Page 11 of The Puck Contract

"No problem," I assure him. "I'll just chill here."

After he leaves, I sit in the silence of his apartment for about thirty seconds before the awkwardness of being alone in a near-stranger's home sets in. I should probably use this time productively.

I pull out my phone and google "Hockey for Dummies."

Twenty minutes later, I've gone down a rabbit hole of hockey terminology, rules explanations, and YouTube highlights. I've learned that icing has nothing to do with cake, that a hat trick is three goals in one game (not a magic trick performed while wearing a hat), and that the blue lines separate the neutral zone from the offensive and defensive zones.

I dig a notebook from my backpack and start making flashcards. If I'm going to pull this off, I need to at least understand the basics of my fake boyfriend's career.

I'm so engrossed in my DIY hockey education that I don't hear the door open until a voice says, "Door was unlocked. Where's Grooves? I need my jersey back."

I nearly jump out of my skin, whipping around to find Riley Becker standing in the entryway, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ!" I clutch my chest. "Do you always just walk into people's apartments?"

Becker grins, completely unapologetic. "Only my teammates'. Groover never locks his door when he's home. Where is he?"

"Running an errand. Something about protein powder?"

"Ah, the famous Groover Blend." Becker drops his bag and saunters over. "He'll be a while then. The supplement shop guy always talks his ear off."

He plops down on the couch beside me, then notices the flashcards spread across the coffee table. His eyebrows shoot up.

"Dude, are youstudyinghockey?"

Heat rushes to my face. "Just trying to understand the basics. So I don't embarrass myself. Or him."

Becker's expression shifts from amusement to something almost soft before he pulls out his phone and starts typing.

"What are you doing?" I ask suspiciously.

"Emergency at Groover's," he reads aloud as he types. "Boyfriend needs hockey intervention. All available hands report for duty."

I lunge for the phone. "Hey! Don't—"

Becker holds it out of reach, grinning. "Too late. Sent."

"To who?" I demand, mortified.

"The guys. Well, the ones who won't be busy on a Monday morning."

Great. Just great. Now Groover's teammates are going to think I'm some pathetic loser who has to study to understand his boyfriend's job.

Which, okay, is exactly what I am, but they weren't supposed toknowthat.

I'm contemplating the feasibility of hiding in Groover's bathroom for the rest of the morning when the door bursts open again. This time it'sthreehockey players—the goalie (Wall), the Russian rookie (Petrov), and the veteran (Ace), if memory servesme well. All in athletic wear, looking like they just came from the gym.

"Where's the emergency?" Wall asks, scanning the apartment.

Becker gestures dramatically at my flashcards. "Hockey education crisis. Mateo's trying to learn the game from Google."

The three newcomers exchange glances, then Ace's face breaks into a grin. "Groover's got himself a keener!"

"That's adorable," Wall agrees, examining my flashcards. "But these official explanations are so boring. No wonder you look confused."

"We fix," Petrov declares, grabbing my notebook. "Make better explanation."

And that's how I find myself surrounded by four professional hockey players who have decided to create their own "Hockey Boyfriend Emergency Cheat Sheet."

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