Read Center Ice :: Chapter 7

Mateusz almost didn't go to the party.

He was sitting on his bed, half-dressed, staring at his phone while Yolanda's texts piled up unanswered.

Yolanda: i'm outside your building
Yolanda: mat
Yolanda: MATEUSZ KOWALCZYK
Yolanda: if you're not down here in 5 minutes i'm coming up there and dragging you out by your chain

He huffed a laugh despite himself.

Cholera. [Damn.]

He didn't want to go. Sloane Archer's parties were legendary at Easthill—everyone who mattered showed up, everyone who didn't wished they could—and Mateusz was under no illusions about which category he fell into.

But Yolanda had insisted.

"You need to get out of your head," she'd said at lunch. "You've been weird all week. Broody. It's creepy."

"I'm not broody."

"You're extremely broody. You're giving tragic European romantic hero, and I need you to stop."

He'd told her he'd think about it. Which, in Yolanda's mind, meant yes.

So here he was.

Mateusz grabbed his hoodie—the nice one, dark grey, soft—and pulled it over his head. Checked himself in the mirror. His hair was doing that thing where it wouldn't quite lie flat, but fuck it. He wasn't trying to impress anyone.

His phone buzzed again.

Yolanda: 4 minutes

He shoved the phone in his pocket and headed downstairs.

Yolanda was leaning against the lamppost outside his dorm, arms crossed, looking like she was ready to commit a crime.

"Finally," she said when she saw him. "I was about to pick the lock."

"You don't know how to pick locks."

"I would have learned. For you."

Mateusz rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth. Yolanda had that effect on him.

They started walking. Sloane's house was off-campus—one of those big Victorian places on the edge of town that her parents owned but never used. Perfect for parties. Far enough from school that teachers wouldn't show up, close enough that everyone could stumble back to the dorms after.

"You okay?" Yolanda asked after a minute.

"Fine."

"Liar."

"Tak, tak." [Yeah, yeah.] He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"From the game?"

"From everything."

Yolanda was quiet for a second. Then: "Is this about Dawson?"

Mateusz's jaw tightened.

He hadn't told her everything about the Northgate game. Just the basics—they'd won, he'd scored twice, Cross had been a dick. He hadn't mentioned what Cross had said. Hadn't mentioned what Declan had done.

Dziękuję.

He'd thanked him. Standing in that parking lot at 1 AM, exhausted and confused, he'd actually thanked him.

And Declan had just looked at him with those grey-blue eyes and said yeah, okay like it meant something. Like it cost him something.

Mateusz didn't know what to do with that.

"It's not about Dawson," he said.

Yolanda gave him a look.

"It's not."

"Okay." She didn't sound convinced. "But if it was—hypothetically—would you want to talk about it?"

"Nie." [No.]

"Cool. Just checking."

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Sloane's house was already packed when they arrived.

Music pulsed through the walls, loud enough that Mateusz could feel it in his chest. People spilled out onto the porch and the lawn, red cups in hand, laughing at jokes he couldn't hear. The air smelled like cheap beer and expensive perfume.

Yolanda grabbed his arm. "Stay close. I don't trust these people."

"Neither do I."

They pushed through the crowd together. Mateusz kept his head down, his shoulders loose, trying to look like he belonged even though every instinct was screaming at him to leave.

This wasn't his world.

These people—with their easy smiles and their perfect English and their casual cruelty—they weren't his people. They tolerated him because he was good at hockey, because Coach liked him, because he had enough money and enough talent to be worth something.

But toleration wasn't the same as acceptance.

And Mateusz was very good at telling the difference.

They found the kitchen first.

Yolanda poured them both drinks—vodka and something, she didn't say what—and they stood by the counter, watching.

The room was full of people Mateusz vaguely recognized. Kids from his classes, kids from other teams, kids who ran in Sloane's orbit. Everyone was talking, laughing, performing for each other in that way rich kids did.

"This is depressing," Yolanda said.

"Tak." [Yeah.]

"Want to leave?"

Mateusz considered it. He really did.

But then he saw him.

Declan was across the room, leaning against the doorframe that led to the living room. He was wearing a dark sweater that made his shoulders look broader, and his hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it.

He looked—

Kurwa. [Fuck.]

He looked good.

Declan was talking to someone—Micky, probably, based on the wild hand gestures—and he was smiling. That easy, golden-boy smile that made everyone around him feel special.

Mateusz hated that smile.

Hated how effortless it was. Hated how Declan could just exist in a room like this, comfortable and liked and safe, while Mateusz felt like an intruder in his own skin.

As if he felt Mateusz looking, Declan's eyes flicked up.

They caught.

For a second—just a second—Declan's smile faltered.

Then someone called his name, and he looked away, and the moment was gone.

Mateusz drained his drink in one go.

"Whoa." Yolanda raised an eyebrow. "Slow down, tiger."

"I need another one."

"You need to pace yourself—"

But Mateusz was already reaching for the bottle.

An hour later, Mateusz had found a corner and claimed it.

He was nursing his third drink—or fourth, he'd lost count—and watching the party happen around him. Yolanda had gotten pulled into a conversation with some girl from her art class, and Mateusz had told her to go, he was fine, he'd find her later.

He wasn't fine.

But he was good at pretending.

From his corner, he could see the whole living room. The clusters of people, the couples pressed together on the couch, the group playing some drinking game by the fireplace.

And Declan.

Always Declan.

He was holding court near the center of the room, surrounded by teammates and hangers-on. Sloane was at his elbow—of course she was—her hand resting on his arm like she owned him. She was laughing at something he'd said, throwing her head back, her blonde hair catching the light.

Mateusz felt something ugly twist in his stomach.

It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't.

It was just—

He didn't know what it was.

Declan said something else, and the whole group laughed. Even from across the room, Mateusz could see how easy it was for him. How natural. He didn't have to think about every word before it came out. Didn't have to worry about his accent betraying him. Didn't have to translate in his head and hope he got it right.

He just talked.

And everyone listened.

Nienawidzę tego. [I hate this.]

Mateusz took another drink.

"Well, well."

Mateusz looked up.

Sloane Archer was standing in front of him, arms crossed, smiling like a cat with a mouse.

"Kowalczyk, right?" she said. "I didn't know you were coming."

Mateusz's grip tightened on his cup. "Yolanda invited me."

"Yolanda." Sloane's nose wrinkled slightly. "Of course she did."

Mateusz said nothing.

Sloane tilted her head, looking him over like she was appraising something she might buy. "You're on the hockey team, aren't you? With Declan?"

"Yes."

"Hm." She smiled again, and it didn't reach her eyes. "You know, I've heard about you. You're the one with the accent."

Mateusz's whole body went tight.

"It's cute," Sloane continued, oblivious—or maybe not oblivious at all. "Very... European. Do you speak French too, or just Polish?"

"Just Polish."

"Shame. Declan's French is amazing." She leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. "He spent a summer in Quebec when he was fourteen. His accent is basically perfect."

Mateusz didn't answer.

He didn't trust himself to.

Sloane seemed to sense she'd hit a nerve, because her smile widened. "Anyway. Enjoy the party. Try not to break anything."

Then she turned and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Mateusz stood there, heart pounding, and tried to breathe.

Spokojnie. [Easy.] Ona nie jest warta twojego gniewu. [She's not worth your anger.]

But god, he was angry.

He found the balcony ten minutes later.

It was off the second floor, accessed through a door at the end of an empty hallway. The music was quieter up here, muffled by walls and distance, and the air was cold enough to bite.

Mateusz leaned against the railing and pulled out his cigarettes.

His hands were shaking slightly. From the cold, he told himself. Just the cold.

He lit up and inhaled, letting the nicotine settle into his bloodstream. Below, the party continued—people laughing, shouting, living their easy lives.

Mateusz closed his eyes.

He shouldn't have come. He'd known it from the start. This wasn't his world, and no amount of Yolanda's optimism was going to change that.

He was always going to be the one with the accent. The one who didn't quite fit. The one people looked at and saw different.

"Może powinienem po prostu wrócić do Polski," he muttered to himself. ["Maybe I should just go back to Poland."]

He didn't mean it. Not really. His life was here now—his team, his friends, his future.

But sometimes, late at night or standing alone on a stranger's balcony, he let himself imagine it. A world where he didn't have to fight so hard just to be understood.

The door opened behind him.

Mateusz turned.

Declan was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hall. He looked—uncertain. Like he wasn't sure if he should be here.

"Hey," he said.

Mateusz took a drag of his cigarette. "Hey."

Silence.

Declan stepped out onto the balcony, letting the door swing shut behind him. The noise from the party faded to almost nothing.

"Didn't know you smoked," Declan said.

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

It came out sharper than Mateusz meant. But he didn't take it back.

Declan was quiet for a moment. Then he moved to the railing, standing a few feet away, looking out at the dark yard below.

"I saw you talking to Sloane," he said.

Mateusz's jaw tightened. "So?"

"So—" Declan stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "She can be... a lot."

"She called my accent cute."

Declan winced.

"She also told me your French is amazing." Mateusz turned to look at him. "That you spent a summer in Quebec. That your accent is perfect."

"Mateusz—"

"It must be nice." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "To have everyone remind you how good you are at everything. How easy it all is for you."

Declan's expression flickered. "It's not—"

"It's not what? Not easy?" Mateusz laughed, short and harsh. "You have no idea what it's like. To stand in a room full of people and know that every time you open your mouth, they're going to judge you. To have teachers correct you in front of everyone. To have people mock you and—"

He stopped.

His chest was heaving.

He'd said too much.

Declan was staring at him, and there was something in his expression—something raw, something almost like pain.

"I'm sorry," Declan said quietly.

"For what?"

"For—" He gestured vaguely. "All of it. French class. Duclair. Not saying anything when—"

"When Micky made fun of me?"

Declan flinched.

So he had heard. Mateusz had wondered.

"Yes," Declan said. "When Micky—yeah."

Silence.

The cold was seeping through Mateusz's hoodie now, making him shiver. He took another drag of his cigarette, just to have something to do with his hands.

"I wanted to say something," Declan said. "I did. But I—"

"But you didn't."

"No."

"Because it was easier not to."

Declan's jaw tightened. "Yes."

Mateusz looked at him. Really looked.

Declan Dawson, golden boy, perfect in every way. Standing on this balcony in the cold, looking like someone had carved him open.

Ciekawe. [Interesting.]

"At the game," Mateusz said slowly. "Against Northgate. You shoved Cross."

Declan blinked. "Yeah."

"Why?"

The question hung in the air between them.