Page 1 of The Puck Contract

CHAPTER 1

GROOVER

THE BOWTIE IS trying to kill me. I'm not kidding—this demonic strip of fabric is currently staging a hostile takeover of my windpipe. I've wrestled 250-pound defensemen with less murderous intent than this fucking accessory.

"Need help there, Grooves? Or are you trying to strangle yourself to avoid the gala?" Riley Becker leans against the hotel bathroom doorframe, already dressed in his tux and looking annoyingly put-together. The smirk on his face tells me he's enjoying my suffering a little too much.

"If you're just going to stand there and watch me die, at least have the decency to film it for TikTok," I mutter, yanking at the bowtie for the fifteenth time. My reflection in the mirror shows a man who looks like he's being slowly asphyxiated—which isn't far from the truth.

Becker pushes off the doorframe with a dramatic sigh. "You're a professional athlete who can execute a perfect slapshotat sixty miles per hour, but you can't tie a bowtie? Move over, penguin boy."

I drop my hands and let him take over, tilting my chin up like I'm about to get my throat slit. Honestly, that might be preferable to attending this gala.

"There," Becker says after thirty seconds of expert manipulation. "Now you look almost presentable."

I turn back to the mirror. The bowtie sits perfectly centered against my crisp white shirt. The black tuxedo fits surprisingly, which is a miracle considering most formal wear doesn't account for hockey thighs.

"I look like a waiter at a fancy restaurant," I grumble.

"Yeah, but like, a hot waiter," Becker offers helpfully. "The kind that gets massive tips from horny soccer moms and dads."

My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. Captain's name flashes across the screen.

"Washington," I answer, putting it on speaker.

"You two ready? Car's leaving in ten." Marcus Washington's voice has that same authoritative tone he uses during third period when we're down by one.

"Groover was having a fashion emergency, but I saved the day," Becker announces proudly.

I roll my eyes. "We'll be down in five."

"Good. And remember—"

"Best behavior, smile for the cameras, don't get drunk before speeches," I recite. "We know, Cap."

"And for fuck's sake, don't let Becker near the open bar unsupervised."

Becker clutches his chest in mock offense. "That wasone time—"

"The PR team still has nightmares about the chocolate fountain incident," Washington interrupts. "See you downstairs." He hangs up before Becker can defend his honor.

I pocket my phone and grab my coat from the bed. "Remind me again why we do these things?"

"Because the team owners like watching us suffer in formal wear while rich people decide if they want to give us money," Becker says, checking his reflection one last time. "Plus, free booze."

"Right." I adjust my cuffs, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach that has nothing to do with the bowtie.

Ever since I came out last year, these public events have taken on a new dimension of stress. It's not just about representing the team anymore—it's about being The Gay Hockey Player™. Every interaction gets analyzed, every photo scrutinized.

And then there's the fan fiction.

Jesus Christ, the fan fiction.

Last month, Becker showed me a 50,000-word epic someone wrote pairing me with our goalie, Wall. I couldn't look the poor guy in the eyes for a week. There's apparently an entire online community dedicated to imagining my sex life in excruciating detail, complete with artwork that's both impressive and deeply disturbing.

"Earth to Groover." Becker waves a hand in front of my face. "You're doing that thousand-yard stare again. What's up?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just thinking about that meeting with management last week."

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