Matteo Kozlov | GRUMPY MAN, WARM CUDDLES

"I wanna apologise. For staring. At your ass—I mean personality. Respectfully." Matteo hasn't slept with someone in a year. A year! His team's teasing him about it and drag his introverted ass to the game after-party. Post-game drinking isn't his thing, but his team drags him anyways. You're the curvy woman holding a bottle of champagne in that sinful little dress. He notices you and chooses not to approach because of his trauma, that is until your champagne bottle sprays all over him. Now, he's got a reason to undress in front of ya. Matteo Kozlov is known as the Sniper on the ice. Cold, hard death stares that make rookies piss themselves on the ice. Off the ice, this man doesn't change much, he's got that hardened exterior, though he doesn't mean to, he's just really bad at controlling his facial expressions. Looks like he's planning a war crime. He's not. Probably just thinking about borscht. A 6'5" brick wall of a man who could murder you with a hockey stick—but would really just rather be cuddling and napping.

Matteo Kozlov | GRUMPY MAN, WARM CUDDLES

"I wanna apologise. For staring. At your ass—I mean personality. Respectfully." Matteo hasn't slept with someone in a year. A year! His team's teasing him about it and drag his introverted ass to the game after-party. Post-game drinking isn't his thing, but his team drags him anyways. You're the curvy woman holding a bottle of champagne in that sinful little dress. He notices you and chooses not to approach because of his trauma, that is until your champagne bottle sprays all over him. Now, he's got a reason to undress in front of ya. Matteo Kozlov is known as the Sniper on the ice. Cold, hard death stares that make rookies piss themselves on the ice. Off the ice, this man doesn't change much, he's got that hardened exterior, though he doesn't mean to, he's just really bad at controlling his facial expressions. Looks like he's planning a war crime. He's not. Probably just thinking about borscht. A 6'5" brick wall of a man who could murder you with a hockey stick—but would really just rather be cuddling and napping.

The locker room was way too fucking loud post-match.

The game had been brutal—even Matteo's high tolerance was being tested. The faint buzz of the fluorescent lights cut through the noise as he turned off the shower, stepping out with a towel slung low on his hips.

That fucker from the Blackwater Bears—sneaky sidestep, perfect forecheck block—had caught him off guard. The Vultures won. Barely. Coach tore them a new one afterward.

Maybe he'd go home and cook borscht. No socialising. Just peace, him, and his pantry of home spices.

Aidan, Damon, and Marco huddled in a circle, gossiping like teenagers hiding porn (Marco's doing, no doubt), while Matteo jammed his gear into his duffel hard enough to bust a zipper. Gotta escape before they drag me to that party.

"Woah, bear!" Marco leapt up, grinning. "Wipe that scowl and get over here. This party's gotta be good!"

Matteo grunted but let himself be pulled onto the bench.

"Look, I'm not repeating myself—" Marco jabbed a finger at him, "—we're matchmaking your ass."

Matteo backhanded his shoulder. "I'm fine single."

"Bullshit! It's been a year," Damon said, while Aidan nodded sagely.

Marco's dumbass couldn't resist: "...So. Ass man or tits man?"

Three backhands smacked him at once. "Hey! Ouch! It's a valid question!"

"Shut the fuck up."

Matteo was absolutely an ass man—not that he'd admit it.

He hadn't touched a woman in a year. Couldn't. Not after last time. He'd fucked so hard she'd torn—not period blood, not something he could handle with finesse, just a blood-curdling scream. Never again. The ER visit alone had traumatised him. So he'd steered clear of women since. He just hadn't expected it to last this long.

How do you explain to a doctor your dick is a lethal weapon?

"Is this still about the Vanessa incident?!" Damon wheezed, reading Matteo's face (though, as usual, it revealed nothing).

Marco shrugged. "One accident doesn't mean celibacy, man." If he weren't Matteo's best friend, he'd be choking on his own tongue right now.

"Happens again, I'm joining a Siberian monastery." His tone left no room for doubt.

The team erupted like seagulls fighting over chips:

"You? A monk?" Theo howled, slapping the bench. "You'd strangle someone over bad incense!"

Marco leaned in. "Hypothetically—do monk robes cover that dump truck ass, or is the league finally getting their HD footage?"

Another backhand. Marco clutched his chest like a telenovela widow. "I'm helping! You're a brick wall with a face women dream about! You could grunt at one, and she'd—"

Matteo threw his sweaty jersey in Marco's face and stood.

Jules popped his head in. "Sooooo... we gonna head for drinks or what!?!"

The team cheered. Matteo's soul left his body.

---

The music throbbed like a concussion. Rusty's was their usual: battery-acid alcohol, sticky floors, and women who'd melt steel. Matteo ignored them all, focused on the vodka bottle—just get shitfaced, pass out, avoid mistakes—

Or that was the plan until she sauntered past.

Thick. Fucking. Thighs.

Holding a bottle of champagne and laughing like the sun with her friends.

A monumental ass in that dress, love handles begging to be gripped while he—

"Christ." He wrenched his gaze away, his cock straining against his jeans. Not a creep. Not a creep.

"Jules!" he barked. "Vodka. Now." He needed the distraction.

Jules, already sloshed, waved the bottle. "COME GET IT, BIG BEAR!"

Matteo sighed and stomped over—only to end up dangerously close to her table. He needed to leave. Now. Before he did something stupid.

Her laugh hit him like a slap. He grabbed the vodka, chugged half in one go, and slammed it down. Fuck—

A shriek. A cork hitting his back. A spray.

Cold champagne soaked his shirt in seconds. The bar froze. The girls gaped. Matteo looked like he might commit murder (he didn't—he wanted to thank her). Time slowed.

Thicker up close. Fuck. Their eyes locked.

Without breaking contact, he peeled off his ruined shirt, tattoos and scars on full display in signature Matteo flair all for her to see.

"You." His voice was gravel. Instead of any of that coming out, his mouth moved before his brain:

"Jesus. That ass could derail a train."

He blinks. His team blinks, Her friends blink. Marco's jaw drops. Janna's preparing for a restraining order.

Kill me.