander. But you were also rapidly, terrifyingly, and completely falling in love with William Nylander.
indulge in some of my fics, featuring an nhl player who i’ve turned into a grade A yearner !
1. couldn’t make it any harder | leon draisaitl
yearning qualifications; thought you were too pretty that he decided saying nothing was better than anything, pretends to hate you, always notices your nails without saying anything, and made someone in the wedding party switch spots in the guest house so he could be in the same one as you.
2. will you still love me tomorrow? | mat barzal
yearning qualifications; literally thrown in a time loop so he could realize he loved you, defended your honour to girlfriend when she made a side comment, loved you the moment he met you, and bought you a replacement houseplant even when he thought it would die in the loop, simply because he wanted to make you happy.
3. match made in…statistics?!? | joseph woll
yearning qualifications; sent you flowers when you mentioned never receiving them, kept doing your program even though it was failing miserably…just so he could keep seeing you, and paid for both of your love crystals and kept his on him at all times because you believed in them.
4. crawling back to you | matthew knies
yearning qualifications; pretended to hate you so that your boyfriend/ his roommate wouldn’t be suspicious, saw that you were feeling anxious at the courtyard and left his responsibilities to keep you company, killed a spider for you because even after trying to separate himself from you because he was falling too deep, he just couldn’t stop himself from helping you.
5. ex under the tree | nathan mackinnon
yearning qualifications; immediately dropped everything once he realized your family still thought you were together so he could save you the trouble of telling them, bought you a present even though you weren’t together anymore, was willing to fuck up his bad back so that you’d be comfortable in the bed by yourself, and never stopped loving you anyways.
6. yours | william nylander
yearner qualifications; the ultimate yearner!!!! said he’d help you get with his best friend not because he wanted to see you together, but because he wanted to see you happy. watches tinkerbell with you and it became his favourite movie. helped you calm down and clean up when you got puked on. came to your immediate aid when kappy left you on the dance floor. put your boots on for you when your nose got fucked up. DRIED YOUR PANTS FOR YOU UNDER A HAND DRYER WHEN YOU SPILT WATER ALL OVER YOUR LAP ON A DOUBLE DATE.
[summary] you and your roommates newly ex-boyfriend are trapped in a time loop together. you already can’t stand him and his go lucky personality, so being forced to work side by side to figure out why you’re stuck, is a challenge in itself. at first, it seems obvious: you’re meant to help mat win her back. but the longer the loop lasts, the harder it is to ignore the way it keeps pulling you and mat closer—and the growing suspicion that maybe he isn’t meant to be part of your toomates love story at all… maybe he’s meant to be part of yours.
prologue: will you still love me tomorrow?
🎶 bye bye baby by bay city rollers, miss sunshine by mgk, will you still love me tomorrow by amy winehouse, am I high rn? by quinn xcii, before you by benson boone, and I love her by the beatles, ride by lana del rey + basic being basic by djo
part one: boy you turn me inside out, and round and round
🎶 upside down by diana ross, meet me in the hallway by harry styles, dive by olivia dean, I thought I saw your face today by she & him, sorry i’m here from someone else by benson boone, I only have eyes for you by the flamingos, giver / taker by lacey musgraves, who you are by djo + cowboy like me by taylor swift
part two: to make a mess of it, then the best of it
🎶 all the things she said by harrison, beautiful now by zedd & john bellion, ain’t no mountain high enough by marvin gaye, it isn’t perfect but it might be by olivia dean, im scared ill never sleep again by 5 seconds of summer, honey by taylor swift, show me what im looking for by carolina liar, fool for you by zayn + the promise by when in rome
part three: everybody wants something, you just want me
🎶 I told you things by gracie abrams, daylight by taylor swift, I drink wine by adele, mess by noah kahan, time after time by lennon stella, anything could happen by ellie goulding, the man who can’t be moved by the script, everybody loves somebody by dean martin + i’m yours by jason mraz
{tags; time loop. au. frenemies to lovers. grumpy x sunshine. slow burn. forbidden romance. forced proximity.}
Summary: Mat knows falling for his new coach’s daughter is a terrible idea — Patrick Roy would probably trade him for a bag of pucks without even blinking — but one conversation with you has him risking everything for coffee, critique, and a chance at something real
The restaurant is too warm.
That’s Mat’s first thought. The air is thick with the smell of schmoozing and expensive, tiny food. It’s that humid, packed-room warmth that makes the collar of his custom suit feel like a wool sock.
“He looks …” Bo Horvat says, staring across the room. “... shorter. Than I imagined.”
“It’s the aura, man,” Noah Dobson whispers, nursing a ginger ale. He looks seventeen. “The aura adds like, six inches. You see the rings?”
Mat squints. Across the sea of management suits and nervous-looking teammates, the new coach holds court. Patrick Roy. Patrick Roy. It still doesn’t feel real. He’s talking to Lou Lamoriello, and even Lou — a man who inspires his own brand of quiet terror — looks ... well, he just looks like Lou. But Roy is electric. He gestures with his hands, sharp and definitive.
“He’s gonna kill us,” Mat mutters, adjusting his cuff. “We’re all dead.”
“C’mon, Matty,” Bo says, giving him a supportive, captain-like thump on the back. “He’s a winner. We need this. This is good.”
“’Good’ is not the word I’d use for the bag-skate I’m already having in my nightmares,” Mat says. He’s jittery. He hates this stuff. The corporate meet-and-greet. He just wants to get on the ice. He’s all nervous energy, tapping his fingers against his glass of club soda. He’s the star, the $9-million-dollar man. He’s supposed to be the confident one. But that is Patrick Roy.
He scans the room again, logging faces. Management. Staff. A few wives. And then ... he stops.
His fingers go still on the glass.
Near the back wall, partially hidden by a structural pillar, is you.
You’re not talking to anyone. You’re holding a phone, but you’re not looking at it. Your eyes are scanning the room. Not in a lost, “I don’t know anyone” way. No. This is a cold, professional assessment. You’re looking at the room the way a goalie reads a 3-on-2. You’re looking at everything.
You’re wearing a black blazer, sharp shoulders, and underneath, something silky and simple. Your hair is pulled back, but a few strands have escaped, framing a face that is ... wow. He can’t ... wow. It’s a face that looks like it’s never been impressed by anything, ever.
“... and I just think,” Bo is saying, “if we buy into the system early, he’ll respect the …”
“Who’s that?” Mat asks.
Bo and Dobson stop. They follow his gaze.
You, in that moment, lift your chin. Someone must have said something you disagree with, even from across the room. Your mouth thins into a line.
“Dunno,” Noah says. “New PR? She looks ... intense.”
“She looks …” Mat says, but he doesn’t finish. He can’t. He’s watching you push off the wall. You move with an athlete’s economy. No wasted motion. You head, not for the bar, not for the door, but straight for the eye of the storm.
You walk right up to Patrick Roy.
The coach turns. His face, severe and focused while talking to Lou, breaks into a genuine, broad smile. He claps you on the shoulder, pulling you into a one-armed hug. You laugh, a short, sharp sound that Mat can’t hear, but he sees it. You say something. Roy laughs, too.
You have the same eyes. The same intensity. The same look.
Mat feels his stomach drop through the floor.
“Oh,” Bo says, his voice full of sudden, profound understanding. “Oh, no. Matty. No.”
“What?” Mat says, his voice too high.
“That’s his daughter,” Noah breathes, looking horrified. “That’s Y/N Roy. I read about her. She’s ... she’s a goalie. Like, a nutso goalie. Like, broke-her-stick-on-the-crossbar-in-college goalie.”
“No,” Mat says, but it’s a prayer.
“Dude. Don’t,” Bo says, low and urgent. “Do not. That is ... that is the Marianas Trench of bad ideas. That is career-suicide-by-coach.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Mat says, trying to tear his eyes away. He can’t. “I’m just looking. She’s ... you know. She’s here.”
“She’s his daughter,” Bo repeats, as if Mat is a very small, very stupid child. “His only daughter. The one he’s famously protective of. The one who also plays goal.”
“Slightly crazy goalie whose father would definitely kill me,” Mat murmurs, almost to himself.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just ... I gotta ... I need another club soda.”
He shoves his glass at Bo and starts moving.
“Mat. Mat!” Bo hisses. “Where are you going? The bar is the other way!”
But Mat doesn’t listen. He’s just walking. He’s navigating the clusters of people, offering tight smiles and nods, but his eyes are locked. You’ve broken off from your father, who is now trapped by the analytics department. You’re back by the wall, phone in hand. You look bored to tears.
He’s three feet away. Your back is mostly to him.
This is it. This is the moment. He’s Mat Barzal. He’s got this. He’s charm. He’s speed.
He opens his mouth.
“These things are brutal, right?”
You turn.
The full force of your “I am not impressed” look hits him like a cross-check. You’re not hostile. You’re not defensive. You’re just observing him. Calculating. Your eyes are ... Jesus, they’re your dad’s eyes.
“It’s a mandatory ’welcome the new coach’ party,” you say. Your voice is lower than he expected. A little rough, like you’ve been yelling. Or maybe you’re just tired. “The fun is just assumed. It’s not actually present.”
He laughs. A real one. It just barks out of him. “Okay, yeah. That’s ... that’s exactly it. The fun is assumed. I’m Mat Barzal.”
He holds out a hand.
You look at his hand. You just look at it. You don’t take it. After a beat that lasts about four years, he awkwardly drops it.
“I know who you are,” you say. You’re not trying to be a jerk. It’s just a fact. “You’re the fast one. The one who does all the ... spinny things.”
“Spinny things,” Mat repeats. “Yeah. That’s ... that’s me. The spinny guy.”
“Right.” You glance back at your phone, a clear, brutal dismissal.
He should leave. Bo is watching him from across the room with an expression of pure, unadulterated panic. He should leave.
He leans against the wall, a few feet away. Not too close.
“So. You’re his daughter.”
You sigh, a tiny, impatient sound. You pocket your phone. “That’s the rumour. Yes.”
“Tough gig?” He asks. “Being ... you know. Her. At one of these?”
You turn your head to look at him fully. Your arms are crossed. It’s a closed-off stance, but your eyes are working. You’re scanning his face, his suit, his hair. He suddenly feels like his hair is stupid.
“Tougher gig? Being his new player,” you counter. Your voice is dry, no humour in it. “He watches tape. A lot of tape. Hope your back-check is clean, Barzal.”
A jolt of actual, professional fear goes through him. “It’s, uh, it’s a work in progress? I’m, you know. Improving.”
“Right.” You almost smile. It’s just the corner of your mouth, and it’s gone before it even registers. “Well. Good luck with that.”
You nod once. The “conversation over” nod. You make to move away.
“Wait!”
It’s too loud. He cringes at himself.
You stop. You turn back, one eyebrow slightly raised.
“You ... you play, right?” He says, scrambling. “I heard. I think I read something. You’re a goalie.”
This gets him somewhere.
Your posture, which was all sharp angles and ’go away,’ softens. Just a fraction, but it’s there. The crossed arms loosen.
“I play,” you say. Your voice is different. Warier, maybe.
“That’s unreal. Seriously. I mean ... learning from him?” He gestures vaguely toward your dad.
You scoff. A real, audible scoff this time. “Learning from him. Yeah. That’s one way to put it. It was mostly him standing behind the glass at my 6 AM practices, yelling ’Cover the damn post!’ until I was twelve.”
“But, I mean ... it worked, right?”
“I won a few championships,” you say. You say it like it’s nothing. Like you’re mentioning you bought milk.
“A few. Right. Just a casual few.” Mat is leaning in. He can’t help it. The “love at first sight” thing from across the room was ... that was just proximity. This is different. This is ... oh.
“You guys look terrified,” you observe, your eyes flicking over his shoulder to where Bo and Noah are now failing to pretend they’re not staring. “You. Horvat. Dobson. You’re all vibrating. It’s weird.”
“He’s Patrick Roy,” Mat says, as if this explains everything. Which it does. “It’s like ... it’s like having a legend walk in and be your boss. A legend who can, and will, bag-skate us until we actually puke.”
“He will,” you confirm, no hesitation. “Oh, one hundred percent. The first time you guys get lazy in the neutral zone? You’re all dead. He’ll smoke you. He loves a teaching practice.”
“Jesus. Thanks for the pep talk. Really inspiring.”
“You want a pep talk, go talk to the PR team. They’re great at it.” You nod toward them. “You want the truth, I’m standing right here. He’s not here to make friends, Mat. He’s here because he thinks you guys can win, and you’re not. And that ... it just pisses him off.”
The bluntness is freezing. And it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. He is in such, such deep trouble.
“So,” Mat says, regrouping. He needs to get his balance here. He’s the charmer. He’s the guy who talks. “You’re a goalie. And I’m a ... well, I’m a shoot-first, second, and third, and then maybe pass kind of guy.”
“An over-handler,” you correct him.
“... Okay, wow. But my point is: we’re natural enemies. By definition.”
You almost smile. He knows you almost smiled. “You’re the kind of guy I’d ’accidentally’ high-stick in a scrimmage.”
“Knew it!” He says, grinning. “I knew it. You’ve got the look.”
“What look?” You ask. The sharpness is back. Defensive.
“The ’I will literally end you and then sleep like a baby tonight’ look. It’s the Goalie Look. My buddy Ilya has it. Varly’s got it. You ... you’ve got it in spades.”
You uncross your arms. “It’s because we’re the only sane ones on the ice. Everyone else is just chaos. Running around. Hitting each other. We’re the stop. We’re the logical conclusion.”
“And my job,” Mat says, leaning a little closer, “is to be the chaos. My job is to make the logical conclusion illogical. This is a fundamental conflict of interest, us talking."
“Seems so,” you say. But you’re not moving away. You’re staying.
“So ... what’s your deal?” He asks. He tries to make his voice casual. “You live here? On the Island?”
“God, no,” you say, looking around the room with a faint expression of distaste. “No offense. It’s ... nice. But no. I’m just here to get him settled. I’m the Apartment and Utilities person. I’m here until he finds a place he doesn’t hate and learns how to use the cable."
“And then?”
“Then I go home. Colorado.”
“Playing?” He asks.
“Coaching.” You say it with a hint of ... pride? Maybe. “Goalie coach. U18s. They’re all demons. It’s a nightmare. I love it.”
Mat’s brain just short-circuits. “U18s? You’re a much braver person than I am. I remember me at 17. I was ... a lot.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you were like," you say, and now the smile ... it’s small, but it’s real. It’s a tiny, razor-sharp thing. “All flash. All toe-drags. Probably drove your coaches completely insane. Am I wrong?”
He just stares at you. "How did you know that?"
“I just told you. I coach forty of you. You’re just the one who made it.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation,” you say. “You made it despite yourself. You’re so skilled that it masked the bad habits. But in the playoffs? In a Game 7? Against a team that’s structured and mean? Those habits get you killed.”
He’s speechless. This is the most honest, brutal, and accurate scouting report he’s ever gotten. And he’s getting it at a cocktail party from the coach’s daughter.
“Wow,” he says. “Okay. So are you, like, always on? Can you just turn off the coach brain, and, you know. Be at a party? Have a shrimp puff?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Can you? You’ve been scanning the exits since you got here. You’re cataloging where Lou is, where my dad is, where your teammates are. You’re a center. You are always on. Don’t lie to me, Barzal.”
He’s so busted. He can’t help it, he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine. Guilty. But I’m not not analyzing everyone’s, I don’t know, back-checking.”
“You’re not? You clocked Bo before he even started walking over here. I saw you.”
“... Okay, Bo’s an open book,” Mat deflects.
“And I’m not?”
The question hangs in the air. It’s a test. He knows it.
“I ... I dunno,” he says, being honest. “I think you want to be an open book, but it’s, like, it’s written in goalie. It’s a different language. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Your expression flickers. That landed. He can tell. You didn’t expect that.
“You’re weird,” you say. But it’s not an insult. It’s an observation.
“I get that a lot,” he says, his confidence starting to trickle back. “So ... your dad. Does he call you for advice? ‘Hey, Y/N, what’s wrong with the power play?’”
You snort. “He calls me to complain about the power play. There’s a very big difference. He doesn’t ask for advice. He vents. He yells into the phone for twenty minutes about, I don’t know, a defenseman’s gap control. And I listen. And then I say, ‘Yeah, but your goalie dropped his glove too early on the entry.’ And then he hangs up.”
“See!” Mat says, pointing at you. “You are coaching him. That’s amazing.”
“It’s just, we speak the same language,” you say, shrugging. You finally lean against the wall, mirroring his posture. A thaw. “It’s boring, mostly. To other people. We’ll just ... we’ll sit and watch a game from, like, 1998. And just yell at the TV about a winger’s lazy line change.”
“That is not boring,” Mat says, and his voice is low. He’s entranced. “That’s my entire life. But nobody, you know, gets it. Not really. My family, they’re supportive, but they don’t see it. Not the details. Not like that.”
“And you do,” he finishes, a soft realization.
You look at him. Really look at him. Your goalie-assessment eyes are scanning him again, but it’s not cold this time. It’s ... curious.
“You’re fast,” you say, out of nowhere.
“Uh ... yeah? Thanks?”
“No, I mean you’re generationally fast,” you clarify. “But you over-handle. You know you’re fast, so you try to beat the first guy, and the second, and the third guy. And the trailer is wide open, screaming for a one-timer, and you just don’t see him. You’re trying to be the hero.”
He blinks. “You watch my tape?”
“I watch hockey. You’re on it. It’s not rocket science,” you say, flushing slightly. “It’s just ... you want to beat three guys. It’s flashy. It’s a little stupid.”
“It works sometimes,” he says, feeling weirdly defensive.
“’It works sometimes,’” you mock, and your voice is light. “That right there. That phrase is going to be the death of my father. He is going to have a literal aneurysm on the bench. I hope you know that. He hates ‘it works sometimes.’ He wants ‘it works.’ Period.”
“So you’re his scout, too.”
“I’m his daughter,” you say, as if it’s a burden. “It’s a package deal. You get the Hall of Famer ... you get the psycho goalie daughter who analyzes your zone entries for fun. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mat says, and his voice is sincere, earnest. “Don’t. That’s the best news I’ve had all night.”
Your head tilts. “That I think your puck-handling is stupid?”
“That you watch,” he says. “That you care. That you ... see it.”
A beat of silence. It just hangs between them. It’s warm. It’s charged. The rest of the noisy, stupid room just fades into a dull buzz. This is the oh moment. He can feel it. He’s pretty sure you can, too.
You’re the first to break. You clear your throat, looking away. “So.”
“So,” he echoes. He can’t stop smiling. He feels like an idiot. “You’re in town ... how long? You said a week?”
“A week. Maybe. Until he’s settled. Until he stops yelling at the hotel TV because the remote is ‘too complicated.’ So, yeah. A week.”
“A week. Okay. Okay. That’s ... time.”
Your eyes snap back to his. “Time for what, Barzal? For you to work on that back-check?”
“That,” he says, pushing off the wall. He’s standing in front of you now. “And, maybe, I dunno. Maybe you could show me. What I’m doing wrong.”
You look amused. Genuinely amused. “You want me to break down your tape? You’re crazy. I’m not on staff. That’s weird.”
“No!” He says, too fast. “No. Not tape. I mean dinner. Or coffee. Coffee’s better. Less pressure. And you can just yell at me. About my over-handling. And my spinny things.”
You’re staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “You want to buy me coffee just to have me insult your game?”
“Absolutely,” Mat says, with zero hesitation. His heart is hammering, but his voice is steady. “One hundred percent. It sounds, like, profoundly helpful. And awesome.”
You try to hide a smile. You fail. It’s a quick, small, reluctant thing, but it lights up your whole face. Mat’s heart does a stupid, unnecessary kick-flip.
“You’re an idiot,” you say.
“A fast idiot,” he counters. “With questionable puck management. Who really wants to buy you coffee.”
You look over his shoulder, at your dad. He’s still trapped. Then you look back at Mat. The humour fades.
“My dad would kill you,” you say. It’s not a joke. It’s not a threat. It’s a simple, calm statement of fact.
“Oh, I know,” Mat says, and his grin returns, wide and bright and maybe a little manic. “He would murder me. He would put me on waivers. He’d trade me to Columbus for a bag of pucks. And you know what?”
“What?” you breathe.
“Totally worth it.”
“You keep saying that,” you whisper.
“I keep meaning it.”
The moment stretches. It’s warm. It’s quiet, even in the loud room. They’ve built a little bubble.
And then the bubble pops.
“Y/N.”
The voice is a gravel-road bark.
Mat freezes. He actually, physically freezes. He doesn’t even have to turn around. The temperature in their little bubble just dropped fifty degrees.
You don’t flinch. You brace. Mat watches your whole body just ... lock. You turn.
“Hey, Dad.”
Patrick Roy is standing there. He’s not looking at you. His eyes are on Mat.
It’s not an angry look. It’s not a “get away from my daughter” look. It’s worse. It’s the look he gave the Red Wings. It’s the look he gave the Devils. It’s an assessment. It’s a cold, calculating, predator’s look, sizing Mat up, weighing him, and ... finding him wanting.
“Coach,” Mat says. His voice cracks. It cracks. He wants to die.
“Barzal,” Roy nods. Just the one. Sharp. “You know my daughter.”
It is not a question.
“Just met,” Mat squeaks. He clears his throat. “Just, uh, met. Yes, sir. Welcoming her to the team. The organization. You know.”
Smooth, Mat. Real smooth. You sound like a moron.
You, to your absolute, eternal credit, don’t miss a beat. You step half-a-foot to the side, so you’re standing with Mat, not opposite him. It’s a teammate move.
“Mat was just telling me how excited he is,” you say. Your voice is calm, even. “About the new system.”
Mat turns to you, his eyes wide.
You don’t look at him. Your focus is pure goalie, locked on your father.
“He’s very receptive,” you continue. “To the structured approach. We were talking about puck management.”
Patrick Roy’s legendary eyes slide from Mat, to you, then back to Mat. An eternity passes. Mat is pretty sure he’s stopped breathing. He can see Bo in his periphery, and Bo looks like he’s witnessing a car crash.
“Is that right, Barzal?” Roy asks. His voice is quiet.
“Yes, sir,” Mat says, finding his voice. “One hundred percent. Structure is ... that’s what we need. Structure. And back-checking. Lots of, uh, of that. Can’t wait. To learn.”
Roy just stares. He stares for another five seconds. Ten. Mat is about to faint.
“Good,” Roy says finally. “Practice. 9 AM. Be early.”
“Yes, sir. I will be.”
Roy claps a hand on your shoulder. The gesture is pure, uncomplicated affection. It makes Mat’s stomach hurt. “I’m leaving. Lou’s driving me. You need a ride?”
“I got an Uber,” you say. “I’m right behind you.”
“Good.” He nods at Mat again. A dismissal. “Barzal.”
And he’s gone.
He walks away, parting the crowd like a shark.
Mat exhales so hard he almost whistles. He sags against the wall. “I think I just died. I think I am—I’m dead right now. That was—woah."
You’re watching your father’s back as he leaves. You look tired.
“You’re not dead,” you say, turning back to him. Your face is unreadable.
“You totally saved me,” he says, bewildered. “You did that. Why?”
“You looked like you were going to faint,” you say, matter-of-fact. “It was embarrassing. Can’t have the star center passing out on night one. It’s bad for morale.”
“Right. Morale. That’s, yeah.” He’s scrambling. He just can’t get his balance around you. He’s spinning out.
“So,” you say.
You pull out your phone. You start typing something.
Mat’s heart hammers. This is it. She’s bailing. She’s texting her dad to trade me.
You stop typing. You look up.
“The coffee thing.”
“Yeah?” He whispers.
“Seven-thirty,” you say. “There’s a place called The SPoT in Garden City. It’s ... fine. It’s close to the rink.”
“7:30. Yeah. Okay. Great.”
“And don’t wear team gear,” you add. “It’s tacky.”
You hold your phone out. “Number.”
He scrambles for his own. “Oh. Yeah. Right. It’s, uh ...” He tells you.
A second later, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.
A new text. From a number he doesn’t know.
Just an address. Don’t be late. And don’t be a weirdo.
He looks up from the text, beaming. A wide, stupid, kilowatt grin. “I won’t. I—this is great. 7:30. I’ll be early. Earlier than practice.”
“You better be,” you say. “I’m not a morning person. Until I’ve had coffee. Then I’m still not a morning person. But I’m caffeinated.”
You nod, that same sharp, definitive nod. You start to walk away, heading for the door.
“Hey!” He calls after you.
You stop. You turn. You look back over your shoulder.
That is the look.
That’s the one. The one that’s half-annoyed, half-intrigued. The one that’s a challenge and a question. It’s the look that just completely, utterly rewrote his entire season.
“Seriously,” he says, trying to sound cool, failing miserably. “High-risk. High-reward. I’m worth the risk. I promise.”
You look at him for a long, long time. The corner of your mouth twitches.
“We’ll see, Barzal,” you say. “We’ll see. Now go talk to your friends. They look like their dog just died.”
You turn and walk out.
Mat watches you go. He stays leaning against the wall for a full minute, just staring at the empty doorway.
Bo and Noah materialize at his elbows, like they teleported.
“Dude,” Noah says, his voice full of pure, unadulterated awe. “You’re alive.”
“And ...” Bo says, squinting at the door you just left through. “Was she smiling? I think she was smiling. Was that ... a smile?”
Mat just stands there. He looks down at his phone. Just an address.
A slow, idiotic, unstoppable grin spreads across his face. He feels like he just won a Game 7 in overtime.
“Guys,” Mat says, pushing off the wall, his energy suddenly back, vibrating at a thousand watts. “I am in so much trouble.”
He sounds absolutely thrilled about it.
***
The Islanders locker room smells of sweat, tape, and the low-grade, simmering anxiety emanating from Mat.
He’s the only one in a suit.
It’s a charcoal Tom Ford number that cost more than a month’s rent on his first apartment. The knot of his tie feels like a hangman’s noose. He’s pacing a small, worn patch of the team-logo carpet between the stalls, his polished dress shoes squeaking faintly.
The rest of the team is in various states of post-practice disarray. Towels, jerseys, sliders. Bo is meticulously organizing his gear, but his eyes are tracking Mat’s frantic laps. Noah is leaning back in his stall, a phone held loosely in his hand, a look of profound, clinical interest on his face, like he’s watching a nature documentary about a particularly stupid gazelle.
“Okay, so the will is updated,” Mat says, stopping his pacing to point a finger at Bo. “It’s in the top drawer of my desk. My lawyer’s number is on the fridge.”
“I’m not calling your lawyer, Barzy,” Bo says, not looking up. “You’re going to dinner.”
“It’s not dinner, Bo. It’s The Hague. It’s a war crimes tribunal where I am the only defendant.” He resumes pacing. “Okay, okay. Funeral arrangements. Dobber, you’re in charge of the music.”
Dobson perks up. “Oh, sick. Can I play that one sad rap song?”
“No sad rap songs,” Mat snaps. “Something classy. Something instrumental. Something that says, ‘He was fast, he had great hands, and he died a hero, probably mauled by a bear.’”
“He’s not a bear, Mat,” Scott Mayfield says from across the room, pulling a hoodie over his head. “He’s just a very intense hockey coach.”
“A bear would be less scary,” Mat counters, his voice rising. “A bear doesn’t have a forty-five-minute pre-scout on your personal-life defensive-zone turnovers. A bear doesn’t have … the stare.”
A collective, knowing shudder seems to pass through the room. Everyone knows the stare.
“The eulogy,” Mat continues, his eyes landing on Jean-Gabriel Pageau. “Pags. You’re up. You’re good with words. You’re small, you’re feisty, people trust you. You just gotta get up there and say some stuff.”
Pageau, who had been quietly taping a new stick, looks up. “What kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know, man, make it good!” Mat throws his hands up in exasperation. “Say that I was a good teammate. That my zone entries were, more often than not, successful. That I loved my family, my team, and … and her. You gotta mention Y/N. Say that it was all worth it. Make it sound romantic. The girls will cry. It’ll be great.”
“You are so dramatic,” Noah says, shaking his head with a grin. “He’s just gonna, like, grill you. Ask you about your intentions. It’s what dads do.”
“Your dad sells insurance,” Mat retorts. “Your dad didn’t win four Stanley Cups by systematically destroying the confidence of every forward who came within ten feet of his crease. This is a different species of dad.”
He collapses onto the bench next to Bo’s stall, head in his hands. “This is a mistake. This is a massive, tactical error. We should’ve just, I don’t know. Eloped. Sent him a postcard from Vegas. ‘Having a great time, I married your daughter, please don’t trade me to Buffalo for future considerations.’”
“She would never agree to that,” Bo says calmly. “You know that. She’s not afraid of him.”
“She’s not afraid of anything,” Mat groans. “She’s a Roy. She probably thinks this is, like, a fun Tuesday. A nice little bloodsport before the game tomorrow. I’m the entertainment.” He lifts his head. “You know what she told me on the phone last night? She said, ‘Just be yourself.’ Worst advice anyone has ever given me in my entire life. ’Myself’ is a jittery, over-caffeinated man-child who likes sneakers and video games. Patrick Roy eats people like me for a light snack.”
Ilya Sorokin glides over. He has a placid, almost unnerving calm about him at all times. He places a hand on Mat’s shoulder.
“Matty,” he says, his Russian accent thick and soothing. “In goal … you see puck. You see shooter. You do not see bear. You do not see ghost. You see only what is real. Tonight, you are goalie. He is shooter. See him. Do not see ghost.”
Mat stares at him. “Ilya, with all the love in my heart, that is terrifying. You just made it so much worse.”
Ilya shrugs, a faint smile on his face, and glides away.
“This is insane,” Mat mutters, fixing his tie for the tenth time. “Four months. Four months of sneaking around like I’m some kind of secret agent. FaceTime calls at two in the morning because she’s in a different time zone. Flying to Denver on an off day just to have breakfast with her. I flew five hours for pancakes, Bo. Just so I could see her for three hours. And now I’m going to get murdered in a steakhouse.”
“But they were good pancakes, right?” Noah asks.
“They were the best pancakes of my life,” Mat admits, a stupid, lovesick smile momentarily breaking through his panic. “She steals my bacon. It’s infuriating. I love it.” He shakes his head, the panic returning full-force. “And now he’s gonna find out. He thinks he’s meeting, I don’t know, Derek. A nice, stable accountant named Derek who played a little club-level lacrosse in college. He’s not expecting his first-line, over-handling, spinny-thing-doing center to walk in.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He freezes. The entire room seems to go quiet, watching him. Slowly, he pulls it out.
It’s you.
Almost there. Don’t look so scared, I can feel your anxiety from the Uber.
Mat’s face pales. “She knows. She can sense fear. It’s a goalie thing. A Roy thing. It’s a Roy-goalie thing. Oh, God. It’s the ultimate predator.”
How do you feel? He types back, his thumbs shaking.
The reply is instantaneous.
Like I’m about to watch a car crash in very slow motion. It’s fascinating.
He shows the phone to Bo. Bo reads it and winces sympathetically.
“Okay,” Mat says, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. This is it. I’m going in. If I’m not at practice tomorrow, scatter my ashes in the home-team crease. It’s what I would have wanted.”
“You got this, Barzy,” Bo says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just … don’t talk about your contract. Or his.”
“Don’t show him the photos of your sneaker collection on your phone,” Dobson adds.
“Do not mention the 1993 playoffs,” Pageau advises gravely.
“Just … be Derek,” Mat whispers to himself. He starts for the door. He pauses, hand on the handle, and turns back to his teammates, a look of profound, sincere terror in his eyes. “I love you guys.”
And then he’s gone.
There’s a beat of silence in the room.
“So … fifty bucks says he dies,” Dobson says.
“No bet,” says Bo.
***
The restaurant is quiet. Too quiet. It’s the kind of expensive place where the silence is a status symbol, broken only by the clink of heavy silverware and the murmur of people discussing mergers. Mat sits at a corner booth, a glass of water sweating onto a pristine white coaster in front of him. He arrived twenty-five minutes early. He has mentally rehearsed seventeen different opening lines, and he has concluded that all of them are terrible.
He’s fiddling with the edge of his cuff when he sees you.
You walk through the door, and the entire dull, muted room seems to snap into focus. You’re wearing a dark green dress that’s simple and elegant and makes him forget every single one of his terrible opening lines. The hostess starts toward you, but you just nod toward his booth, your eyes already locked on his.
The knot of fear in his stomach loosens, replaced by that dumb, soaring feeling he only ever gets with you.
You slide into the booth opposite him. You don’t say anything for a moment. You just look at him, a tiny, amused smile playing on your lips.
“Wow,” you say, your voice a low, teasing murmur. “You actually wore the tie I like.”
“I’m trying to accumulate as many meaningless bonus points as I can before the main event,” he says, his voice shaky but grateful. “You look, I mean … wow. Just. You look wow.”
“You said that already,” you say, but you’re pleased. He can tell. You reach across the table and straighten his already-perfect tie. Your fingers graze his neck, and the touch calms him more than a thousand of Bo’s pep talks could. “You look like you’re about to be executed.”
“That feels like an accurate assessment of the situation,” he says. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “On a scale of one to ten, one being a casual chat and ten being the time he fought the entire Red Wings bench … what are we looking at tonight?”
“Probably a solid seven,” you say, squeezing his hand. “With the potential to escalate to a nine if you say something stupid.”
“The chances of me saying something stupid are hovering around one hundred and ten percent,” he whispers. “This is a catastrophic mistake. We should leave. We can go to that taco place you like. We can call him from the car. We can say I got food poisoning. It’s believable. I look like I have food poisoning.”
“We’re not leaving,” you say, your voice firm but your eyes soft. “And you don’t look like you have food poisoning. You look handsome. And terrified. It’s a weird combo, but it works on you.” You lean forward. “Hey. Look at me.”
He does. He gets lost in your eyes, the same intense, intelligent eyes as your father’s, but softened with an affection that is reserved entirely for him.
“I’m here,” you say. “Okay? I’m not going to let him eat you. He might … wound you. Emotionally. But you’ll live.”
“You promise?” he asks, his voice small.
“I promise.” You lean in and give him a quick, soft kiss. It tastes like hope. “Now sit up straight. You’re slouching. He hates slouching. It shows a lack of core strength.”
Mat sits up so fast he almost pulls a muscle. He’s taking a sip of water, trying to project an aura of a calm, composed Derek, when the temperature in the room drops.
Patrick Roy is here.
He doesn’t just enter a room, he conquers it. People stop talking. Waiters stand a little straighter. He scans the restaurant, his eyes sharp and dismissive, until they land on your booth. He starts walking toward you.
And then he sees Mat.
It happens in slow motion. His eyes are on you, a rare, soft smile on his face. Then his gaze slides to the man holding your hand across the table. His smile doesn’t vanish, it freezes. It becomes something else entirely, a brittle mask of polite neutrality. The recognition clicks into place. The stare — the legendary, soul-reading, goalie stare — locks onto Mat like a heat-seeking missile.
Mat feels the water glass tremble in his hand. He puts it down.
“Dad,” you say, your voice bright and even. You don’t let go of Mat’s hand. “You’re here. Good.”
Patrick doesn’t look at you. His eyes are still boring into Mat. He stops at the table. An eon of silence passes.
“Barzal,” he says. The name comes out flat. A statement of fact. Not a greeting.
“Coach,” Mat says, his voice a dry rasp. He makes to stand up, but Roy waves him down with a sharp, impatient gesture.
Patrick slides into the booth next to you. The three of you are now enclosed in the most tension-filled pocket of space in the entire state of New York.
“So,” your father says, picking up his menu, his focus entirely on the printed card. He doesn’t look at Mat. He doesn’t look at you. “This is the new boyfriend.”
“It is,” you say, your voice unwavering. “Dad, this is Mat. Mat, this is my dad.”
“We’ve met,” Roy says, still scanning the appetizers. “I see him five days a week. Mostly his back, as he skates away from his defensive responsibilities.”
Mat flinches. It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. But it lands like a bodycheck.
“I’m working on that, Coach,” Mat manages to say. “The 200-foot game.”
“Good,” Roy says, snapping the menu shut. “The steak here is decent. Don’t get the fish. It’s soft.” He looks at the waiter who has materialized out of thin air. “Three steaks. Medium rare. And a bottle of your best cabernet.”
The waiter vanishes. Your father turns his full attention to Mat. The stare is back, now at point-blank range. It’s like looking into a deep, frozen lake.
“So. My daughter tells me you’re serious,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” Mat says. He squeezes your hand under the table. You squeeze back. “Very.”
“’Serious’ is a word people use. It’s like ‘try.’ Trying isn’t doing. ‘Serious’ isn’t committed.” He leans back. “You understand commitment, Barzal? It’s not a feeling. It’s a decision. It’s blocking a shot in the final minute when you’re up by one. It’s a Tuesday practice in February when your body is screaming and you still finish every drill. That’s commitment.”
“I understand, sir,” Mat says. And he does. He’s speaking his language now.
“Do you?” Roy’s voice is soft, dangerous. “You’re a skill player. A finesse player. Commitment … that’s for grinders. That’s for the guys who kill penalties. What do you know about it?”
“Dad,” you cut in, your voice sharp. “Stop.”
“I’m having a conversation with your boyfriend,” he says, not taking his eyes off Mat. “I want to know who he is. You’re a star, Barzal. Stars get comfortable. They get lazy. They fall in love with their own press clippings. They start thinking about their brand. Their … sneaker collections.”
Mat’s blood runs cold. He knows about the sneakers.
“They get distracted,” Roy finishes.
The word hangs in the air. Distracted. It’s an accusation. And you are the distraction he’s referring to.
Before Mat can say anything, you speak. “I am not a distraction.”
Your voice is ice. Your father finally turns to look at you. The intensity of their combined stares is enough to melt steel.
“He had his best month, statistically, since we started talking,” you state, as if reading from a scouting report. “His plus-minus is up. His turnovers in the neutral zone are down by twelve percent. I checked.”
Roy looks at you, then back to Mat, a flicker of something — surprise? respect? — in his eyes. “You checked.”
“Of course I checked,” you say. “You think I’d date a guy with bad analytics?”
For the first time all night, the corner of Patrick Roy’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but it’s the hint of one. Mat feels like he can breathe again. Just a little.
The steaks arrive, a welcome interruption. For a few minutes, the only sound is the cutting of meat. The silence is heavy, but the acute, life-threatening tension has eased. Slightly.
“You love the game,” Roy says suddenly, pointing his fork at Mat. It’s not a question.
“More than anything,” Mat says honestly.
“Good. That’s a start.” He takes a bite of steak. “She’s the same. She sees things. The details. The angles. The way a defenseman holds his stick on a 2-on-1. She sees the weakness.” He looks at you with a deep, bottomless well of fatherly pride. “She got that from me.”
“I got it from watching you,” you correct him gently. “From you yelling at the TV for seventeen straight years.”
“It’s the same thing,” he grunts. He turns back to Mat. “So you talk about the game.”
“All the time,” Mat says, feeling a surge of confidence. This is his ice. He knows this. “We break down shifts. She’ll text me between periods sometimes.”
Roy’s eyebrow goes up. “She what?”
“Just observations,” Mat says quickly. “Like ‘the goalie’s dropping early on your high-slot shots,’ or ‘stop trying to go through all three of them on the zone entry, the trailer is open.’”
Your father looks at you. You just shrug, a perfect imitation of teenage nonchalance. “He’s a bad influence. He makes me watch Islanders games.”
The ghost of a smile returns to Roy’s face. He looks back at Mat. The stare is different now. It’s less of an interrogation and more of a measurement. He’s re-evaluating.
“That trailer,” he says to Mat. “Palmieri. He’s always open. He’s got one of the quickest releases on the team. You never hit him.”
“I know,” Mat says, chagrined. “I try to do too much sometimes. I hold onto it for too long.”
“You do,” Roy agrees, with brutal honesty. “You’re trying to make the perfect play. You’re trying to make the highlight reel. The game isn’t about the perfect play. It’s about the right play. The simple play. The winning play. You pass to Palmieri, he scores, you win. That’s it. That’s the whole game.”
“I know,” Mat repeats softly. “Y/N says the same thing.”
Roy looks at you again. “Good. At least one of you is paying attention.” He takes a long sip of wine. He sets the glass down. “So. You fly to Denver for pancakes.”
Mat freezes, fork halfway to his mouth.
“How …”
“I have eyes,” Roy says dryly. “And a daughter who is a terrible liar. You think I don’t know?” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “I’ve known for two months, Barzal. I was waiting to see when you’d have the guts to do this.”
Mat is speechless. He looks at you. You have the decency to look slightly guilty.
“You knew?” Mat stammers.
“You’re not subtle,” Roy says. “You look at her during practice when you’re supposed to be stretching. You play better when she’s in the building. You think I don’t notice these things? It’s my job to notice these things.” He pins Mat with a look. “My only question was whether you were a coward or not.”
“And?” You ask, leaning forward, your chin resting in your hand. “What’s the verdict?”
Patrick looks at Mat. He looks at his expensive suit and his nervous energy. He looks at the way Mat’s hand is still holding yours on the table. He looks at him for a long, silent, calculating minute.
“The jury is still out,” he says finally. But there’s no heat in it. “But he showed up. That’s something.” He focuses on Mat again. “This isn’t easy. Her … or the game. To be great at it. It takes everything. You understand? If you hurt her … if you let this distract you from the ultimate goal … you won’t just have to deal with me as a coach. You’ll have to deal with me as a father.”
The distinction is terrifyingly clear.
And in that moment, something inside Mat clicks. The fear is still there, but it’s joined by something else. A certainty. A commitment. The kind your father was talking about.
He meets the stare. He doesn’t flinch. He is the goalie. This is the shooter.
“I understand, Coach,” Mat says, and his voice is clear and steady. “But with all due respect … you’ve got it backwards.” He tightens his grip on your hand. “She’s not a distraction. She’s the opposite. She makes the game simpler. She makes me better. When I’m on the ice, I’m not thinking about sneakers, or contracts, or anything else. I’m just … I’m trying to make the right play. Because I know she’s watching. And I don’t want to disappoint her.” He takes a breath. “I love your daughter. And I love this game. And I am one hundred percent committed to winning. With both.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Mat’s heart is hammering. He just gave the biggest speech of his life to Patrick freaking Roy.
You are beaming. Your eyes are shining with a pride that makes Mat feel ten feet tall.
Your father just stares. He holds Mat’s gaze for a solid thirty seconds. He’s searching for a lie, for a weakness, for a crack in the foundation. He doesn’t find one.
Slowly, deliberately, he picks up his wine glass. He raises it an inch off the table. He nods, once. A short, sharp, definitive nod.
“8 AM tomorrow,” he says to Mat. “You, me, and the video coach. We’re breaking down every single one of your power-play shifts from the last month.” He takes a sip of wine. “Don’t be late.”
Then he turns to you. “He’s still an idiot. But he’s got a good heart.” He pushes his chair back. “I’m leaving. Pay the bill, Barzal. It’s the least you can do.”
And with that, he stands up and walks away, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake.
You and Mat sit there for a moment, the echo of the encounter hanging in the air. Then, you both start to laugh. It starts as a quiet chuckle, then builds into a full, breathless, relieved laugh.
“I cannot believe that just happened,” Mat says, wiping a tear from his eye. “He … he invited me to watch tape with him. Is that good? Is that a dad thing? Is he adopting me?”
“That’s the Patrick Roy equivalent of a hug and a key to the city,” you say, your voice full of laughter and love. “It means he’s not going to kill you. He’s just going to work you to death. Welcome to the family.”
Mat shakes his head, looking down at your intertwined hands on the table. He feels exhausted and exhilarated, like he just survived a triple-overtime Game 7.
“So,” you say, your voice soft now. “Not getting traded to Columbus, then?”
He looks up at you, at your beautiful, smiling face. The fear is gone. The anxiety is gone. All that’s left is an overwhelming sense of rightness.
He brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles.
“Totally worth it,” he says.
And he means it more than he’s ever meant anything in his life.
I started reading “We Breed Lions” by Rick Westhead and from the first page, he’s clear about the fact hockey culture brings out the best and worst in people. I think that statement is incredibly applicable to today, especially with how fast everything snowballed.
I mean, we see Team USA bring out Johnny Gaudreau’s jersey, skating with it on the ice and bringing his children down for a photo. It’s clear they all love and miss him, even if they knew him personally or only if they played against him. They knew he should’ve been there tonight. We have Charlie McAvoy, who’s gone through absolute hell this last year. I mean, injury after injury, coming up in a big moment to help Hellebuyck keep the game tied. Then, Brock Nelson is literally related to a member of the Miracle on Ice team. Who, I imagine, was feeling an immense amount of pressure.
Then, they’re in the locker room partying with Kash Patel and are on the phone with Trump. Here’s a fun piece of information, US taxpayers paid 75,000 dollars for Kash Patel to fly on a private jet to the Olympics. When, he should be being held to the fire to release the Epstein Files. Also, not to mention, multiple other high profile cases he’s not even working on.
Of course, Trump had to call and gloat too. He invited all of them to the State of the Union and to tour the White House. In which he said, “I guess I have to invite the women” and everyone laughed. It’s just disgusting, but I’m glad they got to talk to that predator.
(ETA: Oh, another fun fact, now the FBI Director of Public affairs is now saying Kash Patel wasn’t attending on the taxpayers’ dime. A few videos of him with the team have been taken down too.)
I don’t know how to say this eloquently enough for it to make sense, but there comes a point in every hockey fan’s life where you have to make peace with the majority of players in the sport and on your team being conservative. If they’re American, they’re likely Trump supporters. If they’re Canadian, they would likely vote for him if they could (just ask Gretzky). Even the PWHL isn’t immune from terfs and MAGAs.
There also comes a point in every hockey fan’s life where you decide that loving the sport, even if it doesn’t love you back, means wanting to make sure that hockey really is for everyone. It’s not letting the conservatives force you out of your fandom just so that a right-leaning space becomes even more of an echo chamber. It means doing your part in growing the game and making it a safe place for all.
And yeah, it’s not all rainbows and butterflies. The reality is nothing like the fics we read and write on here (which are fictional for a reason … because the fiction is meant to be enjoyable), but that doesn’t mean hockey isn’t for you! It doesn’t mean you have to stop cheering. It does however mean that you quickly come to understand that you can’t place players on a pedestal.
That’s the reality of being a hockey fan.
So believe me, I know. I’ve lived it for twenty years. And it’s not pretty. But it is getting better, and I like to believe that one day hockey really will be for everyone.
