Chapter Text
At the moment of collision, somewhere behind the blinding pain and the shock, Matthew felt a wave of calm. Yup, this has happened before, he thought, right before everything went to hell. He'd been bodychecked, that he understood. It wasn't the first time, it wouldn't be the last. Hockey was aggressive. He knew that going in. Matthew was a good player, smart, daring, and aggressive when he had to be. He’d been playing this sport virtually all his life. These things happened. He wasn't surprised.
So, as their bodies slammed into each other, Matthew thought, Yup, this has happened before. And then his head smashed into the ice so hard his vision went black. Something snapped, and a pain so loud swallowed him that he could not breathe. It was as if a semi-truck had collided with his leg. He screamed, and his own voice practically deafened him.
And then he died.
Matthew had checked his phone right before throwing it into his locker. The coach didn’t like it when the players had their phones on them before matches—he said it distracted them. Matthew didn’t text much anyway, he just had it to keep up with the family group chat. But he opened Instagram and saw a DM from an account he vaguely recognised, but had never interacted with. This was the person’s first message:
hello mattie :^) remember the awesome me?
All Matthew had sent was a quick, uh…sorry no, who’s this? before the coach yelled at him to put his phone away.
For some reason, over the screaming, that was what his mind hovered on. Who was the mysterious texter? Why should Matthew remember them? He’d never find his answers if he died. Was this what it meant to have unfinished business? Would he take this question into the afterlife?
And did that mean the last thing he ‘said’ on earth was, “Uh…sorry no, who’s this?” God, that was a terrible note to leave on. He had to say something profound. His last words had to, at least, be meaningful. What was a generic, meaningful thing that he could say with his dying breath?
Love, right? Something about love? Love was always meaningful. People liked hearing that they were loved. But could he just say that to a random person? No, what if he told some complete stranger—whoever was currently screaming over his head—that he loved them? That would be super creepy, and he didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.
He had to be specific, then. Who did he love? He didn’t have a romantic partner, and he liked his friends just fine but he couldn’t honestly say he loved them. He didn’t want his last words to be a lie. The only people he loved were his family: Dad, Papa, and Alfred. So he opened his mouth—it took a lot of effort--and mumbled, “Tell…family…I love...them.”
“Oh no, you bloody don’t,” someone hollered over him. Someone with a pronounced English accent. Dad! “Matthew, you hear me? You’re not saying any of that nonsense, just shut up and breathe. In and out, that’s a good boy. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. Matthew? For god’s sake, Matthew! BREATHE!”
God, what a headache…Dad was always so bossy. Matthew was doing his best to breathe, honest. But he was getting so tired. And the shouting had become so much worse. Nee-naa-nee-naa--what kind of person shouted like that?
He heard other voices he couldn’t recognise. Vague phrases. “Blood loss” and “crashing”. Breathe, breathe, breathe, Dad kept yelling, and he sounded like he was crying. Matthew had never seen his father cry. Papa cried all the time, but Dad was made of stone. He didn’t even cry when Bambi’s mother died in Bambi. Matthew tried to open his eyes, to witness it, but they were so, so heavy…and he was exhausted.
When he awoke next, his head was hurting like there was an ice pick in his skull. He opened his eyes and let out an agonised groan. Someone was shaking his shoulder. He tried to cover his face, but that sent a stabbing pain up his arm, and a soft palm held his hand down, whispering, “ Calme toi, mon chou, calme toi …”
“Matthew?” some unrecognisable woman said. “Matthew, I’m going to ask you some questions and I’d like for you to answer them.”
Matthew could barely think from the pain.
“Right then,” said the woman, “What is your full name?”
“Matthew Bonnefoy-Kirkland,” Matthew said, or tried to. Even in his state, he could tell his words were a garbled mess.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Where do you live?”
“At university…”
“Is that all right?” The English accent again. Dad. “He was living on campus, even though we’re just an hour away. What kind of answer should he be—”
“It’s fine.”
“So tired,” Matthew groaned. He sank into sleep again.
This kept happening. They’d wake him up, ask him questions, and each time, he’d beg to be allowed to sleep. So much of it was such a haze. He kept thinking about that damned text message: hello mattie :^) remember the awesome me? and Yup, this has happened before, and someone yelling at him, Breathe, Breathe, Breathe.
When Matthew awoke, properly this time, he was winded by the glare of light bulbs. They tore into his eyes like blades, and he threw an arm over his face to defend himself. The stabbing pain made him cry out. Someone hurriedly dimmed the lights, and Matthew squinted at his arm. An IV line.
He could just about make out the fuzzy silhouettes of three faces peering at him. All of them looked horrible—bad hair, wide eyes, identical expressions of panic and relief. Awareness returned to Matthew in a jolt. He was in a hospital. Something…something bad had happened at his last game.
“Mattie…?” Alfred was the first to speak.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled automatically. Papa muttered the word merde under his breath and collapsed into a chair. Dad poured him a glass of water.
“Here,” he said, holding it up for Matthew. “Don’t talk, just drink.”
So Matthew obeyed. He couldn’t believe how thirsty he was. No matter how quickly he drank, he needed more. Dad took the glass away. “You’ll be sick,” he said. “Just take it easy, son.”
“What,” Matthew swallowed his thirst, “what happened?”
Again, the three of them stared in horror. “You don’t remember?” Papa cried, leaping to his feet. “Arthur, go get the doctor—”
“No, no wait.” Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. “Something…something at the match. I know something bad happened at the match. I’m just asking what happened.” This was not his first concussion. It wasn’t even his third. In fact, the concussion was the one thing about this scenario that wasn’t scaring him. Yup, this has happened before.
“You got bodychecked,” Dad said quietly. “But then…It all happened so quickly.” He covered his eyes with his hands. “Your head slammed to the ice so loudly I thought I heard a crack. Then I realised what actually happened—you fell badly, you snapped a bone—and then someone else tripped on you. And their blade went into your calf and…” he let out a shuddering breath. “Oh my god, Matthew, there was so much blood. Your bone was sticking out.”
Alfred shuddered, but said nothing. Matthew gaped between his dads and his brother. “Wait…what do you mean my bone was—” he suddenly noticed his leg, which was heavily bandaged and suspended in air. “What the fuck,” he gasped, and something in his chest exploded with panic. “What—no—”
“Shh,” Papa said, sitting by his side and pulling him into a hug. “You’ll be fine. Doctors said you’ll be back on your feet soon enough.”
“Okay.” Matthew let out a loud sigh. “Oh my god.”
“The worst is behind us,” Dad said, patting his head, albeit very, very gently. “Just rest. Everything will be okay.”
Matthew couldn’t bring himself to speak much for the next couple of days. He was on a lot of heavy pain medication anyway, so he spent most of his time asleep. The concussion-induced migraine finally subsided on day three. It was the first time since the ordeal that his parents agreed to go home. They were both sleepless and jittery. Whatever had happened to Matthew, he'd really scared them. Luckily, they only lived an hour away. Matthew had deliberately moved to a university close to home, so that he could come visit on the weekends. This way, his parents could also watch his matches.
Alfred sat alone with Matthew, staring at him like a scared doe. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t said a word in days either, instead just stared at Matthew with those big blue eyes, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Now that they were alone, Alfred finally swallowed whatever apprehension he had, and said, “So…how you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not right now, with all the meds I’m on.” Matthew gripped the sheets. “Though…like, when it happened…I honestly thought I’d died.”
Alfred ran a hand over his face, mussing up his hair. “I don’t know if you remember this, what with you getting brained on the ice, but we weren’t all there. Only Dad had gone to see your game, Pops and I were at his restaurant.”
Matthew did remember something like that, but it was very vague. Did Papa have some pressing engagement…?
“One of the restaurants was short-staffed so he’d stepped in as head chef, remember?” Alfred prodded gently. “And I had my shifts. Anyway, yeah, so Dad called Pops in absolute hysterics. I could hear him over the phone. Like, neither of us could make out what actually happened. Pops thought you’d been in a car crash.” His eyes ran over Matthew’s form and landed on his leg. “I mean, you might as well have been, right?”
“Hockey injuries are normal, Alfred,” Matthew said, because he could tell his brother was anxious. Alfred would never, ever admit to it, but his silence was an obvious tell. “It’s not my first injury, it won’t be my last.”
Alfred let out a falsetto laugh. “Dude, don’t say that.”
“I just mean,” Matthew shrugged, “It’s a violent game. And I’ve been banged up before.”
“Yeah, but you actually like, almost died. Dad didn’t tell you this but I overheard him talking to the doctor. Apparently, the ice skate sliced an artery. Or a vein, whatever, who can tell them apart? The one that runs through the leg…?”
“The femoral artery,” Matthew said in a small voice.
“Right, whatever.” Alfred swallowed. “Which is why you were bleeding to death on the ice. That’s aside from the bone sticking out.”
“Oh,” Matthew said at last, his eyes falling to his broken leg. It was incredibly heavy but he couldn’t really feel it. He couldn’t even wiggle his toes under the plaster. His throat was hollow. In a way, it was almost comforting to know that he’d been close to death—that he’d been aware of something so significant happening to his body. That it wasn’t him just having a panic attack. All that horror had been real, and justified. It was strangely affirming.“Well, I didn’t die, so just relax.”
Alfred sank into an uneasy silence beside him. Matthew was used to being the quiet one, and this shift in dynamic was freaking him out a little bit. Matthew nudged his brother with an elbow. “Hey, come on. How’s work been?”
“Yeah, yeah…fine,” Alfred muttered. He was playing with his phone, turning it over and over in his hand without actually switching it on. Probably because he was worried about the light bothering Matthew.
“I remember you saying you met someone cool there. Kiku someone?”
At the mention of his name, Alfred’s eyes finally lit up. “Oh, yeah, Kiks. I love that guy, he’s the best. He’s super quiet, like you, but he’s amazing at video games, and he’s got a massive collection. He’s really into manga and stuff—that’s actually where I met him, at the comic book store!”
“Oh, I thought you met him at work.”
“No, no, Mattie, jeez, you never read your texts properly. He said he needed a job so I helped him get one at the store where I work.”
“He sounds really nice,” Matthew said earnestly, smiling. People loved spending time with Alfred. But Matthew thought he was a lot lonelier than he looked. There was a difference between being friendly and being friends with someone. Never was that more apparent than when Matthew saw Alfred with groups of people he’d never call in an emergency. So it was good, seeing Alfred even slightly enthusiastic about Kiku.
“Oh, speaking of texts.” Alfred jumped to his feet and pulled out something from his backpack. Matthew’s phone! “The university sent this over, as well as a bunch of other stuff from your locker. I thought you’d want this back.”
“Not that anyone texts me…” Matthew mumbled. The battery had died, anyway. He let Alfred put it to charge, and it seemed finally, the two fell into the usual conversational dynamic. Alfred went on and on about some anime Kiku had got him to watch. Matthew hummed and laughed whenever the monologue warranted it. He already felt a lot better about the situation he was in.
Aside from the blood loss, the concussion recovery, and the totalled leg, Matthew was feeling fine. He was no stranger to crazy injuries, he almost felt embarrassed to have caused this much of a fuss. His parents were both extremely busy people. They literally did not have the time to stress so much about him. Dad worked at an investment firm, doing something financial that nobody could understand. Papa owned three restaurants in the city, two of which had Michelin stars. They were a fairly comfortable family, but that meant his parents were always pushing themselves to the limit working. Matthew felt so guilty that they’d spent virtually all week at his sickbed.
Alfred had even less of a say in his schedule. He worked as a cashier at the local grocery store. He’d started working there straight out of high school. At first, their parents were proud of the decision. Hard work, they said, was the best quality a person could have. But that approval had since soured, because Alfred had failed to get into any colleges, and didn’t seem to have any intention of furthering his education.
Matthew didn’t ever bring it up. Alfred got real touchy when pressed about his future, and Matthew himself felt kind of bad about their disparity. Matthew had gone from strength to strength in school and especially in sports, landing up as one of the ten best amateur hockey players in the state. He’d been scouted before he even graduated high school, and was on track to go pro. It was all he had ever wanted.
So he had to ask the question nobody else seemed eager to answer.
“So, doctor, when do you think I can go back on the ice?”
The doctor froze. She glanced between Dad and Papa. She stared at Matthew.
He knew it wouldn’t be soon, but nobody was asking the obvious. He’d questioned his parents about it, and they’d shrugged him off with vague answers that led nowhere. Every time Matthew brought it up, Alfred pulled out his phone and looked extremely preoccupied.
The doctor pursed her lips. “Right,” she said, as though steeling herself. “Matthew, I’m sorry, but you’ll never play hockey again.”
He blinked. The words didn’t seem to process. They were just a jumble of sounds, really. Like the memories of the collision, playing on loop. Breathe, Breathe, Breathe. Matthew was aware of the cold, rough cotton of his bedsheets. His tight, sweaty fingers curling around the duvet. His leg, heavy like a planet, and suspended motionless. You’ll never play hockey again.
“What…do you mean?” he managed, and he was astonished he was able to sound human. He was so sure that if he opened his mouth, all that would emerge was an animalistic roar.
She shot him a sympathetic smile. “Look, Matthew, if you keep playing, it’s likely that your leg will break again, and worse. You already have pins in your leg—you had an open fracture. It was pretty severe. I don’t want you to end up with permanent mobility issues. I don’t want you to have to undergo painful surgery.”
“Isn’t that my decision?” Matthew cut in. His voice sounded hard even to his ears.
“Matthew,” Papa said in a tone of warning, but Matthew, for perhaps the first time ever, ignored him.
“I don’t mind painful surgery and rehab. I’ve got to play. If I finish this season I’ll go pro.”
“Mattie—” Alfred tried.
“You can’t be doing this to me!” He shrieked. Something in his chest had exploded, sending waves of panic up and down his limbs. “This is my career, this is my whole life—You're being absurd—it’s my decision if I end up with permanent mobility issues.”
“Matthew, really now!” Dad said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The doctor knows what she’s talking about—”
“No,” Matthew’s eyes were stinging at the corners. “No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t know me. I can recover, I’ll be fine. This has all happened before! It’s just a hockey injury, this kind of thing happens all the time—”
“Yes, exactly,” the doctor snapped, shaking her head. “It’s not just your leg, Matthew, it’s your head.”
“My head?” he retorted.
“This is your fourth serious concussion. No doctor is going to let you play after that. The risk is too great. According to your chart, you’re already prone to migraines—”
“—They’re quite rare!”
“No,” she said, more firmly. “I’m sorry, Matthew. My word is final.”
Matthew was not going to sulk. Papa and Dad always told him, sulking solved nothing. You have a problem, you deal with it. Except, Matthew was stuck in his hospital bed and there was nothing else he could do but sit there and try not to cry. Papa was almost waiting for him to. He was hovering close to Matthew, stroking his arm, speaking to him in soothing tones like he was a child awoken from a nightmare. Dad, stoic and awkward as he was, patted Matthew’s head and then stepped out for some work calls. Alfred did that annoying thing of staring into his phone to avoid confrontation.
That evening, when they sat around him at dinner, Matthew took a deep breath and said, “Sorry for my outburst earlier today. I’m feeling better now.”
“Oh, love,” Dad said, squeezing his hand. “We’re so, so sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”
“Yes, but it’s going to work out,” Papa went on, stroking Matthew’s arm. “You’re young, and life is full of twists and turns. I know it feels like the end of the world, but I promise you, my darling Matthew, it’s not.”
Matthew turned some cold hospital spaghetti around his plastic fork. It made a sloppy noise that made Papa cringe in disgust.
“Were it not for the no-outside-food rule,” he said, “I’d get you something decent to eat.”
“It’s all right,” Matthew murmured, putting the spaghetti in his mouth and swallowing it without chewing too much. It was overcooked and bland, anyway, he didn’t have to worry about choking.
“Look,” said Dad, “They’ll discharge you soon. Come home, take a few days to rest, and then we can all work out your next steps, okay? Fortunately, you’re still enrolled in college credits, so you can finish your education and you’ll be ready to get a job.”
“Your father’s right!” Papa said. “You’ll be okay!”
Matthew hummed, noncommittal. He ate what he could of the dinner, then sank into the pillows. “I think I’m just going to sleep. My head hurts a little.” His head was fine. He just couldn’t bear to talk about this anymore. Yet, Matthew had this terrifying, self-destructive urge to rip off the bandage. He watched as his family dimmed the lights and filed out of the room, and once he was alone, he picked up his phone from the desk.
Most of his texts were from his teammates, sending him various Get Well Soon messages that he ignored. He opened his email instead, and wrote a short, three-line summary of the events.
Following my injury at last week’s match, my doctors have forbidden me from playing hockey ever again. Sorry about that. Please let me know how we can proceed.
He sent it to his coach and tagged a bunch of official university email addresses—to the sports departments and medical, mostly, and hit send before he had a chance to think it through twice. There, done. Now everyone who needed to know, knew. And Matthew could dissolve into the dark, cold loneliness of this room and throttle his dreams with his own two hands.
It’s gilbert!! Lol. you don’t remember? We were friends in grade school :^)
Matthew stared at the message. Gilbert Beilschmidt, of course he remembered him. Gilbert was loud, obnoxious, arrogant, and he always made Matthew laugh. His family moved away just before high school. Why was he texting Matthew now?
He’d only opened his phone that morning to check his email. The university had already responded, requesting Matthew’s medical records even as they expressed sympathies and professed a commitment to look after him. Then Matthew sent generic thank-you messages to his teammates, and opened Instagram just for something to do. That was when he finally remembered the message from all those nights ago.
Oh right, hey Gilbert! Sorry, it’s been a crazy few days. How are you?
Gilbert wrote back immediately. Yay! Hey mattie! I’m all rite man. I wanted to drop in and say hi cuz I’ve been at this university for FOUR YEARS and I had no idea you were a student here too? Wtf
Matthew blinked. Wait, really? What programme are you in?
Engineering baby! You?
He hated talking about school. The thought of classwork made Matthew feel physically ill. I’ve taken a couple of business credits but I’m actually there for hockey, he said. He knew where this conversation would inevitably go, and he just wanted to get it over with.
You were always insanely good at hockey, even back then! It was always fun to see quiet mattie become a raging bull on the ice lol. Were you at the match last week? I wasnt but i heard some kid got bodied so bad he nearly died
Matthew set his phone down on his lap and pressed his hands into his eyes. He had to do this. Just had to get it over with. People would find out eventually, they might as well find out from him. Yeah, that was me, he texted back. And waited.
He saw the typing bubble start, and stop. Start, and stop. For five minutes, Matthew watched Gilbert hesitate over his response. Until finally, he just sent:
oh fuck
And it was such a refreshingly honest reply, Matthew actually laughed. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine! I think it must have looked a lot worse than it actually was. I’m already on the mend, they’re letting me go home tomorrow.
-You’ve been in hospital for a WEEK?
-Jeez, dude
-You’re fuckin hardcore, man
Matthew smiled. Thanks, I think?
-The longest I’ve been in hospital was half a day when i ate bad sushi lol
-not nearly as cool as a hockey injury
Well, Matthew typed back, if you want sexy injuries, hockey’s definitely the sport for you
-You know what mattie, i think i’m good for sexy injuries, but thanks for the suggestion lol
-Well i’m sure you wanna rest so i’ll let you go! But keep in touch ja mattie? We used to have fun in the old days. We should go get some beers sometime!
Matthew’s stomach filled with warmth. The only people he was friends with were his hockey buddies. It was nice, actually, to speak to someone outside the sport who wanted to spend time with him. I’m underage still (20) but my birthday’s in a couple months! We could go after that
Such a good boy, lol, Gilbert replied. But ja let’s do it!! Ok bye, take care!
Their home was fairly large and richly designed. Papa had chosen the colours and furniture himself, insisting Dad had no idea what looked good. (To which, of course, Dad’s usual reply was, “At least I think you look good, Frog, consider yourself lucky.”) Matthew and Alfred’s rooms were on the first floor, but because Matthew was on crutches, they’d set up the downstairs spare bedroom for him. Dad had brought the TV into the room, as well as snacks and water, and Matthew’s computer. Papa had even fished out Kumajiro, his stuffy from when he was five.
“You used to snuggle with that whenever you were sick,” Papa said. “I thought it would make you feel better.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said, smiling faintly as he set Kuma down between the pillows. “Thanks, guys, this is great.”
Dad set down bottles of prescriptions on the nightstand—all except for the opioids, which he flushed down the toilet. He left the door ajar so Matthew could see where they were going. “Sorry, Matthew, love, but let’s not risk anything. It’s been a very difficult few days for you, and I don’t want you to mess around with drugs.”
“Not that I was going to,” Matthew muttered.
“What happens if he feels pain?” Papa said.
“There’s plenty of ibuprofen in the house.”
“I’m fine, I’m not in pain.”
Slowly but surely, his family filed out. Dad was already late for a meeting with some big client. Alfred’s shift started in ten minutes. And Papa, who lingered the longest, also had to check in on his restaurants. “Now, Matthew,” he said while leaving, “you know the rules. Get out of bed only if absolutely necessary—so only for the bathroom or if there’s a fire—”
“—Yup.”
“Your lunch is in that hotbox there,” Papa went on gesturing to an insulated box beside the nightstand. “You know what medicines to take? Do not miss a dose of your antibiotics, okay? You must be very careful with those.”
“Yup, Papa, I know.”
“And call if you need anything, anything at all. ” He let out a long, exhausted breath. “I’m sorry, Matthew, I wouldn’t leave at all but there are some important reviewers coming today and they explicitly said they’d like to talk to me.”
“Papa, it’s fine.” Matthew smiled. “I’m just going to stay in bed, watch TV, and maybe nap a bit. You don’t need to worry at all.”
“Keep your phone close,” he said at last. “I will text you throughout the day and if you don’t answer, I will call an ambulance.”
Matthew laughed, then he realised Papa was serious. “Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll be in constant communication.”
“Good boy.” He kissed Matthew on the top of his head. “I love you very much, mon chou. Take care.” The conflict on his face pulled on Matthew’s heart as he saw his Papa leave. His footsteps got further and further away, and then he heard the front door open and shut.
The first half of the day went fairly well. Matthew, as promised, kept checking his phone. He ignored messages from his teammates--he didn’t want to deal with that part of his life right now--and instead spent the hours watching Netflix and talking about True Crime documentaries with Gilbert over Instagram. He ate his lunch, and even managed to hobble to the restroom on crutches, and then sent texts on the family group chat:
-eaten lunch ✓
-watched 5 episodes of stranger things ✓
-Health stat so far: alive
Dad answered before the others. Matthew, this isn’t funny.
LOL no it’s kinda funny, Alfred chimed in. And if anyone is allowed to make a “health stat: alive” joke it’s mattie
-Alfred, shouldn’t you be working? Dad retorted, and Matthew could practically hear the disapproval in his voice.
-Shouldnt YOU be working????
-Don’t talk back to me, young man.
-Did you like your lunch Matthew? Papa asked.
-Oh yeah, it was yum, thanks
-Anyway I’m gonna nap now
-Love you guys
-Bye
-PS: Papa if I dont answer the phone it’s because I’m zzz. Don’t call an ambulance
I’ll try, Papa replied. Then he sent a :)
Matthew fell asleep as soon as his eyes shut. His dreams were confusing: full of screaming and nee-naa-nee-naa and Breathe Breathe Breathe and Blood loss and crashing and You’re fuckin hardcore, man and Yup, this has happened before. Matthew jolted awake and for a horrible second, it was like he was on the ice again, howling in pain, convinced he was dying. His heart was racing inside his ribs. His stomach was somersaulting, like he was about to puke. Matthew took a long, deep, shuddering breath. And another. And another. Finally, he reached for the bottle and took a few small sips of water.
Pain. That’s what had awoken him. That’s what was making him feel so ill. Matthew stared down at his plastered leg, forcing his brain to focus on the wide-open maw of pain radiating across his body. Matthew reached around for the ibuprofen on the nightstand, and took two without pausing to think if it was safe to do that.
He tried to sleep again, but the pain wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t even toss and turn in bed, so he just lay flat and bit down on his tongue to stop himself from crying. Finally he reached for his phone and dialled Alfred.
“Sup dude?” Alfred asked, picking up on the first ring.
“Alfred,” Matthew murmured, “there’s a pharmacy in your grocery store, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Can you pick up more of those opioids? I think it was codeine or something? I think Dad managed to get the hospital to email the prescription so it's on the Cloud.”
Alfred was silent for several seconds. “Mattie…It was Oxy. And Pops filled that prescription yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know, and Dad flushed them down the toilet. Please, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need them.”
“Right.” Alfred let out a long breath. “No, what I mean is, no pharmacy is going to fill an opioid prescription twice in two days. Also, I don't know if pharmacies are super keen on filling emailed prescriptions? I know some people who had some trouble with that. Besides, like, I kinda agree with Dad, it’s best to stay away from that shit.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, Alfred, I’m just—don’t tell Dad or Pops but,” Matthew gritted his teeth. “I’m in a fuck ton of pain and nothing’s working. I just want to try something.”
“The ibuprofen isn’t—?”
“No, it’s not. I can’t even sleep.”
“Have you tried melatonin? There’s some in Pop’s bathroom cabinet.”
“Oh.” Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. “Right, good idea. I’ll go get it.”
“No, no, no—that’s not—wait. Just wait.” Alfred let out a shaky breath. “I’m not letting you climb up a flight of stairs while you’re in pain and on crutches. Stay put, I’ll come right over and get them for you.”
“Oh, Alfred.” A wave of gratefulness washed over him. “You don’t have to. Don’t you have work?”
“I was on my break anyway. Stay put, Mattie, I’ll be right there.”
Alfred was back home in less than ten minutes. Sweaty and gasping, Matthew could see that he’d run the whole way back. His face broke into relief when he saw Matthew still in bed. He held a finger up. “Great, stay there,” he rasped, before storming up the stairs and rushing back down in one minute flat. He was holding a couple of strips of Papa’s low-dose melatonin. Alfred stood over Matthew as he put a strip in his mouth. “If you’re in a lot of pain, maybe you should call Dad or Pops,” he said, his blue eyes big and worried. “I mean, just take it easy, dude.”
“I’m okay,” Matthew murmured, lowering his head to the pillows. “Sorry I freaked you out.”
“You didn’t freak me out.”
“It looks like you ran here.”
“Kiku’s been encouraging me to do ten thousand steps a day, you know,” Alfred laughed. “I’m just trying to be fit.”
“Right.” Matthew shut his eyes. “Thanks, Alfred.”
Though Alfred didn’t say anything, he could feel his brother’s presence in the room. “You…you sure you’re okay? I can stay for a while.”
“No, you can’t. They’ll want you back soon enough, and I don’t want you to get yelled at over me.”
“Right…”
Matthew’s eyes flew open. “Don’t tell Dad or Papa about this. They’ll freak out. And everything’s under control.”
Alfred’s gaze was searching and thoughtful. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, almost sceptically. “All right,” he said after several quiet seconds. “Well, call me if you need anything else.”
The pain was an ugly noise Matthew kept trying and failing to tune out. He’d been at home nearly a week now, sending emails back and forth between his university, and watching a whole lot of Netflix, because his only recourse was distraction. He’d been texting Gilbert non-stop. It was nice to have a friend who didn’t remind him constantly of his favourite sport. Papa, who discovered about the melatonin immediately, now kept a few strips handy for Matthew, under strict instructions that he wasn’t allowed to take more than two at a time. They were all treating him like he was about to start snorting coke. It would have been really funny if it wasn’t so frustrating. Matthew hated being handled with kid gloves.
Dad read the irritation on his face one night when he went to check if Matthew had taken his evening dose of antibiotics. “I’m not six, I know when to take my medicines,” he muttered bitterly, plugging his ears with his headphones again to continue the movie he’d been watching. Matthew sighed, however, when Dad approached him, hands on his hips. He paused the movie and took off the headphones. “What?”
“You feeling a little cranky?” Dad asked. He had this half-smile on his face.
“Of course I’m cranky. I’m bored.” Matthew tossed the laptop aside. Over the past week, he’d watched some twenty-five movies and dozens of episodes of TV. He’d read a couple of Alfred’s Sandman comic books that Alfred kept in pride of place on his shelf. He’d texted Gilbert incessantly, and unbeknownst to his parents, he’d been communicating with the university about his hockey future every single day. More than anything, though, he got a regular stream of updates from his teammates—hilarious things that happened at practice, potential strategies for the next game, hockey memes and it was unbearable. Matthew wanted to throw his phone away, and would have, were it not his only source of communication with the outside world.
“Maybe you’d like to go out?” Dad sat at the edge of his bed and put a careful hand on the plaster. He waited for Matthew to tell him to stop, and when no protest came, he went on, “It’s been a difficult couple of weeks. If you’d like, we can all go out to dinner tomorrow night. At one of Papa’s restaurants. Only if you’re feeling up to it, though. No pressure.”
At this point, Matthew would take staring at a brick wall over being inside this room. “Yeah, that sounds good. Let’s do it.”
“All right. I’ll go tell Papa.”
Matthew hadn’t thought this through. Even though it was his father’s place, and designed to be accessibility-friendly, walking around with crutches in a Michelin-star French restaurant was an awkward experience. The fanciest people in the world were dining there, wearing lavish designer clothes and jewellery. Matthew could barely get his formal trousers over his plaster. He’d done his best to spruce up his hair and tie his tie, but he still felt unkempt next to his parents. Even Alfred looked dapper in the suit he hated wearing.
Eating at Papa’s restaurants could be really fun, or really uncomfortable, depending on the day. They always got special treatment, which sometimes resulted in divine desserts that tasted like bites of heaven. It also meant his staff were falling all over themselves to do a good job, and Matthew felt deeply guilty about anyone fussing so much over him. He was just as happy eating poutine at a diner. He didn’t really need the fanfare. Alfred, however, lapped it up. Luxury looked good on him. He loved sampling the different exotic foods that came through the kitchen.
Matthew was grateful that they were, at least, outside. Once he was sitting down, and his foot was under the table, and the crutches were off in a corner, Matthew could pretend like everything was normal. He laughed at Alfred’s antics, and at his parents’ playful bickering. When Dad talked about his high-profile clients, both he and Alfred made gagging noises.
Matthew’s phone dinged in his pocket. Probably Gilbert! He’d been texting Gilbert all day.
He opened Instagram and sure enough, Gilbert had sent, haha a michelin star restaurant?? Are you secretly loaded?
Well, Matthew typed back, one of my dads kind of owns—
“Matthew,” Papa said. “You know the rule! No phones at dinner.”
“I just want to send one message!”
“No,” Dad said. “Put it away. Whatever gossip there is, you can talk about it later.”
Matthew sighed and obeyed, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket. He waited about ten minutes, to throw off suspicion, then reached for his crutches. “Need to use the restroom.”
“I’ll come with you, you may need help.” Papa was already rising from his chair.
“No, no, I’ve been managing just fine on my own!” Matthew laughed, embarrassed. “Come on, guys, I’m not a baby.” He ignored his parents’ looks of vague concern and suspicion, and hightailed—as fast as he could on crutches—towards the grand restrooms.
It was one of those restrooms with warmed towels and a long bench. For now, it was also fairly empty. Matthew sank down to the bench and pulled his phone out.
-Sorry, my parents told me off for texting during dinner lol
-I was saying my dad owns these restaurants
-Yikes, Gilbert wrote back. So you ARE actually loaded
-Uh…yeah, I mean, my parents are, I guess
-They’re both like, real go-getters. Like super ambitious
-And neither of them came from wealth, so whatever they made, they made on their own. Which is super cool in a way
-Yeah, for sure, Gilbert said. And you’re a hockey prodigy. Talent runs in the family, huh!
-Lol. Matthew smiled. I’ve just been lucky, i guess. I’m not a prodigy or anything.
Just then his email dinged. Matthew opened it automatically. He knew who it’d be from.
He read the email twice. His eyes were becoming blurry. Words and phrases rolled around his head. I’m sorry to say—You’re still enrolled in your class credits—You helped make the team into a powerhouse.
His gaze snagged on the last sentence.
Hope you have a swift and painless recovery.
Cheers,
“Cheers,” Matthew exhaled. His hands had gone suddenly cold. “What kind of sign-off is ‘cheers’?” And then his eyes were stinging again. How could this be happening? He was one of their best players, the coach said so himself! What the hell had just happened?
Matthew set his phone down and pushed his head between his knees. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He had to calm down, he had to stop crying, he couldn’t make a scene in a restaurant that served forty-dollar hors d'oeuvres.
So, he’d never play hockey again. He knew that. He knew this was probably going to happen. Why would they keep him on the team if he couldn’t play? This was nothing he didn’t already expect. Sure, he’d spent the last fortnight actively avoiding thinking about the future. Aside from the emails, he’d not spoken to anyone about what he planned to do next. He wasn’t even sure his teammates knew the extent of his injury. He certainly hadn’t told them.
Matthew opened the email chain again and read through the discussion. He could see now how wildly desperate he’d been. He’d sent things like, I’d love to continue playing if I can, please let me know if there’s any way to be involved and I’ve spent almost fifteen years of my life training to be a hockey player, I’d really appreciate some support at this trying time, and Please, coach, I’m requesting your help because I don’t know what else to do.
How could he send such pathetic pleas to an official university email address? Matthew’s hand gripped around his phone, hard, and before he could think things through, he’d thrown it against a wall.
And then he just sat there.
He didn’t even know how long he’d been hiding out until Alfred came bursting through the door, saying, “Mattie, what the heck, Dad thinks you died on the toilet like Elvis—Mattie?” his voice dropped. “Dude, you okay?”
“I dropped my phone,” Matthew mumbled.
“Oh.” Alfred spotted it in a corner and fetched it for him. “Luckily the screen isn’t cracked or anything.” He handed it to Matthew. “Seriously, you okay?”
“Yeah!” Matthew forced a smile. He would not ruin things. He would not ruin this night. “I just needed a breather.” Matthew allowed Alfred to help him up, and the two made the trek back to the table.
“Matthew!” Papa cried. “I thought something bad had happened.”
“Probably all this fatty French food getting to him,” Dad teased, though even he looked relieved. Matthew noticed a chocolate cake on the table, with the words in icing, Cheers to the future, Matthew! It felt like a joke.
“Just something to cheer you up,” Papa said, smiling. “Everything will be okay soon. The future is bright.”
Matthew opened his mouth. He was going to say, thank you Dad and Papa, for this lovely night out. Thank you for being so loving and supportive. Thank you for this delicious cake. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Instead, he said, “They kicked me off the hockey team.”