Page 108 of The Puck Contract

Mateo:Something came up. Can't make dinner.

Six words that feel like a punch to the gut. Short. Impersonal. Nothing like the emoji-laden, rambling texts I've grown accustomed to receiving from him.

"Fuck," I repeat with feeling, shoving the phone in my pocket.

"Maybe… Maybe he’s just busy," Becker offers weakly.

I give him a withering look as I grab my bag. "Yeah, and maybe I'll grow wings and fly to our next away game."

"Groover, wait—" Wall calls after me, but I'm already pushing through the locker room door, desperate to find Mateo and explain.

Explain what, exactly?

That yes, we started as a contract, but it's real now? That I've been lying to him for months about who knows what? That I'm in—

I stop mid-stride in the hallway, the thought hitting me like a freight train.

That I'm in love with him.

Fuck.

I am. I'm in love with Mateo Rossi, with his endless enthusiasm and his backward jersey and his anthropological factoids and the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at my jokes.

I try calling him again as I stride toward the parking garage. Straight to voicemail again.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm pounding on the door of his apartment, heart in my throat. Carlos opens it, expression wary.

"Is he here?" I ask without preamble.

Carlos shifts uncomfortably. "He... isn't home right now."

"Bullshit. His car's outside."

"Look, man," Carlos sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know what to tell you."

I want to argue, to push past him and find Mateo, to make him listen. But the rational part of my brain holds my body in check. Brute-forcing this now would only make things worse.

"Tell him to call me," I finally say. "Please. When he's ready."

Carlos nods. "I will. For what it's worth, I think you should keep trying. He's crazy about you."

The words offer a small comfort as I trudge back to my car. He's crazy about me. Present tense. Not past. Not yet.

I try calling one more time before I drive away. Straight to voicemail again.

***

THE NEXT FEW days pass in a blur of unanswered calls, one-word text responses, and mounting frustration. Mateo shows up to the next game—backward jersey and all—but sits with Carlos instead of in the usual partners' section. He leaves immediately after, ignoring my attempts to catch his eye.

My game performance tanks spectacularly. I miss passes, fumble shots, and get checked so hard in the third period that Coach benches me for the rest of the game.

"Whatever's going on with you and Mateo, fix it," Washington tells me bluntly in the locker room afterward. "You're playing like someone stole your skates."

I just nod, too exhausted to explain that I'm trying, that I've left dozens of messages Mateo won't answer, that I've nearly worn a path to his door only to be turned away by Carlos each time.

By the third day, I've progressed from desperation to resignation. Maybe this is it. Maybe I've lost him for good. Thethought makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the bruising hit I took during the game.

"I'm in love with him," I admit to Washington during an extra practice session he insisted on. We're the only ones on the ice, running basic drills like I'm a rookie again.

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