Page 109 of The Puck Contract

Washington stops mid-stride, puck forgotten as he stares at me. "You're just figuring this out now?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." I skate in a frustrated circle. "Does it matter? He won't even talk to me."

"So make him listen." Washington retrieves the puck, sending it my way with perfect precision. "You're Ansel fucking Williams. Since when do you give up on something you want?"

"It's not that simple."

"It never is." He blocks my shot easily. "But sitting around feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to fix anything. You want him back? Fight for him."

"How?"

Washington shrugs. "That's for you to figure out. But whatever you do, do it soon. We need you focused for these last games."

He's right, of course. Captain is always right—it's annoyingly consistent.

As I shower after practice, an idea begins to form. A terrible, wonderful, potentially disastrous idea that might just be crazy enough to work.

It's time to go all in.

CHAPTER 30

MATEO

"CONTRACT'S ALMOST UP, right?"

"Yeah, it was a three-month thing."

"These things always get messy."

The words have been looping through my brain on repeat for three days, a sadistic earworm that won't die. I've tried drowning it out with music—blasting everything from death metal to classical until Carlos threatened to move out. I've tried burying it under academic jargon—reading the driest research papers I could find until my eyes crossed. I've even tried the old-fashioned method of alcohol-induced amnesia, though all that got me was a hangover that felt like tiny demons were using my frontal lobe as a mosh pit.

Nothing works. The words just keep playing, a broken record of my own stupidity.

"You look like shit." Carlos stands in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between concernand exasperation. "Are you planning to leave this cave anytime soon?"

I burrow deeper under my comforter, which smells like three days of unwashed anthropology student. "No."

"That wasn't actually a question." He yanks the covers off me with the ruthless efficiency of someone who's dealt with my dramatic ass for three years. "Up. Shower. Food. In that order."

"I'm not hungry." My stomach immediately betrays me with a growl that could rival a dying whale.

"Your body disagrees." Carlos tosses clean clothes at my face. "Look, I get that you're heartbroken or whatever, but this isn't healthy."

I sit up, running a hand through hair that's gone beyond bedhead into something that could qualify as modern art. "I'm not heartbroken. I'm...processing."

"Is that what we're calling it?" Carlos raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like wallowing."

"I'm allowed to wallow," I mutter, examining a t-shirt that may or may not have been on my floor for a week. "I just found out my entire relationship was a sham."

"Was it though?"

I look up. "What?"

Carlos sighs, dropping onto the edge of my bed. "Look, I'm going to say something, and you're not going to like it, but as your best friend, it's my sacred duty to call you on your bullshit."

"This should be good."

"You're hiding."

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