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sydnikov · 5 days ago

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Donut || M. Knies

Author: Sydney / @sydnikov

Pairing: Matthew Knies / fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.8k

Summary: Figure skating is no longer a sport you compete in, the decision to quit having been made years and years ago, but the magic you feel everytime you step on the ice will never fade. It’s why you coach in Toronto, but you’ve never coached at the Toronto Maple Leafs’ practice arena before—Matthew Knies just so happens to see you on your very first day, and is immediately obsessed. His charm and wittiness win you over easily, even though you’re apprehensive at the start.

Warnings: Cursing, kissing, kinda bad proofreading, and a disgusting amount of fluff

A/N: The hockey player x figure skater trope nobody asked for except it’s written by someone who *actually* figure skates 🤭 This is so silly and way too cute omg but it’s for @lifeofpriya for @wyattjohnston's winter fic exchange!! I hope you and everyone else enjoys!! <3

Cold. So cold.

It’s the first feeling your body registers as the shrill sound of your alarm blares through the quietness of your small apartment on a dark, dreary December day in Toronto.

You quickly pick up your phone from the nightstand it was charging on, eyes shrivelling shut at the brightness before you turn off the alarm. Once it’s off, you take a moment to contemplate why you make yourself do this after so many years but never bring yourself to quit.

Figure skating. Your lifeline and also your death sentence—at least you’re convinced it will be, eventually.

It’s the only thing that makes your five-thirty in the morning wake-up worth it, even as you remove yourself from the warmth of your bed.

You’re convinced you can see your breath once you turn on the light in your bathroom, holding back a shiver as you tie your hair back to brush your teeth and wash your face. It’s better to just start getting ready immediately, a routine you picked up way back in your early skating days, lest you fall back asleep.

Growing into your teens, you found it harder and harder to put yourself through the gruelling early hours that competitive figure skating requires, and there were only so many laps of power pulls you could take in punishment for being late before you had to come up with a solution to keep to your schedule.

Dragging yourself out of bed the moment you become conscious is, unfortunately, the only solution that worked, and still is, unfortunately, what you do now even though your own competition days are over.

You don’t skate for you, really, not anymore; you skate for your students, all five of them that you coach at different times throughout the week. Anna, the sixteen year-old girl who you have at eight o’clock sharp this day, is your only source of motivation as you finish your makeup and hair for the lesson.

Normally you don’t bother with a super kept-up appearance for your coaching lessons, but this day in particular has you coaching at a brand new rink, and you figure that first impressions to whoever you may or may not meet will matter.

The rink you usually coach at - an older place that’s definitely seen finer days and on the outskirts of Toronto but close to you - is finally being put out of its misery, as you like to say.

(It’s just getting a well-deserved renovation.)

An hour later, you’re all bundled up and ready to face the frigid Toronto air that awaits you. You have on three top layers total: a normal long-sleeved shirt, a thick jacket, and then your winter coat on top. You then have leggings to skate in with sweats over top to brave the elements, and those along with your coat come off once you get to the rink.

As you step out into the hallway which immediately opens to the outdoors, you quickly lock up before shoving your gloved hands in your pockets and swiftly make your way to the train that’s supposed to get you to your new rink.

Actually getting on and boarding is the easiest part; it’s so early in the morning that few occupants means little waiting time, one of the only saving graces of waking up at such an ungodly hour.

Once you’re settled, you plug in your earbuds and wait out the forty-five minute ride to your new rink.

“Morning,” The employee attending the front desk greets you after you walk into the rink, a little less than an hour later. “You have a pass?”

Your attempt at a smile is feeble, it still too early for you to bother putting on a social facade. “I’m a coach, I have a lesson here in twenty minutes.” You hold up the pass you printed out days in advance after registering on their website, transferring all the required credentials from your old rink.

The woman, probably about ten years older than you and looking just as exhausted as you feel, scans the barcode on your pass and waves you on. “Women’s locker rooms are down the hall on the right, there’s a door to the training rink in there too.”

“Thank you,” You say before following her directions, briefly admiring all of the Maple Leafs memorabilia covering the walls and ceiling.

Growing up, you never got into hockey—figure skating was your whole life and completely revolved around it, so any hobbies you picked up were separate from the ice entirely.

You did it for your sanity, but also because like most skaters, you grew to be annoyed by hockey players’ obnoxious presence. Not only were they cocky, but they tore up the ice with their complicated drills that zamboni refreshings never quite covered.

Stepping into the women’s locker room, you stopped in awe at how updated and nice it was. Fresh paint, large toilet stalls and showers, even the floors didn’t have you cringing at the thought of walking on them without your guards on.

Now, there’s still very much a hockey theme present; you suppose you weren’t going to escape that here with it being their practice rink, and all. You weren’t exactly happy to learn that tidbit of information, but at least you have early lessons, so the crowds that likely always show up wouldn’t be here at seven-thirty in the morning.

It’s five minutes later that your student for this session, Anna, saunters in, skates already adorned in a cute workout set that as a teen you would have loved, but now in your twenties find it wouldn’t keep you warm enough.

She looks as if she could take on the world, bright-eyed and full of youthful energy you admire her for having so early in the day.

Geez. You sound like you’re fifty.

“Good morning, Anna,” You greet her, sending her a smile as you quickly go through some stretches to get your legs warmed up. “Ready to get choreographing? I have about half of your long done so far.”

A long program, or a free skate, is a four minute routine that all types of skaters have for competitions. It requires a balance of all the technical elements like jumps and spins but also artistry, or how well one performs to the music.

It’s your least favorite type of program because it takes the most amount of time to perfect and is also hell to perform; if you think four minutes doesn’t sound that bad, imagine having to fly across the ice at top speeds all while maintaining elegance, power, and accuracy in every movement you do—all on blades.

“I’m so excited,” Anna replies, clapping her hands together. “I’ve been listening to my music nonstop since, like, you first suggested it to me.”

“That was over a month ago before we even settled on it!” You laugh, finally joining her in putting your skates on.

While you don’t skate professionally anymore, you still have a pair of skates you use when you actually feel like skating for fun—the skates you can safely jump and spin on. The skates you wear for coaching, an extremely worn-down pair that looks off-white now with the leather peeling off on the sides, have most definitely seen better days.

But they’re extremely comfy and perfect for recreational skating, which is all you do while coaching and is why you keep them.

“Alright,” You finally say, standing up and rubbing your hands over your arms which are slightly cold in your jacket now that your coat has come off. “Let’s go. You’ve skated here before, right?”

“Mhm!” She answers, leading the way out of the locker room and into the rink, the fresh ice glistening in the early sunlight coming from the windows up high. “I haven’t skated in this rink though. There’s like four in here and they’re open on different days.”

“You’ll have to show me the ropes one day,” You muse, following your student’s lead as she steps onto the bench, removing her guards before stepping onto the ice.

You don’t really have any intention of coming here unless you have to coach, though.

“Okay, then!” You announce, smoothly stepping onto the ice and gliding towards Anna who is getting ready to warm up. “I want you to warm up your edges, as well as your single jumps, got it?”

Anna salutes, not mockingly but rather endearingly. “Yes ma’am!” As she immediately takes off, you do your own on-ice warm up, though much less intense than hers.

While you won’t be skating her program fully - as in, doing the jumps and spins it requires - you do have to show her the footwork, which requires your body to be properly warm for all the edge work and artistry.

The ice lost its magic for you long ago, when skating became more about winning than having fun. Nonetheless, you still find satisfaction in the deep ripping sound as your blades sink into the ice, a sign of strong edges and good technique drilled into you at a young age.

As you go through your own warm up, you swing your arms up and around your chest loosely, trying to get your whole body as pliant as possible. While you do so your eyes wander, peering through the windows curiously.

The rink still isn’t full yet; you see only a mom and two little girls, an older man with his wife, and a group of maybe four men who had just walked in.

“I’m ready!” Anna suddenly announces, gaining back your attention as she skids to a quick stop in front of you. “Want me to plug in the music?”

“Nah, there’s no need,” You reply. “I can just play it on my phone. It’ll get too chaotic with it playing over the speakers.”

She nods in return, and you gesture with an arm to follow you to the center of the ice. “Alright, I have you starting here in the middle, but it doesn’t need to be exact because I’m having you do toepick steps in a spiral pattern…”

Meanwhile, Matthew Knies is cold. He should be used to it by now, but he was born and raised in Arizona where temperatures rarely drop below fifty degrees Fahrenheit during the day in winter. In Toronto, however, where a good day is above ten degrees?

He’ll just say he’s gotten used to his teammates teasing him when he shows up to practice bundled up in five layers of coats. His Slovakian ancestors would be ashamed.

This day is no different; stepping into the familiar practice arena for his team, the Toronto Maple Leafs, alongside some of his closer friends on said-team: Joe, Auston, and their captain, John. Matthew holds his arms close to his body, ignoring the snickers from Joe.

“Hey, it’s only negative six today! That’s five degrees higher than yesterday!”

Matthew looks at his friend with wide eyes. It only takes him a moment to realize he’s referring to the temperature in Celcius, not Fahrenheit.

“I still don’t know what that means in Fahrenheit,”

Joe laughs again, bumping their shoulders together as John and Auston check in at the front desk for them. “It’s really not that different once you learn, you know,”

“Another day, Joe, another day,” Matthew laments, laughing himself as Joe rolls his eyes. He holds back his chirp when John whistles for the two to follow, already several steps ahead of them.

Conversation forgotten, the four make their way to the assigned practice rink they’ll be using for the day. They’re one of the first groups to arrive, as the place is practically deserted at seven-thirty in the morning.

Matthew pulls his phone out of his pocket for a moment to scroll through his notifications, blindly following his teammates. He’s steadily ignoring them until Joe suddenly groans, the goalie swearing under his breath.

“Man, there’s gonna be holes all over the ice now—”

“The fuck are you talking about?” He laughs, only looking up to follow his friend’s gaze to where only two girls take up the ice. He immediately spots the figure skating blades and fully plans on teasing Joe about being afraid of some toe picks until one of the girls suddenly turns, and he immediately has the breath knocked out of his lungs.

Her face is flushed, likely from a mixture of the cold and skating, and her hair has tiny flyaways that she keeps trying to brush away. She’s also clearly a coach based on her coat that has ‘COACH’ in big, bold letters across the back. She’s doing some complicated, confusing footwork all up on the toe pick until stepping out, all long legs and loose arms.

Matthew’s throat dries up. She looks like an angel.

“Now, the fuck are you talking about—”

“That’s my wife.”

“What?”

“Oh my god, Joe, that’s my wife.”

“Hey Cap, did you know that Matty was married because I sure as hell didn’t?”

“No, shit, I mean,” He can’t find the right words to speak, too enraptured with the sight of the mystery woman (his future wife) gliding across the ice. “Tell the boys I’ll be right there? Thanks!”

He’s vaguely aware of Joe shouting something as he briskly walks away, but he only has eyes for you, the mysterious angel on ice.

Anna is currently running through the first twenty seconds of her program that you’ve taught so far, you standing at the boards right by the sound booth as if you were actually playing her music. She’s on the last part of the sequence, a spiral - a move where a skater raises one leg high in the air, upper body as parallel to the ice as possible - and her posture is stiff, but she seems to know that and corrects it herself before you have to.

Your back is to the glass, leaning against it casually. The door to the rink also happens to be right next to you, but you don’t notice until movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention. You’re used to parents lurking, especially Anna’s, but when you allow yourself to look you quickly realize it’s definitely not a parent.

A man, tall and broad-shouldered, adorned in what looks like three or more coats, stares at you expectantly. There’s a half-smile on his face that immediately puts you on edge because no one should be that happy at eight o’clock in the morning.

Anna just so happens to finish and rushes to the bench for a water break, which is the only reason you allow your focus from her to divert to him. “Can I help you?” You frown, very aware you come across as standoffish.

He doesn’t seem deterred. “Sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt,” His voice is warm and slightly sheepish, and his hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets like he’s still not entirely sure why he’s here.

“I’m in the middle of coaching right now,” You state slowly, as Anna begins to make her way back to you. You go to say something else, but she taps you on the shoulder before you get the chance to. “I’m going to the restroom real quick,” She whispers, looking all too happy to leave you alone with him before she skates away without giving you a chance to respond, again.

Anna tends to do that a lot. Knowing her, she’s already planning your wedding.

Resisting the urge to get off the ice yourself, you turn back to the mystery man whose attention is still undeniably on you. “Do you need something, or…?”

“Not really, just… watching,” He says with a shrug. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the tips of his shoes barely scraping against the edge of the ice. “You’re good, by the way. Both of you. That—uh, what’s it called? The thing with the leg up? Looks impossible.”

You blink. “A spiral.”

“Right. Spiral. Cool.” He nods like he’s just learned some very important information, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch against your better judgment.

“Do you… play here?” You ask, gesturing vaguely to the rink. A silly question on your end because you’re pretty sure you already know the answer.

“Hockey,” He says quickly, almost like it’s an apology. “I’m Matthew. I play for the Leafs,” He points a thumb over his shoulder, where a few of who you assume to be his teammates are slowly trickling out of a locker room. Most look tired, some half-watching, half-laughing about something.

Of course he’s a hockey player. You almost forgot you were at an NHL team’s official practice arena.

“Right,” You say curtly, briefly looking for Anna who still has not returned. “Well, my student still hasn’t come back, but we’re almost done, anyways. You’ve got the ice in ten, I think.”

“I wasn’t rushing you or anything,” Matthew says quickly, taking a step closer. “Not that I really can. My coaches tell us when to get on and off. I was just… watching. Figure skating’s kind of cool. A lot like hockey, I mean, but I still don’t know anything about it.”

“I can tell,” You mutter under your breath.

He laughs, and it catches you off guard—low, easy, and a little self-deprecating. “Fair enough. I’ll let you get back to it. Just wanted to say hi, I guess. I haven’t seen you here before.”

It’s extending an olive branch on his part, leaving it up to you to introduce yourself or not. You debate skating away again, but he’s still smiling, eyes hopeful, and you don’t have it in your heart to do anything cruel.

“It’s my first lesson here,” You admit. “I’ll be coming here a lot more, now.” You finally give your name, offering your gloved hand for him to shake with your own sheepish smile. His hand dwarfs yours easily, and despite the fact he’s also wearing gloves you can still feel the heat from his skin seeping into yours.

Matthew looks as if he’s won the lottery. “I’ll see you, yeah?” You nod, unsure what to make of him as he makes his way back to his teammates. You gather your phone and coat from the bench, sparing one last glance his way again who is now standing with his teammates, but he’s not laughing along with them. He’s watching you.

You force yourself to ignore it, swiftly turning back around and stepping off the ice. But there’s something about the way his gaze lingers, like this wasn’t just a one-off conversation to him. Like maybe he’ll be back for more.

You don’t run into Matthew again for a week, and you definitely weren’t looking for a glimpse of him each time you had a lesson. You definitely didn’t take to Google in-between spare moments, searching him up on the Toronto Maple Leafs’ roster.

And you definitely, one-hundred percent did not come to the rink on a random Tuesday morning when you didn’t even have a lesson to skate on your own, just for the opportunity to run into him again.

Really, you don’t even know why. You’ve messed around with hockey players when you were younger, sure, because it was definitely convenient, but you never saw it as serious. You’re not sure why subconsciously, you think this one is different.

The cold air bites at your cheeks as you step onto the ice, smooth and untouched, a blank canvas. You take a deep breath, your warm exhale visible in the chill, and launch into your warm-up. While not nearly as intense as it used to be, you still like to keep up most of your skills—particularly, your spins.

Unlike a lot of skaters, you always hated jumps. You always loved spinning more, any and all types, and used those in your programs while jumps were always included at the bare minimum. You’ve just always hated chucking yourself into the air, never quite trusting your body to land on a singular toepick without fault. It’s one of the reasons you quit competitive skating after so many years.

The rink is nearly empty, though—just you and two others. You only plan on skating for an hour or two, even though freestyle sessions can last much longer.

You’re midway through alternating backwards power pulls - on one foot, skating left to right in half-swizzle shapes - when you notice him.

He’s sitting on top of the bench on the far side of the rink, wearing a backward cap and a hoodie that’s definitely not designed for the cold. His skates dangle off the edge of the bench as if he’s not quite committed to stepping onto the ice yet. His hair sticks out in every direction, the messy, effortless kind that probably takes zero effort but makes him look infuriatingly good.

It’s Matthew, you recognize without a doubt. Your heart jumps out of your chest, and you try to play it cool like he hasn’t probably already noticed he’s been spotted. You try to ignore him, moving onto your spins, but there’s a prickle of awareness every time you pass his side of the rink. He’s not just watching—he’s studying.

Randomly, you decide to mess with him. There’s a spin you love where you have to contort your body in an oddly flexible way, and you’ve noticed more than once how people will always stop in their tracks to watch. It forms the shape of a donut, hence the name ‘donut spin.’

You skate to the middle, the designated area for spins, decision quickly made. You have to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face at the thought of what look would be on his. Attracted, or impressed? Maybe both?

Taking a deep breath, you tighten your arms, engage your core, and take a strong step forward. Dipping slightly, you bend your knees just enough to gather momentum, shifting your weight to your left leg, having your right leg extend behind you in a straight line. Your arms sweep in, crossing over your chest, as you begin to rotate. Your vision blurs at the edges, moving too fast to make out even a shape. You feel the pull of centrifugal force, letting the spin tighten and quicken as with practiced motion, you reach down toward your left ankle, your fingers brushing the fabric of your leggings as your body folds. Your head dips low, and your extended leg arcs upward behind you, a perfect curve in the air. The donut shape then forms easily, your body compressed into a spinning circle. Your thighs burn but you welcome it, knowing it means you’ve locked in the position. Your blade scratches against the ice as you count your rotations, getting about five in before your body really starts to protest.

Quickly beginning to tire, you let the spin slow as you begin to rise. Uncurling like a ribbon unwinding, you let your right leg drop and open your arms, checking out of the spin. Your vision sharpens again, your surroundings coming back into view, and the first thing you do is shoot a quick glance towards where you last saw Matthew.

Just as you expected, his eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. This time you let the smile come to your face, close-lipped but no less genuine, and watch as his cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink.

Knowing without a doubt that he’ll be the one coming over to you, you skate to a stop near the boards to grab your water bottle. You hear more so than see how he pushes himself up and strides over, his skates clinking against the ice.

“You’re insane,” Matthew says by way of greeting, his words almost breathless.

You grin, knowing exactly what he means. “Excuse me?”

“That spin you just did.” He gestures vaguely towards center ice. “You just completely folded in half. What is that?”

One of your brows lifts, feigning disinterest, though you think he knows you’re amused. “A donut spin. It’s my favorite,”

He leans against the boards, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A donut spin, huh? So, out of all the moves—jumps, spins, whatever—that’s your go-to?”

You nod, trying to hold back a grin. “Yup. I was never much of a jumper.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard that before,” He says with a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I half-expected something dramatic, like a quad jump, or something.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Quad jumps are dramatic—and borderline impossible. I prefer spins that don’t require me to risk my life.”

“Fair enough,” Matthew replies, tilting his head as though he’s reevaluating you. “Obviously, I don’t jump, unless I’m checking somebody. Then I don’t mind coming off my feet a bit.”

You make a show out of looking him up and down, laughing internally as he seems to stand up straighter at your appraising gaze. “Makes sense. You look like you’d be violent out there.”

He takes a step closer, causing you to have to tilt your head back just slightly. He is, unfortunately, much taller than you. “Really?” He asks, voice low. “What gives it away?”

“Um,” You lose your words for a moment, tongue-tied at his sudden proximity. “Everything, honestly. I’ve seen you skate—like you’ve got a grudge against every guy who's not on your team.”

It’s Matthew’s turn to be caught off guard, though it quickly turns to cockiness that has you rolling your eyes. “You’ve seen me skate? How? When?”

“I may or may have not looked you up online.”

“Oh. So not in person?”

“Nope. I don’t watch hockey.”

“You should change that, actually watch one of our games,” He suggests, grinning. You’re starting to suspect he’s someone who always has a smile on his face. “I’ll score a goal for you.”

This time you don’t bother holding back your laugh. “That’s a whole lot of assurance for a sport that’s mostly luck.”

If possible, his grin widens at your doubt. “I’ll make you a deal,” He says, taking another step closer with a casual confidence that’s starting to feel dangerous. “Watch one of our games, and I’ll score a goal just for you. I’ll even call it a donut goal. Maybe the name will pick up.”

You shake your head, astounded by his personality that miraculously is starting to win you over. “A donut goal?”

“Yeah,” He replies, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing ever. “Because of your spin. It’ll be my inspiration. What do you say?”

There’s a playful glint in his eyes, and you hate how much you’re already considering it. “That sounds ridiculous,” You giggle.

“Just one game! You watch, I score, and if you hate it, you’ll never have to watch hockey again.”

It’s annoyingly tempting, the way he pitches it. And maybe part of you is curious—curious enough to nod before you can talk yourself out of it. “I guess… Just don’t, like, hurt yourself doing something stupid.”

Matthew’s grin turns triumphant, like he’s just won a championship. “Deal. I’ll let you know which game to tune into.” He goes to skate away, but then quickly turns back around before you even get the chance to turn away yourself.

“Uh… Can I get your number?” He blurts. “For the game.”

“Of course,” You smirk, completely aware of his intentions, surprisingly not as frightened as you thought. “For the game.”

You stay on the ice for another hour, though you don’t work on any more spins, and especially not jumps. Instead, you just skate in laps, occasionally switching to a random edge exercise, but mostly gliding. Matthew left the moment he got your number, sending you a stupid donut emoji as his very first message to you.

What you didn’t see is Matthew immediately calling Joe the moment he steps back into the men’s locker room. “Dude, I got her number,”

A scoff can be heard from the other end. “Your skater wife?”

“Yup. I even got her to agree to watch one of our games. I kinda have to put one in the back of the net though?

There’s the sound of something shattering, followed by a curse and then his friend shouting. “You—her—fuck—what?”

He laughs at his friend’s disbelief. “And you thought I couldn’t do it!”

“It was a spiral, actually.” Matthew replies, proud even he remembered the name. He wants to remember every word that comes out of your mouth, made it a goal to do so. He had to wait a week to see you again, constantly searching every corner of the rink whenever he had a moment of alone time, though it’s not like his teammates didn’t know what he was doing.

“Your first conversation with her was asking about a swirly-thingy.” Joe retorts. “Not exactly winning over girls with that one, y’know?”

Joe took the liberty of informing Auston and John, of course, who therefore told the others. He’s still not embarrassed, though.

Not about meeting you.

It does turn out that Matthew is not very good at texting, however. Understandable, because you aren’t either, but his schedule makes it practically impossible. Not that he doesn’t try, but it’s gotten to a point where you’re eagerly awaiting his next message that takes hours to come in, which is strange because it’s not like you’ve even gone on a date with him.

He gets sick of the distance, literally and figuratively, quickly. He first asks to call you at night, when you’re curled up in your bed and he having just gotten back to his apartment from an away game in Ottawa. You reluctantly say yes, not because you don’t want to but because you don’t exactly have a lot to talk to him about when it’s one o’clock in the morning.

Your ringtone is shrill, startling you despite knowing it was coming. You answer immediately, biting your lip when you can hear his breathing audible through the phone.

“Um, Matthew?” You start when he doesn’t say anything. “Are you there?”

“Oh shit, yeah, sorry,” He apologizes, and you can picture the hand running through his hair as he talks. “Would you believe me if I said I was surprised you even picked up?”

You laugh. “No. I don’t answer my phone this late at night for just anyone, you know.”

“Technically it’s early in the morning. Get it? Because it’s—nevermind I’m shutting up now. You picked up just for me?”

“Well, it definitely wasn’t for your jokes,”

“My mom thinks my jokes are hilarious,”

“I think she’s required to say that.”

You and Matthew call pretty often after that, once the ice is broken—pun not intended. Surprisingly, even though you both go to the same rink multiple times a week, neither of you run into each other that often, so calling at night when you’re both free is the solution to that problem. Maybe it’s because your schedules are so different, but you try to fix the new Matthew-shaped hole in your life by following your first ever hockey team on Twitter.

Or X. Or whatever.

You definitely don’t tell him that - his ego is already big enough - but the amount of pictures posted of him keeps you entertained, and very much endears you to the personality you don’t always see, especially around his teammates.

While Matthew isn’t the biggest talker on his team by any means, even he’s surprised by the endless amount of energy he seems to now have. The excitement gets him through the day, his favorite part now being able to go home at night and talk to you.

And finally, after weeks of scheming and talking and definitely falling in love on his end, he has a game in Toronto against a team he’s relatively sure he could probably net one. He texts you the details, and gives you a link to a pirated website you can watch the game on for free.

Hopefully the league doesn’t find out about that one.

He’s so excited, though, and you’re finding it impossible to not match his energy. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t secretly kicking your feet at the thought of him deliberately attempting to score a goal just for you, too. The days before are filled with teasing texts from Matthew, all centered around some mysterious plan involving this so-called ‘donut goal’. Every time you ask him to explain, he evades the question.

“So can you tell me exactly how you’re planning on doing this?” You ask the night before.

“Nope,” He replies smugly. “You’ll just have to watch and find out.”

You snort, leaning back on your couch. “What if you don’t even score?”

“Wow,” He says, feigning offense. “Zero faith in me. That’s harsh, babe.”

“I’m just saying,” You tease, brushing over the ‘babe’ he let slip out. “It’s hockey. You’ve got, like, five guys constantly trying to stop you. Plus the goalie. Odds aren’t exactly in your favor.”

“You’re gonna feel so dumb when I pull it off,” He replies, totally grinning just by the sound of his voice. “Mark my words.”

Despite your best efforts to play it cool, you’re more excited for this game than you’ve ever been for a hockey game in your life, considering you’ve never even watched one before. Your small circle of friends that grew up skating with you don’t even know about your late-night plan; you want to keep Matthew to yourself, almost, keep this new budding relationship small and private, and you think he feels the same.

Before you know it, you’re tuning into the game on a sketchy looking website that Matthew refused to give any extra details on. It works, though, even if it lags every so often, and even shows the commentators on the side as they watch the game, too.

It starts before you know it—tiny players zipping around after an even tinier puck, and trying to locate Matthew on each of his shifts proves to be even more challenging. Every time you manage to spot his number, though, he’s moving with a grace you weren’t expecting, all power and precision as he skates circles around the other team. That isn’t to say he’s indestructible, however, because Matthew takes a shit ton of hits. Every hit leaves you wincing for him, but he gives plenty back in retribution.

He’s captivating to watch, the way he commands attention without even trying. And when he gets the puck, everything seems to shift.

He’s fast—so fast you lose sight of him multiple times as he weaves through defenders. He gets a chance, shoots it, but it goes wide before being collected by the other team, whom you don’t even know the name of. The game goes on like this for the rest of the first and second period, until the third is underway and you still haven’t moved from your spot on the couch, burrowed in a fuzzy blanket, hot chocolate forgotten.

The game is nearly over when it finally happens. A breakaway from the neutral zone, according to the commentators you can barely hear over the blood rushing through your ears, and Matthew again has the puck and breaks away from the defenders, skating with terrifying speed.

The crowd roars as he approaches the goal, and your heart jumps in your chest when you realize this is it. Your eyes are glued to the screen as he circles behind the net in one smooth motion, pulling off a wraparound goal so effortlessly that you don’t even process what’s happened until the puck is in the back of the net.

The volume coming from your laptop fizzles in and out, the arena likely so loud the speakers can barely handle it. You can hear bits and pieces of said-commentators celebrating in shouts, but all you can focus on is Matthew.

Because he’s spinning his hand in a circle—mimicking the shape of a stupid fucking donut—before pointing upwards.

“Oh my god,” You hiss, dropping your face into your hands. “Did he actually just do that?”

You’re mortified, but also—how could you not smile? He skates back to his team on the bench, grinning like he just pulled off the biggest inside joke of his life.

Even though the commentators can’t hear you, their response almost makes you feel they can. “Knies wraps it around, a beaut, and seems to make some circle motion with his hand. A new celly for the forward?”

You’re alone in your apartment, no roommates to worry about hearing you squeal, and the grin on your face impossible to hide. Stunned, mildly embarrassed even if no one else knows that his celebration was for you, and the most surprising thing about it all?

You definitely, without a doubt like Matthew Knies.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re pulling up your text thread with him, your last messages with the player wishing him luck for the game and him saying thanks.

You’re insane, your new text starts with, echoing his words to you after what feels like ages ago. Congrats on the goal though! I’m impressed :) get home safe.

The game is over before you know it, your screen switching from zoomed-in interviews of the players to the commentators instead, going over the stats and noteworthy plays that quickly lose your interest. You keep it on as background noise, though, as you wash and put away your mug used for hot chocolate, wiping down what little mess was left on your counter.

You’re about to close your laptop for the night, too, when the words ‘Knies’ and ‘interview’ appear in the same sentence, immediately capturing your attention.

“It appears that Knies had himself ‘some inspiration’ for tonight’s goal… Check it out here,”

They show his face next, flushed red, drops of sweat trickling down his forehead. He’s in a skin-tight compression shirt that highlights his arms unfairly well, and the grin on his face is unmistakable.

A reporter is seen shoving a microphone into his face, asking about his goal celebration. He leans into it even more, if possible, staring straight into the camera. “I had some inspiration for my celly, yeah,”

“Inspiration from what?” The reporter presses.

“Donuts, actually,” He answers nonchalantly.

“Was that what the circular motion you made was for?”

Matthew chuckles sheepishly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s about to respond when someone who you assume works for the team taps on his shoulder, cutting the interview short.

“Donuts,” One of the commentators repeats incredulously once the camera is back on them. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

“Maybe wraparound goals should be called ‘donut goals’, whaddya think?”

You tune out their chatter, picking up your phone to open Twitter. The only accounts you follow are all Leafs’ related, so you don’t know why it comes as a shock to you when you see multiple posts joking about renaming wraparound goals to donut goals, all because Matthew made a little quip about it.

Unbeknownst to all of them that you were his inspiration to begin with—all to prove a point.

Hockey players, you scoff to yourself. Biggest egos you’ll ever find.

It’s not for another two hours later until he finally texts you back. Not that you were mad, or anything, totally understanding that game nights are always busy, but the message from him catches you off guard.

hi, it starts with. im done with all the press and stuff, team meeting’s done too. can i come see you???

Your eyes are heavy, barely able to form a coherent thought, but you don’t hesitate before responding.

Yeah, I’d like that

Another hour goes by, though, and you’re starting to think he forgot or got bribed into going somewhere to celebrate, and you’re about to call it a night and crawl into bed when there’s a sudden knock at your door, startling you.

You’re positive it’s who you think it is as you rush to your door, but you check your peephole anyway. Standing there, shoulders hunched and beanie drawn so far down over his head that it’s practically covering his eyes, is Matthew.

The door almost hits the wall with how fast you open it. You stare at him, now wide-awake, as he smiles at the sight of you, looking you up and down.

“You’re here,” Are the first words you blurt. “You came,”

Matthew’s smile turns soft, taking a small step towards you. “Hi, donut,” He greets. “Sorry I’m late, some fans found me on the way out of the arena…”

Your lips tilt upwards into a smile, amused at his new choice in nickname. “That’s okay,” You say. “You can come in, by the way. Don’t want you freezing.”

He lets out a laugh at that, his breath condensating in the chill. You step to the side and he wastes no time following you in, closing the door politely behind him. Walking back to your couch, you fold up the fuzzy blanket still sprawled across and take a seat, hands bundled in the sleeves of your hoodie. He follows you, but doesn’t take a seat and instead stands awkwardly in front of you, his hands fidgeting slightly as if he’s working up to something.

“Matthew?” You ask, tilting your head at him. “What’s up?”

He bites his lip, looking anywhere but at you until a decision seems to be made, determination settling over his face. He takes a deep breath, crouching down in front of you and placing one of his hands on your knee. Your heart races, breath hitching when his other hand slowly approaches your face, brushing away an errant piece of hair stuck to the side of your cheek.

“I like you. Like, a lot,” Matthew finally blurts. “I know we’ve only known each other for like a month, but when you know, you know. You know? That sounded better in my head, actually. Anyways, I think you’re really cool, and funny, and crazy talented, and not to mention beautiful, and—”

“Matthew—”

“—I think I can make you really happy, if you want, because I really wanna get to know you more—”

“Hey, hey, Matthew, Matty, shut up for just a second, yeah?” You have to grab his face at this point, hands palms cupping his cheeks as you teasingly shake his head. It does the trick, though, and Matthew shuts up with a choked swallow, eyes wide and nervous.

“I didn’t take you for a rambler when I first met you,” You start, one of your thumbs gently brushing his cheek. “You’ve always seemed so confident,”

His face is flushed a brilliant shade of red, and he tries to duck his head despite still being in your hold. However, he’s not complaining. He’d happily let you touch him anywhere you want.

“Only you can bring it out of me, baby,” Matthew’s attempt at flirting is commendable, especially since his voice is all soft, gentle, and vulnerable in the moment. “I think about you all the time. I look forward to calling you every night. And even when I knew you were watching my game, all I could think about is that I wished you were there in person to see it.”

He chuckles then, his free hand coming up to grasp one of yours still holding his face, entangling your fingers together and squeezing before bringing it down to rest in between you. Your foreheads are practically touching, your hand not being held in his moving to cup the back of his neck.

“I’m doing a whole lot of talking here, donut,” He says. “What are you thinking?”

You take a deep breath, shuffling ever so slightly closer. “I’m thinking that I really like you too,” You admit. “You’ve managed to worm your way into my life in only a month and yet I can’t imagine my life without you in it now,”

Matthew is full-on grinning now; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this happy. “You’re not messing with me? You’re serious?”

“I’ve known for a while now, I think. Just—didn’t know how to say it.” You answer rather bashfully, now your turn for your face to flush red.

For a moment, the two of you are silent. He squeezes your hand every so often, thumb rubbing in gentle circles over the back of yours, and his eyes don’t leave you, not for a single second. You’re so close you can see the tiny wrinkles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips, his tongue as it comes out to lick them. Your heart races and you can’t come up with any words to cut the tension, but like always, Matthew seems to know just the right thing to say.

“I don’t think I can wait anymore,” He suddenly says, eyes pleading. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod rapidly, sighing out a quick, “Yes,” feeling like you’ll explode if you don’t get the chance to taste him. Expecting something desperate or fast, you’re surprised when he brings his free hand up towards your face, sliding around the back of your neck and tilting your head to the side. He angles you just how he likes, you happy to go along, as he leans in slowly, slowly, slowly…

The first brush of his lips sends a full-body shiver down your spine, a small whimper leaving your lips that Matthew eagerly swallows with a happy sigh of his own. He presses further, his lips pillow-soft and gentle, no desire at all to rush the moment between you.

It’s not fast or frantic. It’s slow, deliberate, and full of everything that’s been building between you two for weeks. You don’t want it to end at all, not after finally having him, but the need to breathe eventually wins over. Matthew follows your lead and rests his forehead against yours, his soft breaths mingling with yours.

It’s intimate, the way your eyes open to look at him, finding the same look mirrored in his own.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” He murmurs, not at all ashamed to admit it. You bury your head in his shoulder, hiding the bashfulness on your face as flustered giggles escape from your lips.

Matthew’s arms immediately come to encircle you, holding you so close to his chest you can almost feel his heartbeat. He moves you to sit on the couch, you happily sitting on his lap. “Aw, don’t hide, donut,” He teases, the grin on his face so obvious by the way he’s speaking.

And because, of course, you’re you, without lifting your head up you quickly pinch his arm, laughing at the squeal you get out of him. “They’re calling wraparound goals donut goals, now, did you see?”

Matthew replies with obvious pride. “Duh. Of course I did. It’s a fantastic rename, in my humble opinion,”

“No wonder your ego is so high if your fans are naming goals after you,”

“You love it though, especially after I just gave you the best kiss of your life—”

“Don’t push it, Matthew.”

A/N: I've never written for Matthew before so I hope his personality isn't too unrealistic, I feel like it gives cheesy hallmark rom-com in the best way possible 🫣 please don't forget to reblog & comment :)

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