Paint my number
Pairing: Mat Barzal x reader
Words: 1,7k
Warning(s): none
You have one leg tucked under you and the other hanging off the couch, shoulders slightly hunched in concentration. The coffee table is crowded with bottles of gel polish, a couple of tiny jars of glitter, your UV lamp, cotton pads, and the world’s smallest brushes. The apartment is quiet except for the soft buzz of the lamp and whatever game highlights Matt has playing on his phone.
You slide your hand out from under the light and tilt it back and forth, watching the shine catch. Not bad. You grab the detail brush again, steadying your wrist against your knee.
Matt doesn’t realize when it happens. One second he’s scrolling, half listening to the TV, and the next his thumb stops moving. He looks up.
You’re leaning forward now, tongue just barely pressed to your lip the way it always is when you’re focused. Your fingers move carefully, confident but gentle, like you know exactly how much pressure to use. The polish glides on smooth, and you don’t even hesitate.
Matt lowers his phone and he just watches. It takes him a moment to realize he’s staring. When he does, he doesn’t stop.
“Holy shit,” he says quietly.
You glance up without lifting your head all the way. “What?”
He blinks, like he forgot he was supposed to answer. “Your nails. That’s… I mean, what?”
You smile a little and go back to what you’re doing. “I’m almost done. Don’t distract me.”
“I’m not distracting,” he says, already scooting closer. “I’m observing.”
You laugh under your breath as you dip the brush into a tiny pot of glitter. “You were literally watching hockey two seconds ago.”
“Yeah, well. This is cooler.”
That gets your attention. You look at him properly this time, eyebrow raised. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on your hands like you’re doing something unbelievable.
You return to your nail, carefully tracing a thin line. “It’s just gel polish.”
He shakes his head. “No way. That’s not just anything. What’s that little brush?”
“A liner brush.”
“And that stuff?” He points at the jar. “Is that paint or glitter or… space dust?”
You snort. “Chrome powder. Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he says immediately, hands up. Then quieter, “I kinda want to though.”
You slide your hand back under the lamp and press the button. The light clicks on, bathing everything in soft purple. Matt squints at it, fascinated.
“So this thing just makes it dry instantly?”
“It cures it,” you correct.
He nods slowly. “Of course it does.”
You pull your hand out again once the light shuts off, checking your work. Matt leans even closer, his knee bumping yours.
“How long does all this take?” he asks.
“Couple hours if I’m doing nail art.”
His eyes widen. “That’s insane.”
You shrug. “It’s relaxing.”
He watches as you start on the next nail, quieter now. After a moment he says, “You’re really steady. Like, really steady.”
You glance at him again, surprised by how serious he sounds.
“I mean it,” he adds quickly. “I couldn’t do that if my life depended on it. I’d mess it up in half a second.”
“You’re not used to being patient,” you tease.
He laughs. “True. But you are. You don’t rush it. You actually enjoy it.”
You pause for half a second, then smile softly and keep going.
Without asking, he reaches out and holds the lamp in place when you slide your hand under again, careful not to touch anything. You notice, and something warm settles in your chest.
“So,” he says while the light hums, “do you plan these designs ahead of time or do you just… improvise?”
“Depends on my mood.”
He nods like that explains everything. “Makes sense.”
When the light clicks off, you pull your hand free and examine the finished nail. Matt’s eyes follow every movement.
“They’re really pretty,” he says, quieter than before.
You feel your cheeks warm a little. “Thanks.”
He smiles at you, proud and impressed and a little in awe, like he’s just realized something new about you. And even when you go back to your nails, he doesn’t reach for his phone again. He just stays there, watching, like this is exactly where he wants to be.
The second you start pulling your nail stuff out again, Matt notices.
“Are you doing your nails?” he asks from the kitchen, already halfway into the living room.
You glance up from the coffee table. “Maybe.”
He grins like he caught you doing something suspicious. “Can I watch?”
“You watched last time.”
“Yeah, and it was awesome,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you. “You never told me when you were gonna do it again.”
You laugh and start lining up your bottles. “I didn’t know I had to schedule it.”
He leans back, arms crossed, trying very hard to look casual even though his eyes are already glued to your hands. You prep your nails, pushing back cuticles, buffing lightly. After a minute, you glance over at him.
“You want to help this time?”
His head snaps up. “Actually help?”
“Well,” you say, uncapping a bottle of clear gel, “I’m not letting you touch anything. But you can pick the design.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “I get creative control?”
“Within reason.”
He sits up straighter, suddenly taking this very seriously. “Okay. So. What are the options.”
You start applying base coat. “Colours, shapes, minimal or detailed. Don’t say flames.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t going to. I’m not twelve.”
There’s a pause while he thinks, jaw working like he’s about to answer a postgame interview.
“What if,” he says slowly, “you did something with my team.”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. “Your team.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Like, not obvious. Not logos everywhere. Just… colours. And my number.”
You smile despite yourself. “You want your jersey number on my nails.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds kinda sick,” he says, clearly pleased. “But yeah.”
You finish the base coat and slide your hand under the lamp. “Which nail gets the number?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Ring finger.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bold choice.”
He shrugs. “It’s important.”
The light clicks off and you reach for the colour bottles. Team colours. Matt watches closely as you swatch them against your thumb.
“That one,” he says, pointing. “That’s the right blue.”
“You’re surprisingly specific.”
“I stare at it for a living,” he replies.
You start painting, laying the colour down smoothly. He leans closer with every nail, tracking the process like he’s studying film.
“And the number,” he adds, quieter now. “Can you make it small? Like it’s just… there if you know what you’re looking for.”
“I can do that.”
His smile is slow and soft. “That’s kinda perfect.”
When it’s time for the number, you brace your hand and take the tiniest brush. Matt goes silent, like he knows this part matters. You carefully paint the number, clean and precise.
He exhales. “That’s insane. How did you do that.”
“Steady hands,” you say, smiling.
You cure it, seal it with top coat, then hold your hand up for inspection. Matt stares. For a long second, he doesn’t say anything. Then he grins, wide and boyish.
“Those are my favourite nails you’ve ever done,” he says. “I feel like I should take a picture.”
“You are not posting them.”
“I wasn’t going to post,” he says defensively. “I just want it. For me.”
You laugh, shaking your head as you start on the other hand. He stays right there, closer than before, clearly proud in a way that makes your chest feel warm.
“Next time,” he says casually, “we do a playoff theme.”
You glance at him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He smiles. “I already am.”
Game day mornings are always a little hectic. Matt is half dressed, pacing the bedroom while he talks through his checklist out loud like it helps him remember everything.
“Suit. Shoes. Headphones. Did I grab my charger?”
“You did,” you say from the bed.
He hums, distracted, tugging his jacket on. You’re sitting cross legged, sipping coffee, watching him move around with that focused game day energy. When you reach out to hand him his phone, he notices your nails again. He freezes. Like fully stops moving, jacket half on, keys dangling from his hand.
“Wait,” he says. “Hold on.”
You look up, already smiling. “What?”
He walks back toward you slowly, eyes locked on your hands. You hold them up and he gently takes you hand, turning it so the light catches just right. The team colours are subtle but unmistakable. Clean lines, glossy finish. And then his eyes land on it. His number. Small. Perfect. Right on your ring finger.
“I still can’t believe that you did this for me.” He looks up at you then, expression softer than before. Proud, touched, maybe a little emotional but he would never say that part out loud. “It looks so unreal,” he says quietly.
You shrug. “Guess you’ll have to play well now.”
He smiles and then, without saying anything else, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss right to your ring finger. It is quick. Barely there. But it makes your heart do something stupid.
“For luck,” he says.
You laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Dead serious,” he replies, grinning.
Later that night, you walk with him to the car, the arena lights glowing in the distance. He opens the passenger door for you, then pauses again, glancing at your hand as you rest it on the doorframe.
He squeezes it gently. “I’m scoring tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says confidently. “You basically guaranteed it.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not how that works.”
He leans in, forehead resting against yours for a second. “Doesn’t matter. Still my favourite superstition.”
As he pulls away and shuts the door, you catch him glancing back one more time at your nails before heading around to the driver’s side. Like he is taking a little piece of you with him onto the ice.
And when he scores later that night, he taps his ring finger against his glove as he skates past the bench, just in case.