Mateusz replayed it in his head for hours.
Perhaps if you spoke less quickly, we could understand you better.
That's how it should sound.
He was sitting in the common room of his dorm, phone in hand, not really seeing the screen. The words kept circling, kept biting.
Cœur. Cœur. Cœur.
He'd practiced that word. He'd looked it up, listened to recordings, tried to get the vowel right. And he'd still fucked it up, still sounded wrong, still stood there like an idiot while the whole class watched.
And then Declan had stood up.
Declan, with his perfect accent and his perfect posture and his perfect everything. Declan, who'd read the same passage like it was nothing, like French was just something that lived in his mouth naturally.
That's how it should sound.
Mateusz's jaw ached from clenching.
Kurwa mać.
He wanted to be angry at Duclair. He was angry at Duclair. But Duclair was a teacher, and teachers could say whatever they wanted. That was just how it worked.
What Mateusz couldn't stop thinking about was Declan.
Declan, who'd sat there while Micky fucking Weston made some comment. Mateusz hadn't heard the words exactly, but he'd seen Micky lean in, seen the grin, seen the way Declan hadn't reacted.
Hadn't told him to stop.
Hadn't said anything.
And then Declan had read his paragraph and accepted Duclair's praise like it was his due, like he hadn't just watched Mateusz get humiliated two feet away.
Tchórz. [Coward.]
Mateusz had called him that in his head before. But today it felt different. Heavier.
Today it felt true.
His phone buzzed.
Yolanda: you okay?
Mateusz stared at the message. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Mat: fine
Yolanda: liar
Mat: yeah
A pause. Then:
Yolanda: want me to come over?
He thought about it. Yolanda would sit with him. She'd let him vent. She'd tell him Duclair was an asshole and Declan was a coward and none of this was his fault.
But right now, Mateusz didn't want to talk.
He wanted to hit something.
Mat: no. i'm good. practice was rough. gonna sleep.
Yolanda: okay. but i'm here if you need me.
Mat: i know
He put his phone down and stared at the ceiling.
The thing was, Mateusz had dealt with this before.
Back in Connecticut, at his old school, there'd been teachers who "corrected" him constantly. Other students who mimicked his accent when they thought he couldn't hear. Kids who assumed he was stupid because his English came out slower, more careful.
He'd learned to handle it. To not react. To smile and nod and let it roll off him.
But Easthill was supposed to be different.
Easthill was supposed to be elite. Diverse. Better.
And maybe it was, in some ways. Yolanda was here. Edmund and Piper were here. The hockey team was good, and Coach Kincaid actually listened when Mateusz had tactical suggestions.
But then there were moments like today.
Moments that reminded him that no matter how good he was, no matter how hard he worked, he would always sound wrong to some people.
And Declan—
Declan was one of those people now.
Mateusz dreamed in Polish that night.
It happened sometimes, when he was stressed. His brain retreated to the language that came easier, the one that didn't require translation, the one that felt like home.
In the dream, he was skating. The ice stretched out forever, white and empty, and he was alone. His blades cut clean lines into the surface, and the cold air burned in his lungs.
Then someone else was there.
Declan.
Standing at center ice, watching him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—
His eyes were sharp. Focused. Like Mateusz was a problem to solve.
Mateusz skated toward him. Faster. Harder. The distance between them shrank.
But no matter how fast he went, he couldn't reach him.
Declan just stood there. Watching. Saying nothing.
And then Mateusz woke up.
Saturday morning, Mateusz went to the rink early.
The team didn't have practice until eleven, but he needed the ice. Needed the cold. Needed something to do with the restless energy that had been crawling under his skin since French class.
The rink was empty when he got there. Just him and the Zamboni guy, who nodded once and went back to reading his newspaper.
Mateusz laced up his skates, grabbed a stick and a bucket of pucks, and stepped onto the ice.
For a while, he just skated. Laps around the rink, fast and hard, until his lungs burned and his legs ached. He pushed himself until the thoughts started to blur, until all he could feel was the cold and the speed and the rhythm of his blades.
Then he started shooting.
He lined up the pucks at the top of the slot and fired them, one after another. Wrist shots. Slap shots. Quick releases. Each one hit the net with a satisfying crack.
Perhaps if you spoke less quickly.
Crack.
That's how it should sound.
Crack.
You just have to stand there and look perfect.
Crack.
Mateusz's stick connected with the last puck so hard that his hands stung. It sailed into the top corner, kissing the crossbar on the way in.
He stood there, breathing hard, stick in his hands.
The ice was quiet.
And then he heard footsteps.
He turned.
Declan was standing at the boards, already in his gear. He must have come in through the other entrance—Mateusz hadn't heard him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Mateusz felt his jaw tighten. The anger was still there, simmering just under the surface, but there was something else too. Something he didn't want to name.
"You're here early," Declan said finally. His voice was neutral. Careful.
"So are you."
"Couldn't sleep."
Mateusz didn't answer. He turned back to the net and started collecting pucks, shoving them into the bucket with more force than necessary.
Behind him, he heard Declan step onto the ice.
"Look," Declan said. "About yesterday—"
"Don't."
"I just want to—"
"I said don't." Mateusz straightened, turning to face him. His voice came out harder than he meant, but he didn't care. "You don't get to apologize for something you didn't even do."
Declan's expression flickered. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you sat there." Mateusz took a step closer. "You sat there while Duclair made me look like an idiot. You sat there while your friend made some joke about my accent. And then you read the same fucking paragraph like you were proving his point."
"That's not—"
"You didn't say anything." Mateusz's voice cracked, just slightly, and he hated it. "You never say anything. You just—you just watch, and you do nothing, and you think that makes you neutral?"
Declan was silent.
"Silence isn't neutral, Dawson." Mateusz's chest was heaving. "Silence is a choice. And you keep choosing it."
The words hung in the cold air between them.
Declan's face was pale. His jaw was tight.
For a second—just a second—Mateusz thought he saw something shift. Something break.
But then Declan looked away.
"I didn't know what to say," he said quietly.
"That's not good enough."
"I know."
"Then why—" Mateusz stopped. Shook his head. "Nieważne." [Never mind.]
He grabbed the bucket of pucks and skated toward the bench, putting distance between them.
Practice started an hour later, and Mateusz threw himself into it.
He was faster than usual. More aggressive. Every drill, he pushed harder, skated longer, hit cleaner. When they scrimmaged, he took the puck coast-to-coast twice and buried both chances.
Coach Kincaid noticed.
"Kowalczyk!" he called out during a water break. "Whatever you're pissed about, keep using it. That's the best I've seen you skate all season."
Mateusz nodded once and said nothing.
He wasn't pissed.
Well—he was. But it was more than that.
Every time he looked across the ice, he saw Declan. Saw those grey-blue eyes tracking him. Saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was bracing for something.
Good, Mateusz thought. Let him be uncomfortable.
It was about fucking time.
They ran a power-play drill, and Coach put Mateusz and Declan on the same unit.
Of course he did.
They'd had chemistry from the first practice—everyone knew it. When they played together, the puck moved faster, the plays came easier. It was like they could read each other's minds.
Right now, Mateusz wished he couldn't.
The drill started. Declan won the draw and sent the puck back to Felix on the point. Felix walked it to the middle, looking for options.
Mateusz was open on the left side. He banged his stick on the ice, calling for it.
But Felix hesitated.
"Mat!" Declan's voice, sharp. "Here!"
Mateusz looked up.
Declan was gesturing—quick, urgent. He wanted Mateusz to cut to the slot. It was the right play. Mateusz could see it: Felix to Declan, Declan across to Mateusz, one-timer.
But Felix didn't pass.
He was saying something—"What? I didn't—"—and by the time he figured it out, the penalty kill had collapsed on them. Jarvis poke-checked the puck away, and the play died.
Coach blew the whistle. "Reset! Kowalczyk, call louder. They can't hear you."
Mateusz's face went hot.
He had called. He'd banged his stick. But his voice—
His voice hadn't carried. Or maybe it had, and Felix just hadn't processed it in time. Or maybe—
Maybe he'd hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough.
Because sometimes, when the game moved fast and everyone was shouting, Mateusz's brain lagged behind. The English came slower. The words tangled up. And by the time he figured out what to say, the moment had passed.
It happened. It wasn't his fault.
But it still felt like failure.
After the drill, Declan skated up beside him.
"Hey."
Mateusz kept his eyes on the ice. "What."
"You called it. Felix just didn't react fast enough."
"I know."
"Coach shouldn't have—"
"I know." Mateusz finally looked at him. "I don't need you to explain it to me."
Declan's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to—"
"To what?" Mateusz cut him off. "To help? You want to help now?"
Declan didn't answer.
Mateusz shook his head. "Kurwa, jesteś niemożliwy." [Fuck, you're impossible.]
"What does that mean?"
"Figure it out."
He skated away before Declan could say anything else.
That night, Mateusz sat on his bed and stared at his phone.
Yolanda had texted three times. Piper had sent a meme. Edmund had sent a link to some video about medieval siege warfare, which was so perfectly Edmund that Mateusz almost smiled.
But he didn't reply to any of them.
He was thinking about the rink. About the way Declan had looked at him during practice—careful, watchful, like he was waiting for Mateusz to break.
And about the way Declan had said I didn't know what to say.
Like that was an excuse.
Like not knowing was the same as not having to try.
Mateusz thought about his mother, back when he was a kid first learning English. How she'd sit with him every night, going over vocabulary, correcting his pronunciation, making him repeat words until they felt natural.
"Nie wstydzisz się swojego głosu, synku," she used to say. "Twój głos jest twoją bronią." ["Don't be ashamed of your voice, son. Your voice is your weapon."]
He hadn't understood it then.
He was starting to understand it now.
His voice wasn't the problem. The way people listened—or didn't listen—was the problem.
And Declan Dawson, for all his sharp eyes and perfect French and careful silences, had never once listened to Mateusz when it mattered.
Pierdolić go. [Fuck him.]
Mateusz put his phone down and turned off the light.
Tomorrow, there would be more practice. More classes. More moments where he'd have to choose whether to speak up or stay quiet.
But tonight, he was done.
He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.
In the morning, he woke up angry.
It was the good kind of angry, though. The kind that sharpened instead of dulled. The kind that made him want to get on the ice and prove something.
He got dressed quickly—hoodie, jeans, the chain around his neck that his sister had sent him from Kraków. He grabbed his bag and headed for the dining hall.
Yolanda was already there, sitting at their usual table with Piper and Edmund.
"There he is," Yolanda said as he sat down. "Looking like someone who's about to commit a murder."
"I'm fine."
"You're never fine when you say you're fine."
"I'm motivated."
Yolanda raised an eyebrow. "That's worse."
Mateusz grabbed a coffee and took a long sip. "We play Northgate next Friday."
"I know."
"I'm going to make Eden Cross regret ever lacing up his skates."
Yolanda grinned, sharp and proud. "Now that's the energy I like to see."
Piper leaned in. "What happened? You've been weird since yesterday."
Mateusz shrugged. "French class. Duclair. The usual."
"Duclair's an asshole," Edmund said flatly.
"Yeah."
"And Dawson?" Yolanda asked, watching him carefully.
Mateusz's jaw tightened.
He thought about the rink that morning. About Declan showing up early, looking like he hadn't slept. About I didn't know what to say.
"Dawson's not my problem," he said.
Yolanda didn't look convinced. "Okay."
"He's not."
"I said okay."
Mateusz finished his coffee and stood. "I have to get to class."
"History with Mrs. Hensley?"
"Yeah."
"Have fun."
"I won't."
Yolanda laughed, and Mateusz let himself smile—just for a second. Just enough to remind himself that he wasn't alone.
Then he grabbed his bag and walked out.
In the hallway, he passed Declan.
They didn't speak. They didn't even look at each other—not really. Just a glance, quick and sharp, like testing the edge of a blade.
But Mateusz felt it.
The weight of it. The pull.
The thing between them that was growing, shifting, turning into something he didn't have a name for yet.
He kept walking.
Niech mnie szlag trafi, he thought. [Damn me.]
He was in trouble.
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