Read Center Ice :: Chapter 1

Mateusz

Mateusz knew who Declan Dawson was before he ever stepped onto Easthill Academy ice.

Everyone knew who Declan Dawson was. Captain. Star center. The golden boy with the Boston University scholarship and the NHL future already written in stone. Mateusz had watched clips of him online before his mother drove him up from the city—smooth, controlled, the kind of player who made everything look easy because he never let anything rattle him.

Kurwa, Mateusz thought as he laced up his skates in the visiting locker room that first day. Of course he's perfect.

He hated perfect.

Perfect meant untouchable. Perfect meant the kind of guy who never had to fight for anything, who never had to prove he belonged, who never had to hear his own voice come out wrong and watch people's faces shift.

Mateusz had been fighting his whole life. Fighting to be seen as more than his accent, more than the kid whose name nobody could pronounce right, more than the foreign scholarship case who didn't quite fit. He was good—really good—but good wasn't enough when you sounded like you didn't belong.

He pulled his jersey over his head—number 18, Silver United, his new team—and tried not to think about how many times he'd have to correct people when they inevitably called him Matt.

Mateusz. Not Matt. Mateusz.

He'd said it so many times it didn't even sound like a name anymore.

The first drill was simple. Line rushes, two-on-one, standard shit. Mateusz lined up on the right wing, waiting for the whistle, and that's when he saw him.

Declan Dawson, center ice, standing like he owned the rink.

Maybe he did.

Mateusz watched him for a second longer than he should have—the way Dawson held his stick, loose and confident, the way his shoulders sat square, the way his eyes tracked the puck like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Zamknij się i graj, Mateusz told himself. Shut up and play.

The whistle blew.

Mateusz took off.

He was fast—faster than most of the guys on this team, he'd bet—and he knew how to use his edges. He cut hard toward the net, stick ready, and the puck came to him clean. He didn't hesitate. One touch, roof it, done.

The goalie—Crane, he thought his name was—didn't even move.

"Nice shot!" someone called. Linwood, maybe. The left wing.

Mateusz didn't answer. Just skated back to the line, chest tight, waiting for his brain to catch up.

Nice shot. Nice shot. He turned the words over in his head, checking them, making sure he'd heard right. English still took him a second. Not long—he'd been speaking it since he was a kid—but long enough that sometimes people noticed the pause. Long enough that they looked at him like he was slow.

He wasn't slow. He just had to translate.

The collision happened on the third rep.

Mateusz went hard into the corner, chasing a loose puck, and someone hit him from the side—clean, but heavy. He went down, shoulder-first into the boards, and for a second the wind knocked out of him.

Kurwa mać.

He rolled onto his back, blinking up at the lights, and then there was a shadow over him.

Declan Dawson.

Standing there, looking down at him with those stupidly sharp eyes, and Mateusz felt his stomach do something complicated.

"You good?" Dawson asked.

Mateusz blinked. Processed. You good. You good? Right. Yeah.

"I'm fine," he said, and fuck, there it was—the accent. Thick and obvious, the I'm coming out too hard, the fine clipped short. He heard it. He always heard it.

Dawson's expression didn't change, but Mateusz saw the flicker. The tiny shift. The moment where Dawson registered that Mateusz wasn't from here.

Of course.

Mateusz pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the hand Dawson offered, and got to his feet on his own. His shoulder ached, but he wasn't about to show it.

"Nice hit," he said, because fuck it, if he was going to sound foreign he might as well sound confident.

Dawson's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "You skate like you're trying to prove something."

Mateusz's jaw tightened.

He wanted to say, Maybe I am. Wanted to say, Maybe I have to. Wanted to say, You wouldn't understand, because nobody's ever made you prove shit.

Instead, he said, "Maybe you skate like you're scared to."

It came out sharper than he meant. It always did.

Dawson stared at him for a second, and Mateusz couldn't read his face. Couldn't tell if he'd pissed him off or impressed him or—

Then Dawson turned and skated away.

Świetnie, Mateusz thought. Great. Perfect start.

In the locker room after practice, Mateusz sat on the bench and unlaced his skates slowly, listening.

The team was loud. Friendly. Lots of chirping, lots of laughter. Petrov—one of the defensemen—was telling some story about a girl he'd hooked up with over the summer, and half the room was losing it.

Mateusz didn't join in. He never did, not right away. He'd learned a long time ago that it was better to listen first. Figure out the rhythm. Figure out who was safe.

"Yo, Kowalczyk!" someone called.

He looked up. It was Alvarez, the other left wing. Gael, maybe? Mateusz was still learning names.

"You played in the city before this, right?" Alvarez asked.

"Yeah," Mateusz said. Careful. Slow. "In Brooklyn."

"Shit, that's cool. You like it here so far?"

Mateusz shrugged. "It's fine."

Fine. That word again. He hated how it sounded in his mouth.

"Your English is pretty good, man," Alvarez said, and Mateusz's stomach dropped.

There it was.

Your English is pretty good.

Which meant: I noticed you're not from here.

Which meant: You sound different.

Which also probably meant: You don't belong.

"Thanks," Mateusz said flatly, and went back to his skates.

Alvarez didn't seem to notice the edge in his voice. He just kept talking, something about the season schedule, and Mateusz let the words wash over him without really listening.

Across the room, Declan Dawson was packing up his bag. He hadn't said a word since they'd come off the ice. Hadn't looked at Mateusz once.

But Mateusz had looked at him.

He'd noticed the way Dawson's hands moved when he unlaced his skates—steady, methodical, like everything he did. Noticed the way his hair stuck to his forehead, dark with sweat. Noticed the way his jaw was set, tight, like he was thinking about something he didn't want to think about.

Mateusz knew that look. He'd seen it in the mirror plenty of times.

Ciekawe, he thought. Interesting.

Declan Dawson was supposed to be perfect. Untouchable. The guy who had everything figured out.

But Mateusz had seen the way he'd looked at him on the ice. Had seen the pause, the flicker, the moment where Dawson's control slipped just a little.

And Mateusz was good at reading people. It was a survival skill.

So yeah. He'd noticed.

He pulled his hoodie on, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed for the door. As he passed Dawson's bench, he let himself look—just once, just for a second.

Dawson's eyes flicked up.

They held.

Mateusz smiled. Not friendly. Not mean. Just... aware.

Then he walked out.

Outside, the air was cooler, and Mateusz took a long breath, letting it settle in his chest.

Dobrze, he thought. Okay.

First practice: survived.

He'd been watched. He'd been marked. He'd heard his own voice come out wrong and seen the way people noticed it.

But he'd also seen the way Declan Dawson looked at him.

And that—that—was something Mateusz could work with.

He pulled out his phone and texted Yolanda.

Mat: survived first practice. team's fine. captain's... interesting.