Page 110 of The Puck Contract

I blink. "I'm what?"

"Hiding." He gestures around my disaster zone of a room. "In here. From having an actual conversation with Groover about what you heard."

"I know what I heard," I protest, anger flaring. "It was pretty fucking clear."

"Uh-huh. And did you hear Groover's side of it? Or did you just assume the worst and run away?"

The accusation hits too close to home. "I didn't run away. I'm being... strategic."

Carlos snorts. "Strategic. Right. That's why you've been watchingThe Notebookon repeat and eating ice cream straight from the carton."

"It wasCall Me By Your Name, and that was only once," I mutter, though we both know it was three times. "Look, what am I supposed to do? Go up to him and say, 'Hey, I accidentally overheard your teammates talking about our fake relationship contract, wanna explain?'"

"Yes!" Carlos throws his hands up. "That's exactly what you should do. Because right now, you're making assumptions based on fragments of a conversation you weren't even part of."

"He's called me twenty-seven times," I admit quietly.

"And have you answered once?"

I pick at a loose thread on my comforter. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because..." I trail off, the real answer too raw to voice.

"Because you're scared," Carlos finishes for me, voice gentler now.

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. When did my roommate turn into Dr. Phil?

"That's not—I'm not—" I sputter, but the protest dies on my lips. Because he's right. Of course he's right.

"I'm staging an intervention," Carlos announces, yanking open my curtains. Actual sunlight pours in, and I hiss like a vampire caught at noon. "You're going to talk to him."

"I'm not ready," I protest, shielding my eyes from the offensive daylight.

"You've been not ready for three days." Carlos tosses my phone onto the bed. "Text him. Tell him to meet you at the practice facility this afternoon."

"Why there?"

"Because it's neutral ground. Because you'll have to wear actual clothes. Because I know for a fact he has practice until four, and you need a deadline or you'll keep finding excuses."

I glare at him. "When did you get so bossy?"

"When my best friend started acting like the protagonist in a bad rom-com." He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Text him. Or I will, from your phone, and I'll be way less dignified about it."

After he leaves, I stare at my phone like it might bite me. The screen shows seventeen missed calls from Groover, plus a dozen texts I've only half-read, too afraid of what they might say.

With a resigned sigh, I unlock the phone and type out a message so brief it barely qualifies as communication.

Me:Practice facility. 4:30. We need to talk.

The response comes almost immediately, like he's been waiting with his phone in hand.

Groover:I'll be there. Thank you.

Those two words—thankyou—punch through my defenses in a way I wasn't prepared for. Like I'm doing him some huge favor by finally agreeing to hear him out.

Maybe I am.

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