Chapter Seven

MATTS BUYS AN electric guitar.

He tries not to think too much about his motivation.

He buys a white-on-white Fender Stratocaster and a mini amp and gets new headphones while he’s at it so he can have the best possible sound quality while practicing quietly. Matts has never been good at doing things in moderation.

Matts has always been good at playing songs by ear. His father discovered that talent a year or two into teaching him guitar. Matts had thought, at first, that he was going to get into trouble when his father found out he wasn’t actually reading the music on the stand in front of him. Remembering what a song was supposed to sound like and just making his fingers do that was far easier than trying to translate what notes on a page meant. The problem was that he started to embellish as his technical skill improved. And that’s when his father found him out, though he wasn’t angry about it. Matts’s ability to listen to a piece of music and then more or less recreate it from memory quickly became a party trick trotted out at family events and dinners with friends. Matts liked the attention, the approval. And much like the recognition he received for his hockey-related talents, it drove him to work harder and practice longer. Praise has always been his most compelling motivator.

Since signing his first NHL contract, Matts has mostly played for himself. As an established professional athlete, people tend to forget you’re anything else. But Matts’s guitar travels with him like some of his teammates travel with their favorite pillow. Playing redirects his focus and soothes the anxious chatter in his mind. His road roommates are used to him quietly practicing for half an hour or so before he goes to sleep. It’s become a part of him; a skill crafted for the enjoyment of the action rather than preparation for a performance or in pursuit of validation.

So, it’s strange to find himself targeting his practices again when he’s at home. He exchanges the acoustic for the Stratocaster, pulls up a song from one of Sydney’s educational playlists, and tries to memorize and recreate it. Just in case.

Two months into Red Right Hand’s tour, Matts can reliably play a dozen rock and metal and even a few punk songs from Dio to My Chemical Romance. He can also play most of Red Right Hand’s first album because he’s recently developed a potentially troubling habit. When he can’t sleep at home, Matts uses both the MP3 jack and the headphone jack in his mini amp, pulls up a Red Right Hand song, and plays along with them, with Sydney’s voice in his ears as if she’s right there with him. Like, if Matts closes his eyes, he can almost imagine they’re in the practice space at the ranch.

He knows this is probably not normal, which is why he doesn’t tell anyone. So, six weeks later, Sydney still doesn’t know that he’s purchased the guitar. They text about other things—his musical education, the tour, his games. And sometimes, she’ll call him after performances since she’s always the first back to the hotel. They’ve had three over-the-phone acoustic jam sessions. But Matts can’t seem to bring himself to mention the shiny new resident on her stand in the corner of his bedroom. And it’s been long enough now that he feels like he can’t. That it’s become an embarrassing secret he shouldn’t share. Or maybe he’s overthinking things.

More likely than not, it’s the latter because he’s also been overthinking other things, such as if he should send the band tickets to the Hell Hounds versus Kings game since they’ll be in LA, and it’s the night before their performance. But is it weird that he knows that? That he checks their tour schedule to see what city they’re in each night?

And then there’s the Pride stuff. The Hell Hounds “hockey is for everyone” game and associated philanthropic events are in April. Matts already volunteered to be part of the media campaign, which isn’t unusual as he was part of it the prior year as well. But last year, it felt more like penance to make up for his prior behavior toward Alex.

This year, Matts wants to participate because it’s a cause worth supporting and because he’s tired of the shit he sees on social media about Alex and Rome and now Sydney. The comments about Sydney are probably the worst. Or maybe they feel like the worst because…well, he doesn’t know why. But Matts wants to be a little more vocal, a little more specific, with his support this year. He has a list of things he’s considering but figures he’ll start with the easiest one, which involves talking to Rushy. Matts doesn’t know if it’ll make a difference, but if it will—

Two days before the Kings game, they’re taking a breather between drills when Matts sees his opportunity; the coaches are setting up a new configuration of cones and stickhandling trainers, and Rushy is alone.

Matts loops around to the crease, waiting for Rushy to finish taking a drink and toss his water bottle onto the top of the net.

“Hey,” Matts says.

“Hey,” Rushy agrees.

“So you know how last year for Pride night, you used a different tape from everyone else? With the bi flag colors?”

Rushy gives him a critical look. “I do.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“ No . I’m not—I mean, not that that’s—no.” Matts tries to rally. “Do they make tape in the trans flag colors? Because I looked online and couldn’t find any, and I also don’t know if I’d need special permission or…”

“Ah.” Rushy’s expression shifts, but Matts has no hope of interpreting it. “Probably. I just asked Jessica, and she made it happen.”

He was afraid of that. But it’s fine. Matts will brave Jessica’s office for Sydney. Not that it would be for her. Exclusively.

The trainers call for them to line up again.

“Hey, Matts,” Rushy says. “Will it sound super condescending if I say I’m proud of you?”

“Uh, yeah. Probably.”

“Okay.” Rushy taps his stick against the side of Matts’s skate. “I won’t then.”

Matts goes to get in line.

“What are you grinning about?” Rome asks, knocking shoulders with him.

“Nothing,” he says.

Coach blows the whistle.

*

PRACTICE ENDS WITH a give-and-go drill that involves a lot of chirping from the guys watching, hands folded on sticks, chins resting on gloves. Matts typically keeps his chirps to “fuck you,” “fucking try me,” and variations therein. But he enjoys listening to the shit the other guys come up with, even if it’s not particularly imaginative at times. Case in point, Asher’s go-to is, “You suck at hockey.” But Rushy is in top form, shouting along with the spectators as pucks ping off the goalposts and glance off the blade of his stick. Chirps like “Bro, how you gonna eat lunch with no hands?” and “You can pick up your participation trophy on the way out,” and “Better luck next time, 10-ply.”

When Alex is up, Rushy resets and salutes. “Whattaya got for me, oh captain, my captain?”

Alex ignores him. When he’s fed the return pass, Alex crosses over, fakes left, and finally sinks a goal, top shelf, just over Rushy’s right shoulder.

“Hey, tendy,” Alex shouts through his exaggerated celly, “maybe if you switch to Geico, you’ll save more.”

The guys howl.

“Maybe if you hadn’t used that chirp a hundred times already, it’d be funny,” Rushy yells back.

“You admitting I’ve scored on you a hundred times, duster?”

And then they’re playfully roughhousing, Rushy dramatically throwing off his gloves and squaring up to Alex while the others circle around them. They dissolve into a pretend fight as the coach gives up and calls an end to practice.

“So,” Asher says to Kuzy as they’re shuffling into the locker room, “who did you leave with last night?”

A couple of the guys went out to a bar the night before to celebrate Asher’s birthday. Matts skipped it, but he’s not surprised to hear Kuzy took someone home. The man has some sort of magnetic pull when it comes to beautiful women.

“Pretty lady,” Kuzy says predictably.

“What about that rodeo girl though. Aren’t you seeing her?” Asher asks.

“MJ? Nah. She’s not want serious. Just…” He considers. “Butt dial?”

“Booty call is for sex,” Rome says. “Butt dial is when you call someone by accident.”

Kuzy makes his familiar “English is ridiculous” noise. “Yeah, I’m her booty call.” He shrugs. “It’s hard.” He pats his chest, feigning resignation. “But I survive.”

“Yes,” Rushy says dryly, “how sad for you.”

“She’s hot,” one of the rookies says with standard, rookie-level tact.

“Mm,” Kuzy agrees.

“Is she bossy?” the rookie asks. “She looks like she’d be bossy.”

“I’m all kiss and no tell,” Kuzy says.

“I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘I don’t kiss and tell,’” Jeff points out.

Kuzy considers this. “No.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about you, Matts,” Alex says. “You asked out Sydney yet?”

“No. Maybe when they’re back from their spring tour.”

Rome sighs like Matts’s inability to pull is a personal failure.

“When is that?” Jeff asks.

“May.”

“Are you at least talking?” Rome asks.

Matts knows there are multiple different definitions for the word talking , and in this context, he has no idea which one Rome is referring to. He decides to pivot instead of answering.

“Actually, they’re opening for Killer Sunday at the Crypto arena the day after we play the Kings. I was thinking about offering the band tickets to see us since they’re supposed to get to LA on Friday morning. Do you think she’d want to come?”

“I don’t know,” Alex says. “But I do know an easy way to find out.”

“How?”

“Ask her.”

“Hey,” Kuzy says, contemplative. “We’ve got break after Kings. Three days break.”

“Oh,” Rushy adds. “We should totally go to the concert.”

Kuzy points to him. “ Yes . Wingman for Matts.”

“I don’t need a wingman,” Matts argues.

“No, you clearly need several,” Rome says. “I’m down.”

“Same,” Jeff says. “Jo is in Mexico for another week anyway.”

Matts strips out of his gear, trying to ignore the growing number of people committing to take him to a Red Right Hand concert while Jeff calls out seating options from the ticketing app on his phone.

His own phone lights up as he’s about to head for the shower, and he only pauses, reaching for it, because he can see in the text preview that the message is from Sydney.

“Booty call?” Kuzy asks from his stall beside him.

“It’s 11:00 a.m.”

“So?”

Matts swipes to open the text from Sydney.

It looks like y’all play the Kings on Friday and then don’t play again until Monday. Any chance you want a ticket to our show Saturday?

He knows he could shower and then respond, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands there, naked, and tries to figure out a response that isn’t too desperate sounding. He finally texts back.

I could stick around for another day. I could also get the band tickets to the Kings game on Friday if you want to go?

That’d be cool. You want to bring any of your teammates to the concert?

Matts looks up. “Sydney just invited us to their show.”

Several of the guys whoop, including Alex and Rushy already in the shower.

“Well, that’s good, seeing as I’ve already bought our tickets,” Jeff says, holding up his phone. “Venmo me at your leisure, gentlemen.”

Matts focuses on his screen. Jeff already bought concert tickets for half the team. But I’ll have will call hold 4 tickets to our game under your name.

Send me your seat numbers, and I’ll get you backstage passes for after.

You sure? I can’t promise the guys will be on their best behavior.

That’s fine. I’m never on my best behavior.

Matts can’t decide if this is going to be brilliant or a disaster. On the one hand, he’ll get to see Sydney twice in a forty-eight-hour period. That’s good. And he’s been playing well recently. Especially since they changed up the lines and put him on Rome’s wing. Matts isn’t ashamed to admit that he wants to show off.

On the other hand, that’s two opportunities for him to do or say something embarrassing. And statistically speaking, he’s more likely to do or say something embarrassing when he’s tired, high on adrenaline, or both. Which doesn’t bode well. Exhibit A: whatever the hell happened the last time Sydney saw him after a game.

Her teeth really are nice though.

Alex thwacks him on the thigh with a towel as he walks by, and Matts nearly drops his phone. “Stop pining and shower,” he suggests.

Matts thinks that’s probably good advice.

*

ON FRIDAY, THEY get to LA with just enough time to check into the hotel and nap for an hour before they have to bus to the game. Matts slept on the plane and better than he usually does in a hotel bed, and by the time they’re doing their pregame rituals in the tunnel, Matts feels good. Solid. Awake. Ready . He’s not anxious—hasn’t been anxious before a game since playoffs the year before. But he is something. Something more than excited. Hungry, maybe. He wants .

Matts sees Sydney almost immediately when they scatter on the ice for warmups, legs pumping hard to send him around the rink a few times, cool air on his face, and shouting in his ears. He got the band center ice tickets, only a few rows back, but Syd and Sky have abandoned their seats to stand at the glass and bang on it, waving, as he skates by. He waves back and then tries to focus on his normal routine: laps, stretches, drills, his good-luck handshake with Rome. There aren’t many people with Hounds signs ringing the ice, considering it’s the Kings’ house, but Matts tosses pucks to the few kids that have them. And then he’s face-to-face with Sydney again. She’s got both hands pressed to the glass, smile wide and unobstructed by her hair which is tied up in a red bandana. The rest of her is still dressed in shades of black, but he appreciates the attempt.

Matts wonders if she’d wear a jersey if he got her one. It’s a little too easy to picture Sydney wearing his name and number on her back. He has plenty of extras. He could just give her one and see.

Sydney bangs one palm on the glass, and he meets her eyes.

“Is it only kids that get pucks?” she shouts.

He laughs but snags a loose one with the blade of his stick and tosses it over.

Sky gestures at herself with a look of outrage, and he tosses one to her too.

Sydney holds the puck against her chest with one hand, the other still spread on the glass. She curls the fingers of that hand into a fist, offering him her knuckles.

Good luck , she mouths.

He bumps the glass with his glove.

Matts is still grinning when the game starts, and he goes over the boards for the first time, his chest full of—whatever it is. He accepts a pass from Rome straight and flat and right to his tape, dekes around the defensemen like they’re practice dummies, and passes the puck easily back to Rome for a one-timer. It pings off the crossbar, but it’s damn close. The goalie is visibly pissed because he was nowhere near it, and they’re barely two minutes into the game. As they go back over the boards, Matts already feels an elation he hasn’t known in a while. He doesn’t look for Syd in the stands.

His second shift, Matts pushes harder. He’s a big target, but he’s always been fast—faster than he should be for his size. He plays with the defensemen. Plays with the puck. He’s showing off, and he knows he’s showing off. But they don’t touch him; they can’t. The goalie blocks his first shot, but Matts snags the rebound and sends it back out to Asher, shoves his defender away, fakes him out just long enough for Asher to send the puck right back to him. Matts makes a no-look pass to Rome, but he doesn’t need to look. The crack of Rome’s slapshot is loud in the anticipatory silence, and by the time Matts has turned, Rome is colliding with him. They’re up 1–0.

Matts keeps pushing.

With a minute left in the first, they’re up 2–0 after Alex scores glove side, low. They’re on the power play, and his lungs are burning, and the clock is ticking down when Kuzy manages to steal the puck just outside their own crease. Matts shouts for the pass and gets it, toe drag dekes around one defender, then the other, and—there.

Right there.

Puck. Net. Goal light.

Matts goes into a celly.

He doesn’t look for Syd as his teammates pile onto him, but he does crane his neck to catch the replay on the jumbotron over Alex’s head. The play looks just as pretty as it felt.

“The fuck’s gotten into you?” Rome says, grinning wide and feral and complimentary as they grab water bottles and slide onto the bench to watch the last seconds tick down on the clock.

“Whatever it is, I want some,” Asher pants.

You can’t have her , Matts thinks.

He finally gives in and glances across the ice. Sydney is sitting on her knees in her seat, looking right at him, hands braced on the arm rests. Matts can’t interpret her facial expression, not from a distance, but he’s pretty sure it’s positive.

“Just really want a win tonight,” he says, probably several beats too late.

Rome follows his gaze.

“Fuck yeah,” he says. “Let’s get you one, then.”

They do. Handily. Matts only nets the one goal, but he gets two assists for their four points and generally makes the Kings’ defense look like children. It’s pretty great. And in the locker room, Alex bestows the star-of-the-game fake plastic crown to Matts with much bowing and scraping and heckling from the rest of the guys. He wears it into the shower.

Normally, they’d go somewhere to celebrate, but the band has a strict “no partying the night before a concert” rule. Matts has convinced the guys to have a quieter celebration at the hotel bar, something Devo has, apparently, approved as an acceptable compromise.

When they get back to the hotel lobby, Sydney is already there. She’s sprawled in one of the squashy lounge chairs near the front desk, and she bounces up to stand on the seat when she sees them.

“Hark, the victors cometh,” she says, not quite a shout, but loud enough, theatrical enough, to attract the attention of people nearby. “Lo, the defeaters of Kings! Weary from battle but buttressed by their conquest!”

“Okay, I love her,” Jeff murmurs.

“Don’t think you’re the only one,” Alex whispers back.

Matts ignores them. He walks straight to the chair until his shins butt against it, and her hands, outstretched for effect, fall like a natural thing to his shoulders. Sydney is taller than him like this, her chin tipped down, her eyes searching. He finds he doesn’t mind looking up to meet her gaze.

“Hi,” he says, smiling too wide, probably, but she’s grinning right back at him, so that’s okay.

“Hi,” she agrees, all teeth and humidity-frizzed hair.

He hugs her. Well. He wraps his arms around her hips and picks her up, and she folds herself around his shoulders, laughing as he squeezes her.

“Holy shit ,” she says into the side of his face. “You were on fire tonight!” Her hands are still on his shoulders, and one of them fists, tapping to emphasize her excitement. “I knew you were good, but this was a whole other— You’re so fast .”

He loosens his hold on her, and she slips down until the toes of her boots are on the floor again, the whole of her body still leaned forward, plastered along his front. He only has a moment to enjoy it though.

“You made those defenders look so stupid with the—” She pushes away so she can pantomime a toe drag. “And then when you did the thing with the—” She mimes holding a stick and spins around before firing an invisible puck at the check-in desk. “It was just… so cool.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Rome and Alex scored most of the points.”

Rome makes an exasperated noise behind him.

“Okay,” Jeff says, clapping him on the back. “Why don’t we head to the bar, and we can all grab some drinks. Is the rest of the band here?”

Right. That was the plan.

“Yeah, they’re already at the bar.” Sydney points, and then she turns to say something to Alex about his first point, and Matts gestures to the group of guys behind him.

When he glances back to make sure everyone is following him, he notices that Syd, still speaking lowly to Alex, isn’t looking at Alex. She’s—well, it looks like she’s checking Matts out.

He abruptly forgets how to walk.

How does a person walk normally anyway? Are his steps too long? Too short? Matts feels like he’s using his hips too much. Or is that a good thing?

“Hey, Matts,” Kuzy says. “Walk funny. You pull a muscle?”

Matts sighs. He lets Kuzy throw an arm around his shoulder and recommend some Russian anti-inflammatory tea. He doesn’t look at Sydney again until they’re sitting at the bar. She’s facilitating introductions, so he can stare at her without it being weird.

The way she taps her ringed fingers against the lip of her glass.

The way her too-big collarless Quiet Riot shirt slips down over one shoulder, exposing a swath of tanned mole-spotted skin as she leans against the bar, the subtle muscle in her lean bicep, the cut of her collarbone, glittering with a tangle of necklaces.

Her eyes are hooded when they meet his. She doesn’t smile, not exactly, when she notices his attention, but her dimples get more prominent before she touches her tongue to her bottom lip and follows it with her teeth. She doesn’t look away until he does.

He might be just a little bit fucked.

*

MATTS IS COMPLETELY fucked.

It’s rare that he miscalculates something, but this is a whole different kind of math, and he’s made a critical error.

Seeing Sydney perform live is incomparable to seeing her in a grainy YouTube video.

From the moment she stalks onto the stage, mic in hand, shouting, “How’s it going Los Angeles?" to raucous applause, he’s…

“Lost” isn’t the right word, neither is “overwhelmed” or “confounded,” but he’s not sure what the right word is .

Matts knows the band is good. He’s listened to every song they’ve created and every cover they’ve posted online. While he may be biased—he’ll admit he probably is—they’re opening for one of the biggest rock bands of all time. As young as they are, they’ve already reached syndicated radio and minor online notoriety, and a tour presence speaks to their talent.

Objectively, they’re good.

Seeing them live, though, feeling the throb of Rex’s bass and the wail of Sydney’s guitar and the deep, shuddering beat of Sky’s drums, hearing Sydney move seamlessly from soft head voice to a rich, rough, chest voice, to screaming the lyrics of a chorus while the audience shouts along with her—it’s something else. She prowls around the stage like she’s never been comfortable anywhere else, propping one boot on Sky’s drum kit to play a riff and running back to the mic stand just in time for the last verse, tossing hair out of her face, eyes closed, then swaying forward, teeth bared around the lyrics.

And Matts is there . He’s there, getting to experience it in real time, to exist in the same moment as her.

It’s beautiful.

It’s devastating.

It’s—

Matts wonders if there’s a word that means the opposite of catharsis. A word that means being so filled with emotion you hemorrhage with it; it consumes you.

Maybe that’s what this is.

Too soon, Sydney is drinking water, voice lovely and scratchy as she tells the audience they have one last song.

She pauses, shading her eyes against the lights, to look at one of the signs held up a few feet from the stage.

“Well, hello,” she says. “Are you serious?”

Matts has to consult the big screen behind her as one of the cameramen helpfully zooms in on the audience member in question. It’s a girl on the shoulders of another girl, with a sign that says, “SYDNEY, BE MY FIRST KISS?”

From the girl’s reaction, it’s pretty clear she’s serious.

“What’s your name?” Sydney asks, slinging her guitar around to her back. She crouches at the edge of the stage, elbows on bent knees.

The girl clambers off her friend’s shoulders with the help of the people around them. She pushes her way forward to cling to the barricade and shouts back at Sydney.

Sydney glances up. “Her name is Ari,” she tells the audience. “How old are you, Ari?”

Matts can’t tell what she responds, but Sydney laughs.

“She says she’s eighteen, folks. Do we believe her?”

The stadium erupts in cheers.

Matts is silent. He can hear his heartbeat uncomfortably loud in his ears. It’s probably not just from the sudden comparable quiet after nearly an hour of 100-decibel sound, but he wants to pretend it is.

Security helps the girl over the barricade, and Sydney kneels at the edge of the stage, beckoning her closer. The stage is at least five feet tall, so Ari has to reach to pull herself up and close the space separating them. Sydney bows forward, one hand sliding around the girl’s jaw, steadying her.

“You sure about this?” Sydney says into the microphone between their mouths.

“No doubt,” Ari says.

Sydney moves the mic.

It’s brief.

Maybe.

But for a moment, they look like a living painting. Ari’s neck is extended, arms straining to pull herself closer. Sydney’s rings catch and throw light where her hand rests on Ari’s exposed neck, where her thumb and forefinger hold the girl’s chin in place. The stage behind them is a canvas of reds.

The audience roars.