Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dutchy kicked off his shoes as he walked through the front door, flipping through the mail. Ninety percent of it was junk, as always. Paisley yipped and hopped around his feet, wagging his tail madly, and Matt paused to give him some love and get some doggy kisses. “You, buddy,” he told the dog, “are the best thing about coming home.” Matt spotted the phone bill and tossed it into the ‘keep’ file. “And this bit is the worst,” he mumbled.

He wandered into the kitchen, thinking vaguely about having a snack, and still sorting through the mail. “Trash . . . trash . . . keep . . . bill . . . what’s this?” He tossed a large handful of ads in the trash and stared at a letter, which had been at the bottom of the stack. He felt pleased and curious seeing his name hand-written. Who wrote anymore? It was always a little exciting to get actual correspondence instead of an email.

He ripped open the letter and stared at it in confusion.

It had a date at the top of the page, for one thing, but that date was next Wednesday. He glanced at the postmark, but it had very definitely been stamped a couple of days ago. The rest of the letter, if you wanted to call it that, was just as odd.

Dear Matt, it said. If you get a chance to go see Kip Moore, do it! It will be the start of big, good things in your life. You’ll be too dumb to know that when it happens, but trust me, definitely go. And wear your new red shirt. Oh, but DO NOT wear that aftershave your dad gave you. Everyone has been too polite to say anything, but you stink like hell. They might as well make ‘OFF’ for human beings, because it amounts to the same thing. But go. Have fun. Dance. Laugh. Be yourself. Don’t drink too much, and don’t mix beer and hard liquor and puke all over Gabe’s shoes, okay? He’ll forgive you eventually, but that’s the most embarrassing way to start things. I mean, every time you go, ‘Remember that first time we went out?’ it will end with, ‘You threw up on my shoes.’ Do you really want that? It’s not exactly an auspicious beginning to things.

And most importantly: don’t panic!

Love,
Me

Matt had no fucking clue what it was all about, but the handwriting looked kind of familiar. Maybe one of the guys wrote it as a joke. A really weird joke. Bizarre. Or maybe some creepy fan got his address.

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. “Hello? Yeah, hi, Mom. Yeah, good, thanks.” Matt tossed the letter in the trash without another thought.

Wednesday they had the usual morning workout, and then the day off. Matt had planned on catching up with some stuff—he owed his mom a call, and he still hadn’t gotten around to paying his phone bill—but around four he got a call from Gabe.

“Want some tickets?” Gabe asked hopefully.

Matt shrugged, despite the fact that Gabe couldn’t see him. “Maybe. What kind of tickets?”

“Tickets for the Grizzly Rose tonight.”

Matt perked up. That actually sounded pretty good. “Yeah? Who’s playing?”

“I dunno. Hang on a sec and let me look. Kip . . . Moore. Never heard of him, but someone offered me a couple tickets and I figured that was your scene.”

Kip Moore! That rang a bell. Didn’t Matt read an article or something about him recently? He wracked his brain. How his concerts were a lot of fun or something like that? “Heck, yeah! What time do you wanna meet?”

“I can drop them off anytime,” Gabe offered.

“You don’t want to go?” Matt felt unaccountably disappointed. Gabe was usually a lot of fun at a concert or whatever, funny and enthusiastic and never dull.

“Country is so not my thing.”

“Aw, come on, it’ll be fun,” Matt pleaded. Having just gone through a breakup, he sure didn’t want to go alone. “Besides, he’s not pure country. He’s got a slightly edgier vibe. You’ll like him, I promise.”

“Well . . .”

“Great! Pick me up around six. And drinks are on me, okay?”

“Well, all right, then. I never turn down a free drink.”

“Then you’re lucky girls aren’t pricks like guys or you’d end up roofied all the time,” Matt said wryly, thinking of how Gabe sort of tended to attract a crowd.

“Wouldn’t work,” Gabe replied with confidence. “My hereditary Viking blood repels all contaminants. Anyway, see you soon. I gotta run some errands.”

Feeling more cheerful about the direction of the evening, Matt showered and went through his closet, choosing his nicest boots and—why not—red shirt. He thought about splashing on some aftershave, but hesitated. Hadn’t someone recently told him it was too strong? He went with cologne instead, just a little bit. Looking in the mirror, he felt pretty good about things. Not bad, not bad at all.

The doorbell rang, and he trotted down the stairs, grabbing his jacket off the railing. When he opened his front door, he stopped in his tracks. “What are you wearing?” He couldn’t help laughing.

Gabe grinned sheepishly. “I thought I’d try to get into character. Styling, right?” He turned around, showing off his black cowboy hat, snakeskin boots, and large silver belt buckle. Matt noticed that he hadn’t bothered to change from his usual skinny jeans, though.

Matt shrugged. Gabe probably thought he looked like he was wearing a hilarious costume, but he really didn’t look half bad, though the belt buckle was crazy big. “For once, I won’t have to be ashamed to be seen with you,” he said loftily.

“Then let’s go, partner. Yee-haw,” Gabe said with a big wink.

Matt clapped a hand to his face. “Oh, man. I take it back. I will have to be ashamed to be seen with you,” he groaned, following him out to the car.

They had a good time at the Grizzly Rose, and after a bunch of drinks Gabe even got up and did some line dancing with Matt, which was hilarious since they were both drunk enough to have trouble figuring out where their feet went even without the dancing. The girls around them seemed to sense issues, what with the explosive laughter, pungent scent of booze-breath, and complete incoordination, so they gave the two a large berth, but that only meant Matt and Gabe kept bumping into each other.

And laughing. Like, a lot of laughing. Gabe laughed a lot in general, but they were in a particularly giggly mood at the club. At one point the toe of Gabe’s boot caught on the back of Matt’s ankle, and one of them tried to turn, and they both ended up in a heap of braying laughter on the floor.

“I thought this was supposed to be dancing, not Twister,” Gabe sporfled.

“It’s your fault,” Matt said.

“I am not used to pointy boots,” Gabe complained.

“Come on, let’s get control before they throw us out.” Matt struggled to his feet, tried to help Gabe up, and tripped over him, which only caused Gabe to laugh more uproariously than ever.

“What, is this country music’s idea of lap-dancing?” Gabe asked as Matt tried to crawl off him.

“I am going to have such a big headache tomorrow,” Matt groaned. He held his head with both hands, anticipating how bad it was going to feel. And they had a flight out, too. “Come on, let’s switch to water.”

Gabe agreed good-naturedly, as he always did. The bartender gave them a look, but when Matt asked for water he relaxed. They leaned against the bar, sipping the ice water and enjoying the music. It was too loud to have a conversation and too crowded to do any dancing. As a bunch of girls crowded in, chatting excitedly about it being someone’s birthday, Gabe was literally squashed up against Matt, trying to give the flock enough room.

Matt’s headache was already starting. Gabe was grinning. “Don’t you ever get sloppy drunk?” Matt wondered. He’d never seen Gabe look bad—no matter how much he had, either the night of or the morning after a party. The guy was as perky as a daisy.

“Nope. Superior Viking blood,” Gabe reminded him. He was looking at Matt with a kind of funny expression, leaning on his shoulder.

“What?” Matt finally said, feeling nervous for some reason.

Gabe raised his eyebrows and shook his head. The bass was thumping. Gabe leaned in and said, right in Matt’s ear, “Hey, you smell pretty nice tonight.”

Matt felt a zing that ran straight into his pants. What the fuck? Why was he suddenly kind of turned on? “Uh, thanks,” he said hoarsely, trying to lean away. His face was warm.

“The last time we went out, you were wearing that shitty aftershave. My God, you reeked. No offense, but that stuff is like ‘OFF’ for people.”

Matt stared at him. He dimly remembered someone saying that. Or, wait, reading it. He read it somewhere. It said his aftershave smelled bad. Right? Matt couldn’t remember, he was too drunk. He had the weirdest feeling of déjà vu. Had Gabe sent him some kind of letter asking him to stop wearing that aftershave? Yeah, that must have been it. But for some reason Matt still felt uneasy.

Gabe didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. He still had an arm slung over Matt’s shoulder, leaning into him. His face was too close. Matt tried not to look at him, but he couldn’t help glancing once or twice. Gabe’s eyes, usually a bright and cheerful robin’s egg blue, were dark and intense in the light of the club. Matt wished he’d quit looking at him like that.

Then he dipped his head until Matt could feel his breath against the nape of his neck, and inhaled deeply. Gooseflesh rippled up Matt’s spine. “You gotta get me the name of that cologne, Dutchy,” he growled.

Matt’s face roared like a forest fire. He tried to laugh it off. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever.” He gulped. Oh, no. Oh, no. He hadn’t gotten a random, instant erection this bad since he was about fourteen. This was fucking ridiculous. What the hell was going on? The room felt spinny, and being around Gabe was making him feel really strange.

“You all right?” Gabe had backed off, but now his eyes were laughing.

Matt didn’t know what to say. He considered several possible responses. “I might puke on you,” was the one he opted for.

Well, at least Gabe hurriedly backed off. “You wanna go outside?” he asked. “Get some air?”

Matt nodded gratefully. Gabe took him by the elbow and steered him through the crowd, waving and smiling at fans who said hi. When they got to the door, the cold air hit them like a physical blast. Matt shivered hard, but that only made his stomach feel worse. He hurried over to where he could sort of lean against the wall, facing away from everyone. He hoped like hell he wasn’t about to barf in front of a bunch of people. He hadn’t done that since he was about fourteen, either. When he glanced around though, he discovered no one else was outside.

Gabe came up behind him and rubbed his back, which was weird but not unwelcome. “You want my coat?” he said when he noticed Matt shaking.

“You’ll get cold.”

“Nope. Viking blood!” Gabe said triumphantly, slipping it off. It was leather, and supple and warm.

“I might throw up on it,” Matt warned him.

Gabe’s eyes were warm and sympathetic. “Then you can buy me a new one, Moneybags Duchene,” he joked.

Matt wrapped his arms around himself and shut his eyes, taking deep breaths. At one point a wave of nausea overcame him and he bent over double, sure he was going to throw up. After a minute it passed, and Gabe stroked his hair. It felt really intimate and strange and nice. Matt tried not to think about it.

“Okay, there?”

Matt nodded. “Better.”

“You wanna go, or you think you’ll get carsick?”

Matt let out a few breaths. “I think I’m good.”

Gabe bundled him into the car with alacrity, then nearly broke the sound barrier, not to mention every speed limit, driving him home. “Sorry, but the car is a bit more expensive than a jacket,” he noted apprehensively. “You start gagging, I’m going to pull over and shove you out,” he warned. “Even if I don’t have time to come to a complete stop.”

Matt only laughed. His head was clearer and his stomach was a lot better. The fresh air had done him wonders. He knew he’d still have a hell of a headache the next day, though.

When they reached Matt’s place, Matt couldn’t work the seatbelt clasp. Hell, he couldn’t even find it. “Did you hide it or something?” he asked. Finally he managed to push the button, then promptly somehow got the belt itself stuck around one shoulder. Gabe got out and helped him out, untangling him from the seatbelt as Matt laughed helplessly. “I’m okay. Jusht a little trashed. You don’t have to walk me in,” Matt told him.

“No, you’re too wasted. There might be sexual predators out there hiding in the bushes, so I better make sure you get in okay,” Gabe told him, putting an arm around his waist and leading him up the front steps.

For some reason this got Matt all laughy again. “As long as you don’t try taking advantage, Gropey.”

Gabe grinned. “What do you mean? I am a man of honor. I won’t take advantage of you until at least our second date.” By then they’d reached the yellow pool of the front porch light, and Gabe waited patiently as Matt fumbled around trying to find his keys before realizing he was looking in Gabe’s jacket pockets, where naturally they wouldn’t be. Eventually he located them in his jeans.

“I always get there eventually,” he said sheepishly, holding them up.

Gabe smiled. “It’s cool. You never get really drunk, so it’s kind of hilarious to see you make an ass of yourself.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.” Matt turned the key in the lock. After he thought about it, he added, “Hey, thanks for tonight,” less sarcastically. “That was fun.” He grinned goofily up at Gabe. “You should dress like this more often,” he added, reaching out and giving Gabe’s oversized silver belt buckle a tug. “You actually pull it off pretty good.” Gabe stared down at his fingers, and Matt felt his face heat.

“Yeah? Really? Thanks.” Then Gabe bent his head a little, leaned in, and brushed his face against Matt’s. Matt was nearly numb from cold and alcohol, but he could have sworn that Gabe had just—ever so softly—kissed his cheek. “See you tomorrow?” Gabe said.

Matt just nodded, his brain still about three blocks back and in no hurry to catch up to his body. “Yeah, see ya,” he said, and sort of fell through the front door. He managed to keep on his feet though, so that was okay. He turned and sort of saluted to show Gabe he was okay, and Gabe laughed and left.

Matt shut the front door, let the dog out, and went to bed, his brain never quite getting around to the question of what the hell just happened.

By the next morning it was too fogged with sleepy hangover to even remember the incident.

When the second letter came, more than a month later, Matt didn’t forget it. He didn’t throw it away, and he didn’t decide it wasn’t important.

The second letter said that Gabe Landeskog was gay.

Well, that wasn’t all it said, but that was the shocking bit.

Dear Matt,

For the love of God, do not lose your temper and fight Brent Seabrook. Yeah, I know it’s frustrating as hell and there were some dirty plays, but trust me, man, fighting Brent Seabrook is just plain stupid. For starters, the guy has four inches and thirty pounds on you. You are not going to make a very good showing. In addition, when you go to the penalty box to sulk, Patrick Kane will score and that will turn out to be the game winning goal, and then you will feel really stupid. Moreover, you will have a black eye for about a month and every time you see it you’ll remember how you lost that game and wince. Plus all the guys will start jokingly calling you Goon, Mini-Goon, and Gooner, and that name will really outlast its funniness.

And another thing; When Gabe tells you he’s gay, nod and say okay and then shut up. And don’t be an asshole. You say really, incredibly stupid shit when you’re surprised, and that is the worst. If you’re a stupid asshole, you’ll set everything back for years. Above all, for GOD’S SAKE, when Gabe admits he’s gay, don’t be drunk. And even if you are drunk, please, please don’t blurt out that out that you’d go gay for Joe Sakic. That is WAY less funny than you think, especially since it’s really only a flimsy cover for some uncomfortable realizations down the way. But it’ll be a hundred times less funny when he finds out you said it. Not that he’d say anything—not Joe Sakic. He’s WAY too classy for that. But he will SIT there, and he will LOOK at you, and he will RAISE HIS EYEBROWS and you will WANT TO DIE OF EMBARRASMENT. So for God’s sake, just don’t. When Gabe comes out, just nod and smile and say that’s fine. That’s it—that’s literally all you have to say. And then in the future . . . but the writing stopped there, as if the writer had been interrupted.

Matt swallowed hard. Okay, this note he was not going to forget. This note was . . . he didn’t even know. Had Gabe sent it? To sort of prepare Matt for the idea that Gabe might be gay? But in that case, what was all the stuff about Seabrook and Kane? This was weird. This was seriously weird. He didn’t even know how to handle it. Should he show it to Gabe? No, that would be even weirder. Hey, look, someone wrote me a crazy letter and it said I shouldn’t fight Brent Seabrook and also that you’re gay and that I have a thing for Sakic or something. What’s your read on this? Wait, what institution? What little men in white coats? There was just no way he could do it—it wouldn’t end well.

In the end, Matt had to conclude he couldn’t tell anyone. Not without looking crazy. So he stuffed it in Roy’s biography and hid it on a shelf and tried really, really hard to forget about it.

That wasn’t easy, though. The next few days he watched Gabe a lot whenever they were together. He couldn’t, after all, keep an eye on Seabrook or Kane until they played the Hawks, but Gabe was right there. And Gabe acted pretty much normal. Friendly, funny, super outgoing. Sure, he had to have perfect hair all the time, and he did love to show off his body with tight suits, but Matt didn’t think anything he did seemed especially gay. Ginner did kiss Gabe on the cheek once, but that was obviously just shenanigans, and besides, that would hint at Ginner being gay, not Gabe. Gabe never kissed anyone. He hugged a lot, but that was just Gabe. He was gropey with everyone. And since Matt never actually saw him having sex with another guy, he figured there was just no way to know for sure.

And after a few days, it sort of started to feel like a dumb thing to think about, anyway. He was really wasting a lot of time on some other guy’s love life. He hadn’t had a date in months—when the hockey itself was bad, life took a back seat—so if anything, he should worry about himself. Besides, Gabe had started to get weirded out. He kept asking Matt if he had spinach in his teeth or something. Matt promised he didn’t, but couldn’t help but go back to staring afterward.

Then Gabe started to kind of flush unhappily when Matt turned his way, and that was the last straw. He was wigging everyone out, and they were playing bad enough as it was. They didn’t need Matt Duchene destroying team chemistry by being the weirdo who was stalking Gabe Landeskog.

After cooling it for a couple of days, everything seemed to go back to normal. Matt did catch Gabe giving him strange, long looks once in a while, but that made sense. He was probably still a bit edgy.

But by the time they played Chicago, Matt had almost completely forgotten about the letter. It was still hanging around in the back of his mind, but the game took far too much of his focus to worry over it. It was a fast paced game, with both teams gaining and losing possession and racing up and down the ice.

Best of all, they really turned the pressure on. They managed to spend a ton of time in the o-zone, getting pucks on the net. Crawford had been good, but this kind of effort had to be rewarded.

Sure enough, about four minutes in, MacKinnon sped into the Chicago zone with O’Reilly on his left. He could have made a pass, but Nate went in deep and hit the net top-shelf. Matt was every bit as happy as Nate; the kid had been snake bit this season, and Matt knew every goal lessened that vise of pressure just a bit.

Then Iginla scored, then McLeod. By the end of the 1st they were up three nothing, and Matt felt elated. This was better than they’d played all year. They were playing their game—fast and free, forcing Chicago to keep up.

Unfortunately, Chicago was more than able to keep up. Kane scored eight minutes into the third, reminding the Avs that the Hawks had speedsters of their own.

Then Guenin made a bad turn over and Sharp capitalized, and Varly scuffed his skates against the ice, his frown fierce. “Shake it off,” Matt told him earnestly. “It’s good. We’ll get it back.”

But after that, the game turned into a bout of ping-pong, with the puck bouncing back and forth, back and forth. Neither team seemed to keep possession for more than a minute at a time. Sharp scored, and then near the end of the period, Saad tied it up. For a long, long time, it stayed tied. Finally Matt barreled in on a nice pass from Barrie, using his speed to jet in and split the D, and then suddenly someone reached around, lifting his stick with their own, and before he knew it he was pushed off the puck.

Thoroughly pissed off, Matt did some shoving in the corner, jostling, yelling, Seabrook sneering in his face. Matt snarled that it was interference, and Seabrook snorted and shoved Matt and said something, or maybe it was just the look on his face that did the talking—What are you going to do about it? He looked so fucking smug that Matt lost it, enraged, taking a swing. Seabrook responded in kind and the two of them scrabbled. One of Matt’s gloves came off, but that just happened in the confusion—he definitely hadn’t dropped it on purpose.

The refs got between them. Matt could hear Peel jabbering away in his ear to back off, that it wasn’t a penalty, and that pissed Matt off even more. He lunged at Seabrook, who took the opportunity to reach over a ref and bash Matt in the face. Matt tried to retaliate, but he mostly only hit Peel.

By the time the refs got them separated, Matt had a major penalty for fighting and a misconduct call on top of that, which was total bullshit, because Matt hadn’t started it, really, Seabrook had fucking interfered and—

Matt sucked in a breath as the Hawks won the draw. Stuart had Toews, but Kane was already halfway down the ice and only Guenin was back there, no way Stuart would catch up, not as slow as he was, and before Matt could even groan, the Blackhawks were up four to three.

It was right about then that Matt felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Don’t fight Seabrook, he thought. And he’d fought Seabrook, all right. He’d fought and lost and the Hawks had scored on the powerplay, just like the letter said. Matt felt chills all over.

By the time he made it back to their bench, Roy had taken one look at his face and asked a trainer to come over and check him for concussion. “He took a good pop to the face,” Roy pointed out. “He don’t look too good.” Then he began swearing in choppy French about Seabrook and bad calls and injuries, but Matt insisted he was fine. He was looked over and ruled okay and went right back on the ice.

Matt spent the rest of the game trying desperately to get that point back, if only to prove the letter unreliable, but when the final buzzer sounded it was still the same, 4-3. He couldn’t catch his breath.

He left the ice on wobbly legs, and Gabe tapped him on the shoulder. “I know you’re pissed about the goal, but there was nothing you could do. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You gave one hundred ten percent out there. You gave it everything. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out. We’ll get ‘em next time,” Gabe promised.

Matt nodded numbly. He sat in front of his locker, watching his captain peel off his shirt, sweaty muscles rippling. If the letter was right, Gabe was gay. Should he say something? He was scared. He was really fucking freaked out, in fact. It’d be nice to show someone the letter, to just not be the only one. But Matt didn’t want to have to acknowledge it. More than that, what if he brought Gabe to see the letter and the letter just—wasn’t there? Or what if Gabe read it and it wasn’t the same? It seemed too crazy to be real. Matt had to be crazy. He blinked. That was it! He was under stress. Tons of stress. So he created this thing in his head where it wasn’t his fault or something. This other world where he knew what would happen.

He’d talk with Dr. Brown about it tomorrow. Yeah, and that would probably help. He could meditate and shit, and this would stop happening.

“Dutchy?”

Matt blinked. He looked at Gabe, who was naked except for his briefs, and standing there looking at Matt with his eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” Matt croaked.

“You okay? You don’t look so good. Kind of pale and wild eyed, you know?”

Matt turned away. “I’m good.” He concentrated on untying his skates, but he could feel Gabe’s worried blue eyes studying him.

“Well . . . if you’re sure . . .”

“Yeah. It’s all good.” Matt was tense until he felt Gabe move away. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Matt talked with his sports psychologist the next morning, but when it came right down to it . . . he chickened out. He’d brought the letters with him and everything, but he just couldn’t help wondering what he’d say if Dr. Brown said he thought Matt wrote them himself, that his problems were too much for a mere sports psychologist, and that he was going to have to have Matt committed. In the end he had just talked a lot about stress and ways to handle it, hoping that would help. They talked about meditation techniques and taking breaks and learning to replace negative thoughts with positive thoughts. Matt was willing to try, but it all seemed kind of piddly stuff in light of what he was really facing—he didn’t think upbeat thoughts would help if he was delusional. Was he delusional? Was he seeing things?

And Matt didn’t think he was crazy. He really didn’t. He hoped not, anyway.

Still brooding, Matt went down to his local Starbucks to grab a cup of coffee. Usually he’d take it to go, but today he just found himself a table so he could brood some more. It was cold outside and he’d rather brood inside.

He slumped in his chair and ignored the chatter around him, staring into space. He could be crazy. That was one possibility, even though Matt didn’t believe it. Or the letters could be some kind of joke. Matt didn’t see how that could be, not when everything happened exactly the way the letter said they would. The only other thing Matt could think was that the letters were real. That they could tell the future.

Matt’s stomach dropped. He knew somehow that it was true.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. The letters could tell the future. Matt didn’t know why they were coming to him, or what he was supposed to do about it. Follow the instructions, he supposed. Okay, that made sense. The letter told him not to fight Brent Seabrook. Oh, shit! He’d fought Brent Seabrook anyway! Had he, like, fucked the space-time continuum or something? Had he broken the universe? Matt took a couple of deep breaths and looked around. Okay, no, the universe seemed pretty okay. Well, he could have like, fucked it up on a quantum level or something, however shit like that worked, but everything he could see and touch seemed okay. But what if it wasn’t? Matt felt the blood thunder in his ears. The whole shop seemed to tilt to one side.

Matt began sucking in air, trying to calm down.

Just to be sure, he felt his coffee cup. Yes, it was hot. It felt like a regular coffee cup. He patted the table in front of him, then rapped his knuckles on it. Yep, table. Wood and everything. He grabbed the nearest person—a guy in a business suit passing him—and groped the material of his pants. Yes, those were pants. Totally real and not imaginary pants, not destroyed quantumly, for sure.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What are those made of?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Gabardine,” a new voice broke in.

Blinking, Matt looked up. The barista was leaned over the counter. “Those are gabardine, good for colder months. You can get it at Penny’s. I used to work there.”

The man in the suit whipped his head back and forth from Matt, still fondling his trousers, and the barista, smiling and nodding. He jerked away from Matt. “I gotta get to work. Overpriced coffee, anyway,” he muttered as he left.

“You can get that whole outfit at Penny’s for $69.99,” the barista informed Matt. “That’s without the shoes, of course. He didn’t get those shoes at Penny’s.” She popped her gum. Her hair was a really pretty shade of blue. That didn’t make the encounter feel less surreal.

Matt made some sort of noise and nodded.

“You should get one. They’re good in the winter. They’re on sale right now. Through Saturday.”

“Thanks,” Matt croaked. He stood up and sort of lurched out of the Starbucks. On the way he touched a finger to the door. Yeah, a door. Probably even on the quantum scale, that was a door. Outside, he pressed both hands against the cold window. It felt real enough. He rested his forehead against it, breath still coming too fast, fogging up the glass. The sun was warm on his shoulders. The sun was about as quantum as it got, right? Whatever quantum actually was. If the sun was still working, things must be okay. He became aware that the barista and the other customers were starting at him through the window. He’d left his coffee behind. They all looked really odd, eyes wide, their eyebrows doing that funny thing like they’d seen something very weird. Matt realized they were all wondering what the fuck he was doing.

He ran.

When he got home he checked his mail again, but there was nothing. Well, maybe no more would show up. Maybe he could just burn them if they did. Yeah, that was it.

If he ignored it, it would go away. It would have to.

That night they had a team Christmas party. A bunch of the guys met up at The Tavern and exchanged goofy gifts. For Bordy, who’d hurt his knee, the guys had got a cane and then painted it like a candy cane. For Nate, who’d put on some good weight over the summer, they’d got a gift card to an all-you-can-eat buffet, to take the pressure off Talbot and his wife.

Matt groaned when he opened his own gift—a pair of boxing gloves. “For the Iggy, Ginner, Gooner line,” McLeod laughed. He slapped Matt on the back. “Don’t get in too many fights, kid. You’ll take my job, and then what will I do?”

Matt shook his head and ordered whisky neat. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but he was under a lot of stress. Besides, it was Christmas. Time to lighten up a little. He tried to laugh at the guys’ goofiness, but his mind kept drifting back to the mysterious letters. Every time he found himself thinking about them, he gulped down another drink.

Soon the room began to seem fuzzy and warm, and the idea of letters that predicted the future didn’t worry him so much. You accepted life as it happened, right? He had a fifth shot. Why should he worry, day after day, about something he couldn’t control? The game was all that mattered. The team wasn’t doing well, and a big part of that was his fault. Now he’d lost track of how much he’d had, but he had one more. He ruminated on the game, and how to do better. He had to step up. That was it.

So thinking, he thunked his glass back down on the bar. No more liquor for him! It wasn’t good for him. He had to be in shape, body and mind. He had to commit to the game.

He stood up and looked around, but the crowd had thinned out. Most of the guys had family and girlfriends to attend to; they couldn’t be out partying all night. He saw Factor in a corner with his girlfriend; they were talking with another couple. Nate was just slipping out the door. And Gabe—Gabe was still there, with—

Matt looked at Gabe blearily. He blinked and squinted his eyes. Gabe was at the bar across from him, holding hands with another guy. A dark-haired guy. A really, super-hot, model-y sort of guy. But—well—that didn’t mean . . . Gabe leaned in and kissed the guy right on the mouth.

Matt yelped. It was true! The letters told the future! They really did! He clapped his hands to his face. Oh, God! What if one of them said when he was going to die or something? He didn’t want to know! He didn’t want to know anything! He was happier not knowing! What was he supposed to do?

Matt felt someone jostle his arm and looked over to see Gabe standing beside him, looking upset. “But I don’t want to know,” Matt moaned.

Gabe looked tense. “Well, you already know, so that’s not an option. Look . . . are you going to tell people? I thought we were friends. I thought I could count on you.”

Swaying a little in his seat, Matt tried to focus. He was so worried about the letters that he wasn’t sure what Landy was talking about. “W . . . what?” he mumbled.

Gabe tilted his head to the side. “Are you going to tell people I’m gay?” he demanded.

“You’re gay?” Matt repeated. He sat up ramrod straight as he remembered. “Oh, no! I’m drunk! You’re gay and I’m drunk! Oh, no! Now what do I do?” He looked wildly at Gabe, who had the most hurt expression he’d ever seen.

“Matty, I’m not going to take advantage of you,” he said, voice cracking.

“What? Why would you take advantage of me?” Matt genuinely didn’t understand. All he could think of was how badly he’d screwed things up last time, and now it was happening all over again. Last time he’d lost them the game. This time it told him not to be drunk, and he was drunk anyway. What would happen this time? Had the letter said? He couldn’t remember. He’d had too much to think straight.

“Why would I take advantage of you?” Gabe repeated. Now he looked just as confused as Matt felt. “Because you’re drunk, I guess? I don’t know.”

Matt blinked several times. “You would take advantage of me? Really?” This was a new and weirdly flattering thought. Gabe would take advantage of him? He’d thought about Matt that way? Really? “But . . . you don’t go for people like me.”

Gabe shook his head. “People like you? What does that mean? Guys? Because, uh, I was just kissing a guy. That’s what started all this, isn’t it? Because you saw me kissing a guy and you freaked out. So yeah, I would have to say I certainly go for people like you.”

Matt flushed, inexplicably pleased. “Really? But I’m not . . . I’m not hot,” he said awkwardly. “You only date super hot people. You. You are way out of my league,” he said, earnestly grabbing Gabe’s arm. “Look at that guy you were kissing. He’s really . . . hey, where’d he go?” Matt looked around the bar, which was really nearly empty now, but the guy was nowhere to be seen.

“Jeez, Dutchy, you certainly had a lot. You are absolutely blitzed. Come on; get your coat. I’m gonna take you home,” Gabe said, helping him down from the bar stool.

“Okay,” Matt mumbled agreeably. They found Matt’s coat and, after several tries, he managed to get both arms in the sleeves. He thought that was good enough, but Gabe insisted it was really cold out and Matt needed to at least zip his jacket, but he found he wasn’t coordinated enough. Finally Gabe zipped his coat all the way up to his chin.

“I’m gonna put my hat on you, okay?” he said, looking very concerned.

Matt nodded. “K. Thanks.”

Gabe gave him a weird look. He plunked his hat on Matt’s head, then thought about it and smushed his gloves onto Matt’s hands. It took some doing, and Matt stood there sniggering like a useless schmuck, but eventually Gabe got them on and heaved a sigh. “Come on, lightweight.” He steered Matt out of the bar to toward his car. “Man, I just don’t get you. I really don’t. I mean, sometimes when we’re hanging out, I think—never mind.” He helped Matt into the car and the next thing Matt knew, they were halfway back to his house. “I didn’t think you’d freak out,” Gabe grumbled as he drove.

Matt stared at him. “I didn’t freak out.”

“Yes you did. You saw me kissing Brad and you hit the roof.” Gabe’s shoulders were tight, his face closed.

“Oh. No, I didn’t freak out about that. It was something else.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, you don’t get it. I wasn’t supposed to be drunk,” Matt said almost tearfully. “I was not supposed to. The letter said so. And I did. And I messed everything up. I think.”

Gabe gave him a look from the corner of his eye. “So you were . . . upset about something else.”

“Yeah.”

“And not because I’m gay?”

Matt blinked. “No, I just . . . oh, no!” He tried to remember the whole evening, but it was a blur. He’d talked to Gabe, though. And Gabe had come out to him. And Matt was drunk, which was a bad thing. But Matt couldn’t remember the whole conversation. “Did I say that I’d like to have sex with Joe Sakic?” Matt asked anxiously.

Gabe nearly ended up in the next lane. “What!?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to tell you that! I didn’t mean to say that. I mean . . .”

Now Gabe was laughing hard. “Matty, you are a total goof when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk! Well I am, but I didn’t mean to be. It’s hard to plan things like this,” he complained. The letter said he shouldn’t get drunk, but it hadn’t mentioned when. Was he supposed to stop drinking forever, just in case?

He looked over at Gabe, who was smiling broadly as he drove. For some reason he didn’t seem upset with Matt anymore, not that Matt knew what he’d been upset about in the first place. “So you have the hots for Sakic, huh?” Gabe said.

Matt flushed. Did he? No, he didn’t. He used to think he was hot. But he wanted to be Sakic, not fuck him. Didn’t he? Did he? He couldn’t tell. “No. Well, maybe. When I was a kid, anyway. But I’m not like that anymore. Anyway, it was supposed to be a joke.”

“Some joke.”

“I know! I wasn’t supposed to say it because it isn’t funny! I . . . said it anyway, though,” Matt lamented. Now he was really confused. Knowing the future should making things easier—instead it made it really hard. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?”

“I don’t know.” Matt started to cry drunken tears. He’d just reached that state of inebriation where everything seemed like something to get emotional about. “I screw everything up. I didn’t listen to the letter. I have superpowers or something, and instead of helping people I just screw it all up.”

Gabe shook his head slowly. “Holy cow, Matty. You are shitfaced worse than anything I have ever seen. You have superpowers? What superpowers?”

“I can tell the future.”

“Yeah?” Gabe grinned. “What’s my future?”

“I don’t know,” Matt replied impatiently. He glanced out the window, watching the dark landscape blur past. “I have to wait for a letter.”

“Wow. Wait until I tell the guys about this tomorrow.”

“Don’t tell! Please? They’ll lock me up,” Matt said sadly. He grabbed Gabe’s arm. “You can’t tell, Gabe.”

“Okay, okay.” Gabe shook his hand off so he could drive. “You gotta not tell anyone I’m gay, though. If you even remember tomorrow,” he added darkly.

That was the last thing Matt remembered about that night.

The next morning Matt found Gabe asleep on his couch, still dressed to the nines. Matt stood there and stared at him, then went to make coffee. He still remembered last night pretty well. He wished he didn’t. But maybe coffee would make him feel less horrible.

He stood at the counter and stared into space as he waited. He hadn’t told Gabe everything, but he’d told him enough. Would Gabe think he was crazy? The coffee began to percolate and the warm, roasty smell wafted through the kitchen.

A few moments later, as he was pouring himself a cup, Matt looked up to see Gabe yawning in the doorway. “Um. Hey.”

“Hey,” Gabe replied. He stretched, reaching up high until his shirt rode up, exposing his stomach. Matt’s own stomach did a funny flip, and he found his face warm. He turned away quickly.

“Want some coffee?” he asked.

“I would do anything for coffee,” Gabe said, and Matt had to swallow hard. Gabe wasn’t flirting with him, was he? That was crazy. He hadn’t flirted last night. Unless there was some part that Matt couldn’t remember.

Oh, shit! What if there was? He couldn’t remember anything after being in the car. He’d assumed he’d passed out. What if he and Gabe had come back here and . . . had come back here and . . . Matt swallowed hard. He looked up at Gabe, trying to read his face. Gabe looked, well, like Gabe. Cheerful and kind of tired after a night of drinking. He didn’t look, uh, what was the word? He didn’t look debauched or anything. Matt realized he wasn’t sure what that would look like, though. Maybe Gabe’s hair would be more mussed, and he’d have lovebites on his neck, and a funny, smug smile playing around his mouth. And he’d smell of sex. He’d be musky and maybe even smell of Matt’s cologne, if they’d been together, skin against skin all night. Holy fuck, that would be kind of hot. Embarrassed, Matt realized he was getting hard.

“Earth to Matt,” Gabe said, and Matt jumped about a foot. “Coffee?”

“Coffee! Yeah!” Coffee would help. Matt poured himself another big cup and plunked himself into a seat at the kitchen table to hide his erection.

Gabe stared at him. “I guess I’ll get my own?”

“Sure, help yourself,” Matt said with a shrug.

Gabe sighed and shook his head. He dug in a cupboard and poured himself a cup. Matt stared at him. How could anyone look so good after sleeping in their clothes all night? His hair was a little messy and his clothes were a little rumpled, but he still looked good. Great, even. Of course, he made a point to wear shirts that were so tight that they showed off every gorgeous muscle. Gabe hunted for sugar to add to his coffee. “Look . . . about last night . . .”

Matt’s jaw dropped. “Oh, shit. Did we really have sex last night?”

Gabe spun around to face him, absolutely shocked.

“We didn’t have sex last night,” Matt amended after seeing the look on his face. He breathed out. “Oh. Okay. I wasn’t sure, because I couldn’t remember getting home. I thought we might have done something after we got here,” he added bashfully.

“I wouldn’t take advantage of a drunk person,” Gabe snapped.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. Just that if we had enough, maybe we’d have . . . well, but it doesn’t matter, because we didn’t.” Gabe continued to stare at him like he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It’s just that I was really gone, Gabe. I didn’t know if you were that drunk, too. Because if we were both drunk, we might have . . .I mean, I worried that at a certain point maybe we started fooling around just because it sounded fun at the time and we were drunk, and, well, I meant . . .” Matt trailed off, his brain finally catching up with his mouth. He realized, suddenly, that while he thought he was saying, Oh hey, good, we didn’t sleep together, what Gabe was hearing was, If I had enough alcohol to lower my inhibitions I’d totally do you. Matt wasn’t even entirely sure that wasn’t the truth. Gabe didn’t say anything. He just listened to Matt’s rambling, his eyebrows high. “Never mind what I meant. I—uh, you were saying? About last night?”

“I was just going to ask you to be discreet—about me liking guys.”

“Oh. Yeah, for sure.” Matt squirmed. “I—I’d appreciate it if you would be discreet, too.”

Gabe sat down across from him, and Matt realized there was only a kitchen table separating them. He felt exposed, like Gabe could see right through the table and knew about his erection. “You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone you had a crush on Sakic,” Gabe said.

Matt’s eyes flew open wide. “Huh?”

Gabe didn’t exactly laugh at him, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone had a thing for Sakic back in the day. I mean it, everyone. If they tell you they didn’t, they’re lying. Come on, he’s smoking hot.”

Matt laughed uncomfortably. “No, I meant—I meant about the future thing.”

Gabe looked perplexed for a moment before he remembered. “Oh! That shit about how you knew the future!? What do you mean, I can’t tell people? That was the best part!” He laughed. “Matty, you are a fucking riot when you’re drunk.”

“Gabe . . .” Matt said. “Come on. Please.”

“All right. You’re a weird guy, you know that?”

Matt sighed. He was weirder than Gabe even knew. “Yeah.”

Gabe leaned across the table to squeeze Matt’s shoulder. “Not that weird,” he said supportively. “And stuff like . . . like thinking about Sakic that way, that’s okay, you know that, right?” Matt flushed miserably. God, the last thing he wanted on top of these crazy future predictions was to have to re-evaluate his sexuality. “I know you grew up in a different environment, maybe not so open-minded or whatever as Sweden, but I just want you to know that . . .” Gabe sighed. “Just . . . I don’t know. I just want you to know I will certainly accept you, no matter what. Okay?”

Matt smiled. Gabe had no idea, but he was trying really hard. “Yeah. You, too. I mean, I’m in your corner, and it doesn’t bother me that you’re gay. It’s cool.”

Gabe looked pleased. “Cool.”

For a few awkward minutes, they sipped their coffees, nursing hangovers and trying not to meet each other’s eyes. “You want some breakfast?” Matt finally said. “I’m not a great cook, but I’ve got some eggs and stuff.”

“Sure. I’ll help,” Gabe said, getting up. The busywork was nice; Matt got through rinsing out a pan and pouring some juice and making toast without even having to worry about the future or what crazy thing came next.

As Gabe fried some eggs, he gave Matt a smile over his shoulder. “Dutchy?” he said in a hesitant way.

“Yeah?”

Gabe swallowed. “I’m glad. I mean, I’m glad you were the one to find out, and not somebody else.”

Matt smiled. “Me, too.” For just a second he felt okay. Then Gabe turned away, and Matt found his gaze drifting down and fixating on the guy’s butt. Oh, hell. He was starting to get turned on all over again. This couldn’t be happening! Not on top of everything else.

“Scrambled or fried?” Gabe asked innocently.

I think I’m both, Matt thought wryly. “Your choice,” he said. He looked into his coffee and frowned. He had enough on his plate already; so far he’d done absolutely everything the letters told him not to do. He still didn’t know where they were coming from or why they were coming to him. And he didn’t know if he’d get more or what they’d say.

But he did know one thing; on top of everything else, he was now developing an inappropriate and unhealthy interest in Gabe Landeskog.

What next?

The next letter didn’t arrive for almost two weeks. Two wonderful, horrible weeks. Matt kept telling himself that he hoped they were done for good, but somehow, he knew better. In the end, it was almost a relief when one did arrive, because the anticipation was killing him.

When he opened his mailbox on Monday and saw that weirdly familiar, yet unfamiliar handwriting, he caught his breath. Oh, God.

He didn’t open it right away. First he went inside. He fed Paisley. He made his own dinner—just some reheated roast chicken and veggies. He even called Gabe, even though he didn’t really have anything to say. That was happening a lot lately. Whenever he got too twisted up about it, he’d call Gabe up, just casually, and mention that he was really stressed out. Gabe, the keen captain and devoted friend, would go out of his way to get Matt laughing and loose. He’d joke about the team, or describe some awful teen romance he’d watched, or, if all else failed, he’d do his Patrick Roy impression. That usually got Matt laughing, not at the coach, but because Gabe was just so bad at it. His fake French accent was just terrible.

Tonight Gabe didn’t pick up. He’d said he was probably be going out to dinner, so that shouldn’t be a surprise. Still, Matt felt anxious.

He went into the living room and made a fire, thinking that would keep him busy. Finally though, he heaved a great sigh, got up and retrieved the letter.

He sat in front of the fire for a long time, staring at it without opening it. It didn’t look like anything special. It was just an envelope with his name on it. The handwriting was a bit messy, but legible. It looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t Gabe’s, or Patrick’s, or his sister’s. It wasn’t his dad’s . . . but there was something sort of male about it. Matt wondered why he thought so. Finally he shrugged and tore it open.

This time it didn’t seem quite like a letter. That was what scared him the most. It was sort of disconnected and broken, like someone trying to string their thoughts together before forgetting them.

All right, this is the THIRD TRY and if this goes missing, I give up! I am seriously frustrated and pissed off with this whole project. It’s hard enough to write shit like this as it is without all my memories going missing. I swear it’s that fucking guy Gabe hired to help out around the house. I don’t care what Gabe says, he’s definitely not Inuit, and he’s not from Alaska, either. Varly says he isn’t Russian. All I know is he has a weird accent and claims to be from ‘up north’ and he’s fucking strange. And short. I know it’s not right to judge someone based on their looks, but I’ve never met anyone so . . . so small. It’s not like he has dwarfism or anything—you can tell by looking, and besides, when I asked, he laughed and said there are no dwarves where he came from, only fairies and elves. Which, you know, I know he’s just joking, but he’s just so weird. Anyway, buddy, if you’re the one stealing my notes, you’d better watch it! When I catch you I swear I will drop-kick you out the front door, even if the kids do love you.

Anyway. Yeah, fuck. Okay, so, for the speech. Like, okay, how did I feel when I won the Cup? But that’s so boring; everyone feels the same. I can talk about how Gabe and I got married, but that’s so personal. Should I talk about that? It might encourage other young guys to feel okay about it. I guess I could talk about that.

Gabe was . . . he was going to marry Gabe? That was crazy! He was crazy! No, no way.

Suddenly Matt relaxed.

No. It was that easy! He didn’t have to get married to Gabe. Jesus, gay marriage was barely accepted; they weren’t about to start forcing people to get gay married, no matter what his crazy conservative uncle might say during one of his rants. The very idea was just stupid. So after all, all he had to do was not accidentally marry Gabe Landeskog. How hard could that be? He had a sudden, terrifying vision of a night in Vegas after too many drinks: he could definitely accidentally marry Gabe Landeskog. After all, if alcohol lowered his inhibitions enough that he’d consider sleeping with him, why wouldn’t he go the extra step? Who knew what he was capable of if you got enough vodka into him? And while, to his knowledge, Vegas didn’t even allow gay marriage yet, there was no reason why they wouldn’t be doing it, say, five years from now.

The only thing to do was to stop drinking. Don’t drink, don’t accidentally marry Gabe. Easy as that.

Matt got up, put this letter in Roy’s biography, and firmly walked away.

He was absolutely done with this shit. It didn’t matter who was sending the letters, how, or why. The point was that the future would be what he made of it.

And no one, no one was going to change that.

After making that pledge, Matt found life a lot easier to deal with. He stopped opening mail with no return address. He concentrated on hockey. He and Gabe even played on the same line sometimes, and it was no big deal.

They began to turn things around, picking up more wins, clawing their way back into the playoff race. That, he thought, was proof that he was doing the right thing. That was what you got when you stayed focused and resolute.

However, in spite of his fortitude, the letter did have one effect Matt couldn’t seem to shake; he was thinking about Gabe an awful lot for a guy who didn’t want to marry him.

He watched Gabe from the corner of his eye in the locker room. He found himself thinking about Gabe at odd times, like when he was getting ready for bed or hitting the shower. He spent time on the bench pressed close to him, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, overly aware of Gabe’s body, of his scent. It did funny things to his insides, things he really didn’t want to think about.

Worst of all, sometimes Gabe would catch him looking and give him a big grin, and Matt would feel his whole face start to burn, right up to the hairline. It was absolutely mortifying. Gabe, however, didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he was just tactful enough not to mention it.

About a month after the last letter arrived, Gabe cornered Matt in the locker room after practice. “Hey. Can I talk to you?”

Matt was literally backed into a corner, Gabe’s body too close for comfort—though of course these days, that could be anywhere. Matt would swear that he could feel exactly where Gabe was even if the guy was three streets away. “Uh, yeah?” Matt managed. Gabe was sweaty and ripe and that should have been absolutely disgusting. But Matt hardly noticed, except for how his broad shoulders gleamed with sweat. He was still coming down from the workout, too, his chest swelling as he tried to catch his breath.

“I—I have been thinking about coming out. To the team,” Gabe said, his face anxious. “What do you think?”

Matt, who had been staring at Gabe’s chest, his mind a million miles away, blinked a little. “Uh, coming out? Yeah, I guess you could do that.” He thought about it for a moment. “Why do you want to do it now?” he asked curiously.

Gabe shrugged. Matt had never noticed before how massive and strong Gabe’s trap muscles were. Holy cow. He was starting to feel off-balance. “I just . . . I feel like it’s affecting my game.”

Matt stared. “What is? Gay sex?”

Gabe laughed. “Wow, that would have to be some pretty wild sex. No, I just mean . . .I worry too much about it. It’s in the back of my mind, you know? I feel like people are watching me, waiting for me to slip up. I’m not concentrating that great.”

Matt nodded. “I totally understand,” he said with complete honesty.

Gabe dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “And I feel like I’m kind of a shitty captain. You know, lying to the guys. I mean, if they knew, they might not want me to be captain anymore. But at least they’ll know that I’m up-front with them, that I’m . . . you know. I wanna be that guy. A guy who lives what he believes. You know?”

Matt nodded, but this time more slowly. “I get you, but . . . do you think this is a good time? I understand what you’re saying, but at the same time you’re the captain, and you have to put the team first. Don’t you worry how this will affect the guys? Don’t you worry that it will be a distraction?” he added as gently as he could. The both loved hockey first and foremost, and he knew Gabe wouldn’t want to adversely affect his team.

Gabe laughed bitterly. “In case you haven’t noticed, we haven’t exactly been killing it out there. If I’m a distraction, I’d rather be a distraction from a bad season than a good one.”

Matt blinked. He had a point. Besides, did he expect Gabe to stay in the closet forever? Just for the Avs? Matt would, no problem, but . . . he felt the blood drain from his face. Had he just thought that? That he would stay in the closet? But he wasn’t in the closet, was he? He’d dated girls. But deep down he knew that there was always a part of him that had, at least, admired guys—that way. Thinking about it, he wasn’t even sure if his objection to Gabe coming out was about the team’s best interests. Maybe he just didn’t want the letter to come true. Maybe he was scared? It was something to think about.

But in the meantime, Gabe was still looking at him expectantly, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

Well, Matt had promised himself that he wouldn’t marry Gabe. He hadn’t pledged to make sure Gabe never married anyone. It wasn’t fair to make Gabe stay in the closet forever. And if this really was affecting Gabe’s game, then it was in everyone’s best interests for him to get it off his chest and come back to the ice focused on the game.

“What do you think, Dutchy? Am I being selfish?” Gabe asked in a small voice.

Matt smiled. He reached out and squeezed Gabe’s shoulder. “No. I don’t think you’re being selfish. And if this is what you want to do, I’m behind you one hundred percent,” he said as staunchly as he could.

Gabe’s face lit up, and for a moment it was almost worth it. “Thanks, Dutchy,” he said. “I am lucky to have a friend like you in my corner.”

In a way, it really was a relief. The ensuing media frenzy completely distracted everyone, but at the same time the reporters were hardly mentioning the Avs’ losing record. Instead they were getting good press—the first openly gay NHL player—the captain brave enough to share this with his team—the supportive players.

Well, it would be nice if that last bit were completely true, but there were a few nasty remarks and some definite resentment. One particular guy was really, obviously uncomfortable. He stood up and made it known, said they shouldn’t have to play with a guy like that, said they shouldn’t have to share a locker room, said they didn’t need a captain like that.

Gabe humbly offered to step down as captain. He even offered to quit, if it hurt the team that much.

Matt called an all players meeting after the next game—all except Gabe.

“I know some of you aren’t happy. It might be an uncomfortable experience for some of us. That’s understandable. But it was an uncomfortable experience back when we first had interracial teams. And you know what? That discomfort wasn’t on the black players, you know? I think Gabe’s a good captain, a good guy, and a great player. I think it would be really foolish to give that up because of ridiculous squeamishness on our part. But I know I don’t speak for everyone. I want to know what everyone else thinks. I want to talk about it. And then I’d like to take a vote on how we handle it.”

He could see guys nodding all around him.

Factor spoke up first. “I don’t care about personal shit. I care about hockey. I want to win, okay? My only worry is that this could be a distraction from a run to the Cup.”

“If we don’t win the Cup, it won’t be Gabe’s fault,” MacKinnon pointed out. “One guy being gay doesn’t stop you from winning. If we can’t get past that, we don’t deserve the Cup.”

“That’s a good point,” Barrie jumped in. “That’s actually a really good point. We have to be a team. We’re supposed to support each other. If we can’t do that, we’re not going to win anyway.”

Iggy held up a hand. “Okay, that’s reasonable, but for those of us who have concerns, why don’t we voice them? If you’re uncomfortable with Gabe, can you explain why?”

There was a general shuffling of feet. “What if he hits on me?’ McLeod finally muttered.

Matt had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Guy or girl, Gabe had only dated the absolute cream of the crop. Cody, with his big, twisted nose, missing teeth and scarred up face was pretty much the antithesis of Gabe’s ‘type.’

“Trust me, he’s not going to hit on you,” Nate said. “Gabe isn’t going to hit on any of us,” he assured the room.

After a long moment of silence, Matt snorted. “Okay, speak for yourself, butterface. He’s definitely got to hit on me, because I’m totally hot. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t have any taste at all.”

After a moment of uncertain silence, Nick Holden was the first to start giggling, and the rest of the group followed, the tension broken.

“Trust me, I’m the only person in this room who has even the slightest chance of being hit on by Gabe Landeskog,” Matt added when they’d calmed down. “But you know what? If he does, all I have to say is, ‘I’m not into that.’ That’s it. I mean, you don’t have to be afraid of Gabe. You know him. What do you think, he’s gonna rape you or something? He’s driven me home when I was so drunk I couldn’t even stand up. Not only did he not try anything funny, he gave me his own hat and gloves because he was worried I was going to get hypothermia or something. That’s who Gabe is.” Matt realized it was true; there was nothing to be afraid of. Not for the rest of the team, and not for him, either.

Most of the guys were looking abashed now. “He lent me some money once,” Talbot said. “And when I went to pay it back, he just laughed and said teammates take care of each other.”

“When someone come at me last year, Gabe turn around and pound him good,” Varly muttered.

“He’s a good captain, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise,” EJ announced with a fire in his eye and a tightening of his fist.

Matt felt pretty good. He didn’t have the entire room behind him, but even the older guys had to admit that the world was changing, and they would just have to change with it.

In the end, they took a vote. Only one guy didn’t want Gabe as captain anymore, didn’t want to deal with Gabe at all. One guy. Better than Matt expected.

And in less than a week, Patrick Roy traded that guy. He had silently told the team that Gabe was the captain and Patty supported him, and that they’d better accept it.

Things got easier after that.

Gabe sure did play better; he played like he felt light, like the weight of the world was off his shoulders. Matt played a little better, too. He felt like he had less pressure, too.

He was feeling so good that he actually asked Gabe out to dinner one night, totally confident that he wouldn’t somehow accidentally end up marrying him afterward.

They went out to Choppers and had a great time, laughing and reliving their last win, play by play. Gabe had a couple of beers, but Matt was good. He stuck with water.

“Not even a glass of wine?” Gabe teased.

“No. I decided I was going to have better self-control. Anyway, when I’m having a good time with you and I start drinking, I always make an ass out of myself.” Matt sipped his water, feeling good about his decisions.

Gabe laughed. “No. Not an ass. You’re kind of funny, it’s true, but you’re not that bad.”

“Gabe, last time you literally had to dress me because I had no control over my fingers. That is too much liquor. There is no way that’s doing anything good for my hockey game.”

Gabe half shrugged, and Matt gulped. He never had a thing for shoulders—certainly not guys’ shoulders, but something about Gabe’s powerful muscles sliding underneath his thin shirt—well. So what? He wasn’t going to marry Gabe’s trap muscles either way, right? So why shouldn’t he look at them? Nothing wrong with enjoying attractive shoulders, anyway. “I don’t mind dressing you,” Gabe said, and Matt flushed. “Don’t worry; I won’t take advantage.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Matt snapped. “You’ve had plenty of opportunity.” Why was he suddenly feeling peevish?

“Okay, okay. Anyway, you and Danny really clicked last night. That was great. You just keep on like that, the goals will come to you.”

Matt smiled. He still hadn’t had a point in the last eight games, even though he’d gotten plenty of assists. “As long as I’m helping the team somehow,” he said.

When Gabe drove him home that night, Matt felt more relaxed than he had in months. “I made the right choice,” he muttered. Gabe just raised an eyebrow. “To refrain from drinking,” Matt explained helpfully. “I feel better. And I can go to bed knowing I’m not going to wake up with a whale of a hangover.”

Gabe winked. “Hey, yeah, and I can totally mack on you because you’re not drunk, so it wouldn’t be taking advantage!”

Matt sporfled. “Yeah, right,” he said, aware that his face was warm.

“No? I can’t even get to first base?”

“You don’t even know what first base is; you’re a hockey player, not a baseball player,” Matt told him dryly.

Gabe laughed. “Okay, what about, uh, a faceoff? Can I skate the puck over the line?”

Matt couldn’t help it; he totally cracked up. “I don’t even want to know what going five-hole would be in this situation.”

Gabe howled. “Hahah, I think that would be pretty self-explanatory,” he chuckled. “Oh, God—what about high-sticking?” He nudged Matt hard.

“Ahahahaha, or holding the stick,” Matt sniggered. “And I guess if someone gave you the brush off, that would be icing.”

“Ooooo, good one! Poke-checking, that’s good too. Man, this is a filthy sport.”

“Or we just have filthy minds,” Matt corrected.

“That, too.”

They laughed the whole way back to Matt’s house, trying to find dirty words in hockey terms. Roughing sounded like something out of an S&M handbook, and a wrap around was just plain obvious, as well as (Gabe pointed out) being good manners. A smooth guy would be a playmaker, and if you took someone back to your place it would be home ice advantage. Matt wanted to know what a threesome would be—a man advantage, or a two on one?

“Stop it,” Gabe begged, wiping his eyes. “You’re gonna make me get in an accident.”

Finally they pulled into Matt’s driveway. For some reason, he suddenly felt sort of let down. He glanced at Gabe. “Want to come in?”

“Nah.”

“Come on. You always walk me to my door. You’re a gentleman like that.”

Gabe laughed. “That’s only because usually you’re so drunk I have to make sure you actually get to your door and don’t end up wandering off and getting stuck in the neighbor’s bushes or something. Tonight you’re finally sober enough that I don’t have to worry about it.”

Matt looked at his hands. “Okay. Well, it was fun.”

“Yeah, totally,” Gabe said in a breezy voice. “See ya in practice.”

Matt turned to Gabe and suddenly had a mischievous urge. Without giving Gabe time to object, he leaned over and kissed him, quickly and theatrically, right on the mouth.

Gabe gaped as Matt laughed at the look on his face. “What was that about?” the Swede said when he’d recovered.

Matt got out, shut the door, and leaned in the window. “What do you mean? That was totally kosher,” he said innocently.

Gabe blinked his big, baffled blue eyes. “How do you figure that?”

“I’m a man of honor,” Matt explained gleefully. “I didn’t kiss you until our second date!”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “I think you’re less trouble when you’re drunk,” was all he replied.

Matt just waved goodbye and watched him drive off, still laughing and feeling strangely giddy. It had been a good night.

That night Matt lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Gabe had left over four hours ago, and Matt’s heart was still doing a funny, jittery dance inside his chest.

It occurred to him that if you were trying your hardest not to end up marrying someone, you probably shouldn’t be kissing them. Not kissing was probably top of the list of how not to get married. Why had he done it? He’d just had a wild urge, something to do for a laugh. Well, the joke was on him, because now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Part of the appeal, he thought, was the absolute taboo of it all. He had promised himself he wouldn’t. He knew damn well he shouldn’t. Everyone would disapprove, even the team, because inter-teammate relationships were just a bad idea. And he really, really got off on that. Like, absolutely no one would be okay with this—except whoever was sending the letters—and even the thought of brushing his lips against Gabe’s again made his whole body temperature rise about twelve degrees.

Thinking about Gabe’s mouth made his face warm, his stomach warm, and definitely—definitely—other bits warm. Even his ears felt hot. And they hadn’t even done anything. It was hardly even a kiss. At best, it was a parody of a kiss. Gabe hadn’t even given any sign he’d liked it.

So why was Matt laying here in the dark, grinning his stupid face off? He couldn’t stop smiling to save his life.

He’d kissed lots of girls . . . well, he’d kissed several, anyway, and it was all fine. He’d thought it felt like it was supposed to feel. But nothing, nothing had ever felt like this before. Matt felt like he wanted to slay a dragon. He wanted to run outside and dance around hooting and hollering, right where anyone could see. He wanted to jump into his car and put on some Brad Paisley and roll down all the windows and push it up to a hundred and twenty, racing through the night and signing at the top of his lungs.

And it hadn’t even been a real kiss. It hadn’t felt like a kiss, exactly. It felt like the idea of a kiss. The conception of a kiss. It felt, if Matt were being totally honest with himself, like getting a shot on goal. You didn’t get it this time, but you were on the right track and if you kept doing it, you’d get there.

Matt wondered if this was what falling in love felt like.

He’d thought he’d been in love before. Sure, it wasn’t a wild and crazy love, it was just two people who had fun together and the sex was pretty good and, after all, she was there when he needed someone. He’d assumed it was love. Maybe it wasn’t wildly romantic, and maybe it wasn’t like in the movies, where you’d run down a plane to stop her from leaving or something, but those were just movies. He’d always thought movies were just lies.

Matt was starting to reevaluate his whole life. Love, he decided, had definitely been an assumption. He’d taken for granted that what he’d felt was the best he could possibly feel. He didn’t try harder than that. Love was for hockey, that’s how he’d really felt, deep down, he realized sheepishly. He’d just thought hockey was his first love, and that nothing else would ever come close. He’d assumed he was more or less straight. More or less, of course, because he had noticed things he couldn’t control, especially back in the days his body would betray him and go crazy over another boy, or Joe Sakic, or hell, even a picture of lake. In puberty, a boy’s body didn’t even need stimuli. There was no telling what it would respond to. And the teachers had been pretty clear about that, and that there was nothing anyone could do about it, and also that everyone outgrew it eventually, and that was about as much thought as Matt had ever given the matter.

He’d made a lot of really dumb assumptions.

Of course, being hot for Landy was a bad idea, no matter how you looked at it. And he knew he should feel bad about it, so he did, but not as bad as he should have felt. He risked fucking up the whole team, crushing on his teammate this way, but the blood singing through his veins didn’t care.

He didn’t even know how Landy felt about him—but then there were the letters. The last letter said that Gabe Landeskog would be his husband. Matt didn’t think he could possibly be smart enough to trick Gabe into marrying him, so there must be something there. Even if Gabe didn’t know it yet. The letter, Matt thought, was practically a promise.

He fell asleep, still smiling in his dreams.

Matt whistled as he pulled into the parking lot of the Family Sports Center for practice. It was a whole new world. Just a short time ago, he’d never even thought about what it would be like, being married, and he hadn’t thought much about men, and he hadn’t thought about what it would be like, to fall in love with his best friend.

But he liked every last bit of it.

And because of the letter, he had something he’d never, ever imagined before: he had confidence. He was going into this whole thing knowing how it would end. Gabe Landeskog would fall in love with him—hell, maybe he already had. Thinking back, there had been a lot of lingering looks he might have misinterpreted at the time. Maybe Gabe had been pining for him for weeks—or months—or since they’d met! Wow, that was a crazy idea. It sort of made Matt’s heart constrict in his chest. He hated the idea of Gabe being all hopelessly in love with him, thinking his feelings would never be returned. Longing and lonely. Oh, his poor Gabe.

But hey, that was all behind them now. Nothing but sunshine and rainbows and true love, right? Matty frowned a little as he got out of his car and locked it behind him. The letter hadn’t exactly promised that. It had said he would marry Gabe—and it mentioned kids. But that was it. Matt knew, because he knew the whole thing by heart now. What if they weren’t happy? But that was silly. Why would he get gay married to someone if it wouldn’t even make them happy? What was the point of that? So for sure, if he and Gabe got married, it must be because they really liked each other.

And they did really like each other. The thought put a grin back on Matt’s face. Everyone had remarked on how he’d changed lately, how he had more bounce in his step, and how he was more resilient on the ice and encouraging in the locker room. The letters had changed Matty—they’d given him a new belief in himself. Maybe you could even call it swagger. He could live with that; he was kind of tired of being a basket case. Being a hot shot was sure a lot more fun.

As he approached the locker room, he could see Landy in the doorway with his back to him. Matt’s grin turned impish. With his newfound self-assurance, he was starting to do things he’d never even dreamed of a couple of months earlier.

As he strutted past Gabe he snaked a hand out and slapped him on the ass. “Morning, sunshine!” he crowed. “Miss me?”

“Yeah, but if you stand still I won’t miss again,” Gabe said wryly. His face was bright pink, though. Matt liked that. One thing he noticed about Swedes—their complexion meant that you could seriously tell when they were blushing.

When practice was over and they’d showered and were getting ready to leave, Gabe came up and swatted Matt’s backside with his stick. He looked a little perturbed, though, when Matt only smiled broadly over his shoulder. “I want two goals from you next game,” Gabe informed him.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Oh. Well. I’ll just snap my fingers and make that happen.”

“You know, you are really sassy lately, Dutchy. What the heck is up with that?” Gabe dropped to the bench beside him and looked at him expectantly.

There was no way Matt was going to tell him the truth. “I’ve been eating cheeky-os for breakfast,” he replied instead, grabbing his gear and headed out.

Gabe laughed. “If you played as well as you yapped, you’d be able to get me a couple of goals no problem.”

Matt stopped, a grin spreading over his face. “I’ll get your goals,” he said.

Gabe blinked. “Oh, yeah?”

Matt turned and winked at him. “For you, anything,” he said. Gabe’s laughter followed him all the way down the hall.

On a flight back home from a game against the Bruins, Matt lolled his head against his seat, thinking hard. They’d just clawed their way back above five hundred and were ready to aim themselves at San Jose tomorrow.

The games were good again. Not easy, but good.

What Matt didn’t know what whether Gabe was good. Whether they were good. Or if they could be more than good. He watched Gabe, beside him, completely asleep, head hanging, even drooling a little. That was decidedly unsexy. Whatever this crazy new thing the letters had started, Landy was still currently as unappealing as possible. And yet . . .

There was still something sort of . . . sweet, maybe? Something there that made Dutchy’s heart feel funny in his chest, tight and tender and almost protective.

Gabe looked so young and vaguely helpless, asleep and oblivious, his strong chin slack, face completely relaxed. After a quick, furtive look around—Ginner was rocking out to something on his headphones, eyes closed, and Tyson was staring absently out the window—no one had any interest in Matt.

So since he had a moment to himself, Matt ever so carefully reached out. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted, or what he was doing, so he froze with his hand an inch away from Gabe’s face. It took a moment for him to decide. With the back of his hand—with the back of his fingers, it would be okay. Anything else would be too invasive, too intimate. So with unbearable tension, he turned his hand and finally lowered it, just a little, trembling, and brushed it lightly down the side of Gabe’s face, drinking in his warmth.

Matt stared at him in wonder. Gabe didn’t look any different—he was the same overgrown boy, the same drooling doof he’d been a moment ago. But for just a moment, Matt had felt the swell of a violin echo beneath his ribcage as he’d touched Gabe’s skin. Nothing to do with Gabe, Matt knew it. Nothing to do with the letters, even. It wasn’t anything silly, like magic.

He was hopelessly fucked. Matt Duchene was in love.

He cursed himself. He was in too deep. He should stop. He should avoid Gabe. He should get out while there was still time.

Gabe moaned softly in his sleep and shifted a little. Bolder, Matt stroked his shoulder, very lightly, just a comforting connection to let Gabe know things were okay. Gabe settled back into his sleep with a pleased sigh.

Matt watched him wordlessly for the rest of the flight. He promised Gabe silently that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The next time a letter arrived, Matt was waiting for the mail lady by the box. He danced a little jig when he saw the handwriting, and she looked at him like he was crazy. “Not the Comcast bill, I take it?”

He laughed. “Nope. For once, good news. I hope,” he added honestly.

He hurried inside and tore it right open to read.

Dear Matt,

Make sure you do NOT make Patty Roy best man at your wedding. First of all he will lose the ring. Then the photographer will turn out to be a huge Osgood fan from back in the day. During the reception, they will get drunk and start fighting and get arrested and Gabe will never let you hear the end of it. NEVER. Every year you will buy him something nice and say, “Happy Anniversary!” and he’ll laugh and say, “Oh, is it the anniversary of that time Coach Roy got thrown in jail because the cameraman gave him a split lip at our wedding? Already? A whole year has passed, and it seems like just yesterday. You were all, ‘No, it’ll be fine. Patty wrote a nice speech and everything. And I just admire him so much.’ Me, I just asked my brother. My brother didn’t get drunk at our wedding and punch anyone.’ Literally, just, okay, DON’T ask Patrick Roy to be best man. You only did it to suck up, anyway. And the kids will put on the video every single year. They’ll fast-forward right through your wedding. They don’t want to see their dads get married, nope! Not your kids! Instead they’ll go right for the good stuff—where Gabe’s stolen the video camera and is yelling the play-by-play like he thinks he’s Moser: “And a right by Roy and a right by Roy and ANOTHER right by Roy, and a left by the camera guy, and a right by the camera guy! And a left by Roy, and an uppercut by Roy!” Joey has that memorized, by the way, and can narrate the whole thing, he’s seen it so many times.

Do not make Patrick Roy best man.

Too long? I think that bit might be too long. If I add in the stuff about the trade and the move and the first Cup, I’ll definitely be over fifteen minutes. Dammit. No one wants to hear some old blowhard go on about the good old days, anyway. It’s boring. I’ll show it to Gabe and he can edit. Maybe I’ll just put in the stuff about the Cups. Also, I’m going to lock this in my desk. If I lose this one, I’m going to have a fucking meltdown.

Below all this gibberish, another hand had added further remarks:

Dear Matt, it read, Stop being so fucking stressed out all the time. You take this too serious. Have fun and enjoy life. You got a great husband and two really great kids and three Stanley Cup rings—what more do you want? You are driving your poor husband crazy trying to get ready for this. You should go give him a foot rub. And a back rub. And take a bath with him. And remember, there is one sure way to make him happy! Just say, “Jag vill ge dig en avsugning!”

Matt swallowed hard. There was even a pronunciation spelled out after the note. It was Swedish. Matt wasn’t great with languages, but he at least recognized it as Swedish. I will something something something, he read. He shook his head and sat back, dazed.

The letter was nearly incoherent, and that was troubling. Maybe it meant he was losing his mind. Maybe it meant that he would lose his mind? If not, that was his life, laid out in front of him.

One husband, two kids, three Stanley Cups.

Wow. Wow! That was a hell of a promise! A husband—good—two kids—great—three Stanley Cups! Holy shit! That was amazing! He couldn’t wait to tell—wait. He couldn’t tell anyone. Well, even knowing that couldn’t dampen his mood.

He went upstairs to change for the game.

He couldn’t wait to make Patrick Roy his best man.

After the next win—a huge, unexpected rout of the Sharks, 8 to 2, they had an impromptu party at Ginner’s place. They had three straight days off after this, so there was a definitely holiday atmosphere in the air. Beer was passed out, and hard liquor too. Matt tried to resist, but after awhile he wondered why. After all, he was okay with the idea of getting gay married in Vegas now, so why shouldn’t he drink? Not that Vegas had that yet, but if they flew out to . . . Matt’s face warmed. If they flew home, or out to Sweden, and did something silly, or at least got the process started, it would be okay with him.

So he proceeded to get very smashed. Why not? He and Tyson had a drinking contest, and after forty-five minutes, Ginner came over and told them they’d both won and could quit now. They were really drunk by then, enough so that this announcement made them both seriously happy: they were both winners! Wow! Had that ever happened before? Wow, we must be really good!

Max Talbot’s wife showed up then, which tempered the party a little. “Have to keep an eye on him or else he get into trouble,” she told Matt with a wink.

“We wouldn't let him do that,” Matt said. She smiled and told him he was even more earnest when he’d been drinking than he was sober, and that was saying something. Then there was an enormous gloop, and Matt turned to see Nate Guenin upside down in Ginner’s giant aquarium, flailing under water. Gabe and Ginner hauled him out.

“What the hell was that?” Matt heard Ginner yelling. Guenin’s response was pretty garbled, but it seemed to have to do with bobbing for apples. Matt giggled and threw back another shot of tequila.

“Sure, yeah, you doing a great job to keep them out of trouble,” Mrs. Talbot said wryly.

Matt knew she wasn’t really there because of Max though; she was just worried about MacKinnon. MacKinnon was there with his new girlfriend, and he was showing off by showing her how he could bench press the couch—sort of. If your definition of ‘bench press’ meant ‘laying on the floor and kind of lifting up one side of it.’ But she squealed and encouraged him. Ginner’s girlfriend showed up with more liquor and some friends. Ginner introduced Matt to them, and they were all appropriately thrilled to meet the real Matt Duchene, which fueled his already primed ego.

He was sitting there, between two beautiful girls, when more people began to show up. Lots of significant others, as they might be called, and lots of their friends. The expectation, Matt realized, was that the boys would get a chance for a hook up if they wanted one. He began to feel kind of uncomfortable. The blonde girl was pressed uncomfortably close, resting her chin on his shoulder, and the redhead was sort of stroking his knee. Suddenly he felt suffocated and embarrassed. He clambered out of the sofa, using the girls as leverage to stand. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he babbled. “I need some air. I don’t feel so hot.”

He stumbled out onto the deck and gulped at the cold air. It made him feel a lot better; some of that perfume the girls had been wearing was enough to drown in. And the icy air was nice and cool on his overheated face. After a couple of minutes he was feeling really good. He was still really dizzy, but it was a good kind of dizzy. He tried to make his way back inside, but the whole world seemed to pitch like a ship at sea, so he grabbed the railing of the deck and held on until everything stopped moving.

He stood outside beneath the bright, bright stars and the smell of snow in the air and felt immensely blessed. He was happy to be alive.

He turned to make his way inside. He could see everyone through Ginner’s big picture window, still partying. Nate and his girlfriend were dancing. Holden was throwing cheetos across the room, where Ginner tried to catch them in his mouth. The girls Matt had been talking to had moved on to Tyson Barrie, and they were sitting in his lap, one on each leg. And Gabe was . . . Gabe was in the corner with someone. Someone with dark hair. And they were kissing. They were making out! One of them came up for air and Matt saw it was the same guy Gabe had been kissing that night at the bar.

Shocked and furious, he threw open the back door. “What the hell, Gabe!” he bellowed. “What the hell?”

Gabe looked up, blinking, his gorgeous mouth all pink and swollen from kisses. “Dutchy?” he said, confused. “Um . . . this is Brad. Are you okay?”

Matt grabbed the bowl of cheetos from a very surprised Tyson Barrie and upended the bowl over Gabe’s head, then threw the bowl at him for good measure. Being totally trashed, he missed completely. “What the fuck, Matt!” Gabe exclaimed. He got to his feet. “What is wrong with you?”

Matt hauled off and shoved him, hard. “You son of a bitch! I can’t believe you’d cheat on me!”

Brad leapt to his feet and gave Gabe a wild look. Gabe shook his head helplessly. “You call me when you get this straightened,” the guy snapped. Matt gaped at him in despair. He was beautiful! He had dark hair that curled just a little, and intensely blue eyes, and full lips—Matt wanted to punch him, the—the hussy!

“You stay away from—hic—my man,” Matt told him tearfully.

Tyson started sniggering. He tried to muffle it with his hand, but Matt could still hear the hysterical sporfles.

How was this happening? The letters had promised, hadn’t they?

Suddenly it struck Matt that the letters had never promised anything except marriage. And in Sweden, they were really casual about shit like that. Matt knew it. He’d played there. People didn’t think marriage was all that important. It wasn’t some big thing. Maybe for Gabe, the idea of being with other people was just normal or something. Maybe, culturally, it was expected, even.

Matt had a total meltdown.

“How could you? How could you do this to me!? How could you do this to our children?” he shouted. Angry tears prickled in his eyes. “No—I don’t care what the letters say. I’m not—I’m not going to stay with you for their sake. No. I want them to know that they don’t have to take that kind of shit. I want them to have enough self-esteem to walk away.” Matt could feel the tears drip down his nose. He stuck a finger right up in Gabe’s gobsmacked face. “I want a divorce, Gabe. Are you happy now?” He dimly realized that someone was tugging on him. Nate was trying to pull him away. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers!” Matt snarled as MacKinnon dragged him into the kitchen, grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him down over the sink. After Nate had splashed his hot face with chilly water, he felt a little more in control.

Matt could hear Nate muttering soothing things to him, patting his back.

“Is he all right?” a new voice broke in.

Matt glanced up at Gabe, standing in the doorway and looking apprehensive.

“Does he look all right?” Nate snapped in his lispy voice. “Jesus Christ Gabe, what the hell did you do?”

“What?” Gabe squawked. “I didn’t do anything! Are you kidding me?” His voice kept rising higher, pinched and terrified. “Nate, are you crazy? What the hell is it you think I did? Did you even listen to him? A divorce? We’re certainly not fucking married. I would remember that. And children? Come on.”

Nate only looked a little reassured, still scowling in Gabe’s direction. “You must have done something,” he said as Gabe frantically gestured a sort of no no no with his hands. “You led him on.”

“I did not!”

“The two of you have been flirting up a storm over the past couple of weeks!” Nate ignored the way Gabe’s face went brick red. “You know, I stood up for you. I don’t care if you’re gay or not. But you can’t just play with people’s feelings, Gabe. Matty didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Gabe groaned covering his face. Matt was still sniffling, now hiccupping as well. “Look, let me take Matt home. I can …. I can fix this.” A crowd had gathered at his back, and Ginner slipped in the room to see if Matt was okay.

Matt was starting to feel embarrassed as his head cleared a little. He’d really fucking lost it. He was so upset that he didn’t even care that Gabe didn’t know he was supposed to be with him. He felt like he’d totally humiliated himself in front of the whole room. “I’m sorry,” he told everyone. “I’m sorry. I had too much to . . . too much to drink. Tonight.”

“Ya think?” Ginner said, exasperated.

Matt burst into tears.

Tyson started giggling again.

“I think I should take him home,” Nate said.

“No, you had too much, too. Look, he gets like this when he’s drunk. You know he almost never drinks like this; he can’t handle it. Last time he had too many he told me he when he gets a letter he can tell your future,” Gabe said. “He just kind of loses it.”

“I’ll say,” Holden put in. “Wow, Dutchy. What were you drinking, Drano or something?”

“Tequila,” Matt told him in a whimpery sort of voice.

Iggy popped up, then, holding both Gabe’s coat and Matt’s. “That explains it. Everyone has a tequila story. Except, hopefully, Nate.” He gave Nate a stern look, and Nate quickly tried to look sober. He wasn’t even supposed to have alcohol yet.

“That’s true,” Tyson put in. “The first time I drank tequila, my uncle had to call the fire department to get me out of a tree in their backyard. My cousin and I had slipped out of his bedroom window at two a.m.—there’s this branch just outside. But when he got back from the party I got halfway up and decided I was too tired and I was just gonna take a nap right there. Oh, man. Tequila.”

“I’ll take Matt home,” Gabe said.

“You sure?” Iggy replied, looking concerned. “I’m happy to take care of him.”

“Nah. We’re not married, but his drunk ass is generally my responsibility. But thanks anyway.” Gabe got into his coat, then, with a sigh, shoved Matt into his, a little more roughly than usual.

Once they were in the car, Gabe said, “You are never allowed to drink again. I can’t believe you did that, you idiot!”

Matt slumped in his seat. It was starting to snow, fat flakes hitting the windshield briefly before being smashed and smeared away by the wipers. “I thought you liked me,” he said in a small voice.

“I do like you,” Gabe said tensely.

“No. I thought we . . . I thought you were into me. The way I’m into you,” Matt said with the perfect honesty that came with too many shots of tequila.

He watched Gabe’s adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. “That’s . . .” he said in a sort of strangled voice. “Oh, wow. Wow, Dutchy.”

Gabe didn’t like him at all. Not that way. Matt felt like something slammed into his chest and stopped his heart. He looked at his lap miserably. “’M not gonna marry you if you don’t even like me,” he mumbled.

“Shit, Dutchy, you really are crazy when you drink. Look, I like you just fine, okay? Not like you’re even gonna remember this conversation in the morning,” he added in a bitter voice.

Matt turned away to stare at the window so he wouldn’t have to look at Gabe. Something hard and painful began to dissolve in his throat, and he felt hot tears streak down his face. He’d started to want it. The kids, the Cups, the marriage—and all of it was just a lie. No wedding to Gabe—no way. No years of wonderful marriage, no crazy Patrick Roy ruining his reception, no going home with Gabe after the game, dissecting it for hours, no waking up with Gabe’s cold feet pressed to his back in the middle of the night. No catching the flu and insisting Gabe go to the store and get him some medicine, even if it was after midnight. No crazy, awkward introduction to the rest of his family. No cozy Christmases or honeymoon in Bali.

“Dutchy,” Gabe murmured. He felt Gabe’s hand reach out and card through his hair. “Hey, don’t. Okay? Look, it’s not like I never thought about it. That night at the Grizzly Rose—for a second or two I really did want to. I thought—but then I didn’t let myself think it. I knew you were straight. You might have sent me some mixed signals sometimes—”

“How often have I slapped your butt in the last two weeks?” Matt snapped. “I was flirting, you idiot.”

Gabe stared at him, then shook his head and looked back at the road. “It’s a bad idea,” he said grimly. “It would hurt the team.”

“You’re just . . . you’re just a chicken,” Matt slurred.

Gabe blinked a little. “Man, Matty, when you get drunk . . .” he said, trailing off and shaking his head. “I don’t even know what to say. Look, things will look different in the morning. We’ll look back and laugh. You’ll see. You don’t really want me.”

A sense of surreality fell over Matt as he realized Gabe didn’t believe him. Not about the letters, even, but about Matt’s feelings. As if Matt couldn’t feel that way. Like he could argue Matt into not being in love with him. “I will not change my mind,” Matt said. “I love you. I wanted to marry you and have kids with you, for Christ’s sake.”

Gabe looked totally overwhelmed. “That—that’s just crazy, Dutchy. Will you listen to yourself?” He pulled onto Matt’s street.

Feeling desperate, Matt suddenly remembered the letter. There was one line he’d carefully memorized, because he knew it might come in useful at some point. He’d meant to look up the meaning, too, but somehow he hadn’t gotten around to that. But hell, what did he have to lose? He leaned over and grabbed Gabe’s arm. “Jag vill ge dig en avsugning!” he blurted in halting Swedish.

Gabe’s head swiveled, his eyes huge. Suddenly there was an almighty bang, and the car jerked to a halt. “Holy shit. Holy, shit, Dutchy.” Gabe unbuckled himself and hopped out of the car. “Fuck. You made me hit a fire hydrant, you dumbass! And you’re supposed to be the responsible, mature one! What would you go and say something like that for!?”

“Because I mean it,” Matt said stubbornly, even though he still didn’t know what it meant.

“Okay, the hydrant’s certainly okay. My front light is out, though. Glad I have comprehensive,” Gabe muttered, crawling back into the car and starting it up. The car limped slowly up Matt’s driveway. “I can’t believe you, telling me you’ll give me a blowjob when I’m trying to keep my mind on the damn blizzard out there. I was trying to drive.”

Matt flushed. “Is that what I said?”

Gabe looked at him like he was crazy. “Why would you say that if you didn’t know?” he shouted, sounding hysterical.

“Gabe, we’re supposed to get married,” Matt practically howled, completely giving up any pretense of not being crazy. “The letters said so! They said we’d get married and have kids and I’d win the Cup three times! I get magic letters that tell the future. I swear to you I’m not crazy. I swear!”

“You’re not crazy: you’re drunk,” Gabe informed him bluntly. He stopped the car, got out and marched over to Matt’s door. He peeled Matt out and struggled to help his drunk feet over the icy walkpath. “Come on. Let’s get you some coffee.

Inside, Matt impatiently let Gabe undress him, taking off his coat and making him sit on the stairs so he could untie Matt’s boots. After he’d slipped Matt’s second boot off, Matt got up on wobbly legs. “I’ll prove it,” he said. “I’ll prove it!”

“Okay. You go prove it while I make the coffee.”

Matt made his way to the living room and went through the bookcase slowly. He was sobering up, but the words still seemed to run together, and it took him awhile to find the right one. Gabe came into the room, holding two cups of steaming coffee.

“Come on, babe,” he said kindly. “Sit on the couch and drink some.”

Matt wordlessly handed him one of the letters, then followed him to the couch. They sat, hip to hip, sipping, while Gabe read.

He laughed a little and shook his head. “Dutchy, this is your handwriting.”

“What?” Matt gasped, spilling hot coffee in his lap. He plunked the cup down and grabbed the letter back, scanning it frantically. Oh, shit. That’s why it had looked familiar! And yet . . . it wasn’t quite his handwriting. There was something ever so slightly off about it, but he couldn’t tell what. Probably because he wrote it during the midst of a psychotic breakdown, he thought glumly.

Gabe must have been coming to the same conclusion, because his expression had turned anxious. “Matt, what is going on?”

Matt set the letter down. He drank his coffee and tried to put his thoughts in order. It was possible he was crazy. If he was actually, factually delusional, he’d be the last to know, right? But wait! What about the other letter? Matt hastily unfolded it. “Okay. Okay. So maybe that is my handwriting. But if so, whose handwriting is this?”

Gabe yelped in recognition. “That’s my handwriting!”

“What!?” Matt tried to take it back, but Gabe was reading it frantically.

“But it . . . why would I say all that? Why would I write that I was your husband? Why would I tell you to say . . .” he trailed off, blushing brightly. “I said to tell me you want to blow me? That’s crazy! These letters . . . how many have you had?”

“Three,” Matt said.

Oh, wow.” Gabe set the letter down on the table, looking at it as if it might bite his face off if he got too close. “Holy shit, Dutchy. You really got that one before the Seabrook fight?”

“I swear I did.”

“What did the other one say?”

“To go to the Kip Moore concert. And not to wear my aftershave. And to not throw up on your shoes or something,” Matt added, after he’d thought about it really hard. “I think, anyway. I wasn’t paying such close attention then because I didn’t know what was happening. So I threw it away.”

Gabe sank back against the sofa, thinking. “But you didn’t throw up,” he said slowly.

“No.” Matt smiled wryly. “The only time I did things right was when I didn’t know any better. I fucked all the other ones up.” He felt a sudden shock up his spine. “Do—do you think that’s why this is happening? Is that why you don’t want to marry me—because I didn’t do anything right in the letters?” Maybe he really had broken the universe. Or at least his relationship with Gabe. Maybe it was a punishment for fighting Seabrook. Or he’d—he’d broken Gabe’s quantum or something.

But Gabe was looking at him very seriously. “Is that why you . . . is that why you said all that about marriage? Is that why you wanted us to be together, because the letters said so? You’re not just doing whatever they say, are you?”

“No! Well, in the beginning, maybe,” Matt amended. “I couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a curse or what. When it said I would marry you, I got kind of freaked out,” he admitted, twisting his hands in his lap. “But then after I thought about it, I really liked the idea. It seemed like—like we would be really good together,” he finished lamely.

Gabe let out a long breath that Matt didn’t know he’d been holding. “Okay. Wow. Well, I think we could be good together, too.”

“What about that . . . that other guy?” Matt asked tensely.

Gabe reddened and didn’t meet his eyes. “Oh, Brad? Brad was just . . . I mean . . .” He cleared his throat and squirmed uncomfortably. Matt almost sighed. Would there ever be a time when Gabe’s shoulder wiggle didn’t make him feel all lightheaded? How could they ever go back to the way they were? Gabe coughed. “If you want to know the truth,” he muttered, “I kind of called him because you were flirting with all those girls.”

Lost in his private misery, wondering how long he’d be mooning over Gabe before he got over this, Matt almost didn’t hear him. He blinked hard as his ears caught up with the conversation, and he looked up in shock. “Huh?”

Again with that delicious, obviously uncomfortable shoulder wiggle. “Well . . . you know. I figured you were otherwise occupied and I guess I got sort of jealous.”

Matt stared. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gabe grunted, clearly embarrassed to admit it.

“Wow, I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I wasn’t thinking. I was drinking too much and before I realized what was happening, they were sort of all over me. I excused myself as soon as I noticed,” he pointed out.

Gabe’s eyebrows shot up, and he slowly smiled. “You know something, Dutchy?” he said in a husky voice. “You are a real class act.”

Matt blushed. “Do you . . . think we could . . . maybe?”

Gabe laughed shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno. Maybe? You sure you want to risk it, with the team and everything?”

Matt thought this over. “Yeah. I really do. I honestly really want to try—really bad.” He looked at Gabe sort of pathetically. “Would—would you—?”

Gabe let out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah. I would. I’ve been—honestly, I’ve been imagining it for awhile now. And I guess I did notice you were flirting with me . . . I just couldn’t believe it. After that night at the Grizzly Rose when I kissed you and you didn’t say anything, I figured you weren’t interested.”

Matt jolted. “You—what? You never kissed me!”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t! I would have remembered!” Matt exclaimed, upset. Had he been so drunk that he forgot? That would be a hell of a thing—getting kissed by Gabe Landeskog and getting so blackout drunk that he didn’t even remember it. Yeah, that was about his luck.

“I did kiss you—on the cheek,” Gabe amended. “Because you were drunk and I wasn’t sure . . .”

“Oh. Oh!” Matt absently touched his face. He did remember that. But Gabe had been so tentative about it that Matt really thought he’d just imagined it. “That doesn’t even count,” he complained weakly. “A kiss on the cheek isn’t a real kiss.”

Gabe laughed. Matt brightened; it was nice to know, with everything going on, that they could still laugh. And he really liked Gabe’s laugh—uninhibited and real, his head thrown back. “Not a real kiss!?” he exclaimed. Then he got this look in his eye.

Matt opened his mouth to protest, but Gabe had already leapt on him, one big paw on the back of his neck, kissing him hard. For a couple of seconds all Matt wanted to do was laugh—part because it was hilarious, but also out of nervousness—but then Gabe’s other hand slid up his neck to cup his face, and Matt shivered and sort of melted into the kiss.

When Gabe pulled back just a little, looking at him with nearsighted hopefulness, Matt gave him a goofy smile. “Like that?” Gabe purred.

Matt laughed. “Yeah, just like that,” he agreed, and Gabe kissed him again, more softly this time, and again, not harder, but more insistently. Matt thought he could feel Gabe’s heart in the guy’s fingertips, his mouth hot and hungry against Matt’s skin.

“Wow,” Matt breathed when Gabe finally pulled away, his pupils huge, his blue eyes glassy.

Gabe dragged a thumb over his lower lip. “I could just eat you up,” he breathed.

Matt couldn’t take his eyes away from Gabe’s lips. “I think I’d like that.”

Gabe pounced again, and they spent the next several minutes in a hot, panting, squirming tangle on the couch. When Matt came to he was sort of in a daze, his hands fisted in Gabe’s shirt, one leg hooked around Gabe’s back. His face felt flushed. “Why’d you stop?” he said, trying not to whine.

“What are we going to do about the letters?” Gabe asked. His eyes lingered on Matt’s mouth, though, making it hard to think. No one had ever looked at his mouth through narrow, lust-filled eyes.

“Huh? Oh! The letters.” Matt placed his hands on Gabe’s shoulders, moaning softly because oh, yes, that was what he wanted, and then he regretfully pushed him. “Up,” he instructed. “I can’t think about anything but you when I have so much you on top of me.”

Gabe obliged. Now his eyes were anxious. “Matty, what are we going to do about the letters? Those letters are scary.”

Matt wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t call them scary,” he objected, feeling a lot more sanguine about the letters now that they were back to pointing toward good things happening in his life.

“Well, I don’t like them,” Gabe said.

Matt sat up straight. “You don’t? Why not? Everything they’ve said so far has been pretty good advice or—or other good news. Like getting married and having kids and Patrick Roy as our best man. Don’t you want all that?” he asked in a small voice.

“I do. Well, I might,” Gabe said cautiously. “But I don’t want it to happen just because some mysterious letter says so. I want you to be with me because you want to be with me, not because you’re afraid of what will happen if you don’t do what the letters say. Besides, they’re always to you.”

“So?”

“So even if they’re telling the truth, they’re—they’re giving you an unfair advantage!"

Matt laughed. “It’s not like I would keep them from you or anything.”

“Okay, but they’re obviously meant for you, not me. Besides, I just have a bad feeling, okay? Just . . . these things kinda seem dangerous. Isn’t there some quote out there about how no man should know too much about his own future?”

“Yeah, that was Doc Brown in Back to the Future before the Libyans shot him,” Matt said.

“Oh.”

“But . . . I do get what you’re saying.”

“I mean, either it tells you something good is going to happen so you get impatient and push things—like you did tonight, blowing your top about kids and marriage, or it tells you something bad is going to happen and you almost have a nervous breakdown trying to prevent it. I know you, Dutchy. You’re kind of high-strung. You don’t need this kind of responsibility.” Gabe’s voice was firm, but kind.

“Oh.” Matt thought it over. The first couple of letters really had almost been too much for him. And he had made a mess out of every single thing they said—good or bad. Maybe some men could handle knowing the future, but Matt Duchene hadn’t had a lot of success with it. In fact, he’d be the last person he’d want in charge of this sort of thing. “Maybe you’re right.” He turned to Gabe. “Does this mean we don’t, uh, like, er, are you jilting me?” he finally asked, trying to make a joke out of it.

Gabe smiled. “No. I think we should, um, date? At least? And maybe more—someday. But I don’t think we should rush into anything just because some freaky letter said something about us getting married. And I don’t want to know what our wedding reception will be like before it happens. I don’t want letters that say, ‘You’ll have lots of fun in Burma on vacation for your fortieth birthday!’ I want to discover that myself. I want our—our us to be a surprise, Dutchy. And I want it to be our choice.”

Matt nodded. Even with his kind of controlling nature, he could appreciate that. “So . . . what do we do? What if I get another letter?”

Gabe shrugged. “You tear it up.”

Matt shuddered. “I don’t think I could do that.”

“Okay.” Gabe looked up, like he was searching the ceiling for answers. “Okay, so you . . . you put it aside where you won’t see it, and you move on until you forget it.”

Matt shifted, uneasy. “Well, I guess it’s worth a try.”

Gabe studied him closely. “You’ll tell me when you get another letter?”

Matt smiled. “I promise.”

“Good.” Gabe reached over and took his hand. It made Matt’s heart do a happy little cartwheel. Gabe was right; they shouldn’t rush things. Not when just touching made him feel this excited. Hell, at this point he wasn’t sure he could handle more. Even kissing had very nearly turned him into a quivering puddle.

He lifted Gabe’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “We’ll write our own future,” he promised huskily.

One Year Later

Matt was unpacking a cardboard box full of odds and ends, mostly old paperwork, when he found the letter again. His name was on it, but it didn’t immediately click. “Gabe?” he called. “What all is this box of . . . papers . . . and more papers?”

“Papers . . . think that’s from your old desk?” Gabe yelled from the kitchen, where he was unpacking the silverware. “Just look at it! Is it mostly taxes?”

Matt peeked into the cardboard container again. He looked inside one of the manila folders. “Yup!” he shouted. “Taxes!”

“You know, you only have to keep them for six years,” Gabe shouted from the other room. “You should shred those! I can’t believe we lugged old taxes halfway across the city.”

Matt smiled. Today they were moving in together—for good. They’d spent a lot of time back and forth at each other’s places, but in the end, when things got serious, they wanted their own space. And now marriage was legal, and they were ready to take some big steps. He plopped down on the floor and started browsing through the paperwork. It wouldn’t hurt to take a little break—his back was killing him. He opened the envelope and skimmed it.

THIS IS THE LAST ONE, it said in very angry, tight little letters. I know I’m supposed to give him a special gift because of that charitable organization he founded, but this has been a disaster from start to finish! For starters, his wish. He wouldn’t even tell me what he wanted! He kept saying he was so blessed he didn’t have any wishes left! What am I supposed to do with that!? How could I possibly complete my assignment? Luckily, I overheard him talking with his husband one night after a brandy. Everyone knows brandy keeps you honest, right? So I heard him say, “I wish I knew then what I know now . . .” BINGO. It sounded so easy, right? And it was simple to goad him into it, too: I reminded him that once upon a time, Brendan Shanahan had written a letter to his younger self. And Master Gabe was all for it! He said, “Hey, yeah, Dutchy, you could do that for your speech! It would be funny and clever!” He was so happy. I figured, hey, my job here is practically done!

Ha! Then for some reason he gets all angry when I mail them to his younger self. Like, look, pal, this is exactly what you asked for, and I aim to please! I have my orders! But is he grateful? Nooo-ooo. Instead he’s all, “Where are my notes, Twinkle? You haven’t been in my desk, have you, Twinkle? What happened to my speech, Twinkle!? You stay out of my office, Twinkle!” And he acts like Twinkle is such a weird name, too. Yeah, right, Dutchy.

Whatever. I’m mailing this last letter, and then I’m out of here. They said they don’t need anyone after the beginning of the year, and I’m exhausted. I hope you’re happy, big guy. I did my best.

Merry Christmas to all! Now Twinkle’s going back to the workshop and having so much hot buttered rum he won’t be able to make any toys for a week.

Matt blinked. Wow, that was crazy. What was that about? But there was more writing on the other side. Matt turned it over.

HOCKEY HALL OF FAME SPEECH:

Possible anecdotes?

1) The first date with Gabe. No, too personal, not funny enough, no hockey. Besides, then he got with that Brad guy for a few years because you were still in denial, so your real first date was probably that night in Toronto.
2) Roy as best man. Definite maybe. Hilarious, touching (hits family and marriage without being too schlockey) hockey involvement because of Roy/Osgood.
3) The Landy Foundation. Yes, definitely this. I’m genuinely proud of it and it’s done a lot of good for poor kids, and Gabe was so touched when I named it after him. I can work that in.
4) The first couple of Cups—the unexpected first one, the second one I knew I could achieve because I understood what it took. Yes, good, okay.
5) The third Cup after Landy was traded? Too emotional. Too hard. Will NOT cry during speech.
6) Landy’s retirement/move back to be with me? ~maybe. This is a hard one. Again, you will be a fucking MESS up there, even if you don’t drink first. Keep in mind you won’t even be able to gloss over it because if you even touch on the subject, you’ll remember him on the Rangers and the kids back in New York so they could go to the best schools, and how much you missed them, and how shitty it was to be on different teams even just for a couple of years, and how you would call him up in the middle of the night crying and begging him to come home because you were lonely and missed your babies. Remember, there is no fucking WAY you won’t be an emotional wreck, trying to talk about how he basically gave up his whole hockey career because he loved you that much, even if his knee was kind of bad by that point. I can just picture it. “Hello, Academy! I’d like to thank you for this Grammy! What? Wrong award? Oh, sorry. I never thought I’d get here, so I didn’t really plan for a speech. I remember how great everything was—and how hard it got in the end. And how Gabe—” (Matty collapses like a soufflé in front of God and a cast of thousands and has to be carted offstage, weeping like a delicate Georgia debutante.) No, let’s not go there.
7) Hubby & Kids. All hockey, all the time, up until we discovered Honey Bea is a gifted violinist, and then three overly muscled, scarred up hockey dudes would put on their least horrible suits and go to watch, front and center, at EVERY recital. And she still made goalie her freshman year, too. My kids are AWESOME. Especially fun to brag on kids because Sean Avery’s son just got his 3rd DUI, which is fucking poetic after the shit he said about me and Gabe to that one reporter. Yeah, keep pretending you’re relevant, asshole. And Gabe . . . there is not enough to say about Gabe. Gabe is the one who belongs up here. You don’t make it into the Hall of Fame without someone who loves you that much, someone willing to sacrifice that much for you, someone who will be strong when you are weak, and feed you pancakes in bed when you are sick, and who will be in the stands, cheering the loudest, for you, just you, when he can’t play anymore. Sacrifice is something every hockey spouse understands, but Gabe understood it better—and gave more of it—than anyone ever. The only thing better than playing with him is this time, now, to golf with him, and travel with him, and spend every moment on our children and family. Because as much as this means to me tonight, they mean even more.

Okay, I can’t do any more of this tonight. I’m totally bushed. There aren’t enough Kleenexes in the WORLD for the mess I’m making of myself. I’ll finish this tomorrow. Hopefully it’ll be Matt Duchene’s HHOF Speech—Now with less blubbering, maudlin crap, and snot he can’t control! UGH. I hate this whole thing. Now I wish I’d played like crap just so I wouldn’t have to stand up in front of thousands of people and make an ass out of myself.

Below Matt’s bellyaching, Matt recognized Gabe’s handwriting.

Feel better now that you’ve had a break? I know I do. *g* Last night was lots of fun, we should totally do that whenever you’re too stressed. I know it was a big stress relief for ME, anyway! Anyway, you are getting way too serious about this. Tagga ner. Sluta vara så jävla emo. You are getting elected into the Hall of Fame, not re-writing Schindler’s List. Chill out! Anyway, you have plenty of time to practice. Just remember: you got this. You can handle it. You’re gonna be great up there. And the kids and I will be there, front and center, just like at Honey Bea’s recitals. We are so proud of you, älskling, and this is a happy time, not a time for drama. You make your speech without messing up, maybe I’ll splurge and take you and the kids out for McDonald’s for dinner. Maybe I will even let you supersize it. Then we can come home and I will let you supersize me, too. :D

Matt snorted. Well, Gabe would never grow out of his dork phase, that was for sure.

“Whatcha reading?”

Matt jumped. “Oh! I just . . . found this.”

“You are slacking off already, aren’t you?” Gabe teased. He knelt down behind Matt and rested his head on Matt’s shoulder. “What is this?”

“Remember the letter we said we weren’t going to read? I . . . didn’t realize what it was, so I read it.” He felt Gabe heave a sigh, but he read the letter over Matt’s shoulder anyway. It was quiet for a long time. Matt cleared his throat. “What do you think?”

“I don’t remember any night in Toronto, for one thing,” Gabe pointed out.

“Yeah. I think we may have changed some stuff.”

“Yeah.” Matt could feel Gabe’s gaze. “You disappointed?”

“What? That I didn’t manage to scare you off so you stayed with Brad?” Matt teased. “No, I think I got the better deal on that bit. The rest . . .” He swallowed hard. It sounded wonderful—and hard. Great kids and piano recitals and a Hall of Fame career, and forever with Landy. He smoothed his hand across the writing—future!Matt’s writing. Would he—could he be that Matt? “It sounds good,” he said in a husky voice.

Gabe laughed gruffly. He wrapped his arms around Matt and squeezed him tight and pressed his face to Matt’s neck, kissing it. “We’ll get there,” he promised.

Matt grinned. Their first house together. What a great day. “You know what?” he said. “You’re gonna be a good husband.”

Gabe raised his head and beamed. “If I’m half as good a husband as I am a captain, I think I’ll be pretty fantastic,” he bragged. “I am not even worried about it.”

Matt laughed. “Nice.”

Gabe stood up. “Come on, you slug. Stop lounging around and reading when we’re supposed to be unpacking. I want to do the bedroom next.” He gave Matt a wink and trotted out of the room to get more boxes, taking the stairs two at a time.

Matt got up and brushed off his jeans, and eagerly went to meet his future.