Page 111 of The Puck Contract

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THE PARKING LOT is nearly empty when I arrive. I'm fifteen minutes early, a habit ingrained by a mother who considered "on time" to be borderline rude. I sit in my car, engine off, trying to calm the riot in my chest.

What am I going to say to him? What is he going to say to me?

I've rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in my head, but each scenario feels more implausible than the last. In one version, he confesses it was all a lie and he never cared about me. In another, he declares his undying love and we ride off into the sunset. Neither seems particularly realistic.

The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere in the murky middle.

The venue’s back door opens and a familiar figure steps outside, eyes scanning the area.

Followed by several more familiar figures.

Great. An audience. Just what this awkward conversation needs.

I take a deep breath and exit my car, trying to project confidence I absolutely do not feel. Groover spots me immediately, breaking away from the group with a muttered word to Washington.

He looks... terrible. Good-terrible, because the man could wear a garbage bag and still be unfairly attractive, but definitely not his usual put-together self. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble a day past intentional, hair a mess like he's been running his hands through it constantly.

"Hi," he says as he approaches, stopping a few feet away like he's afraid to come closer.

"Hi," I reply.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we need to say. I open my mouth, not even sure what's going to come out, when a commotion from the facility entrance draws both our attention.

A small crowd of reporters has gathered, cameras and microphones at the ready.

At the front stands Jason Miles.

"What the hell?" Groover mutters, instinctively stepping closer to me.

Becker breaks out of the small group of teammates and jogs over to us, phone in hand and expression grim. "Guys, we've got a problem."

He holds out his phone, screen displaying a tweet that makes my blood run cold.

Jason Miles @JasonMilesHockey

BREAKING: Sources confirm Chicago Wolves forward Ansel "Groover" Williams' relationship with college student Mateo Rossi was orchestrated by team PR as image rehabilitation for Kingsport sponsorship deal. Full story: hockeydaily.com/fake-romance

The accompanying photo is from the gala—our first public appearance together. Me looking terrified, Groover protective beside me. The beginning of a lie that somehow became... what, exactly?

"Fuck," Groover breathes, the word heavy with dread.

My phone starts buzzing in my pocket—texts, calls, app notifications all flooding in at once. The reporters are moving toward us now, Jason Miles at the front with a predatory gleam in his eye.

"Mateo," Groover starts, reaching for me. "We need to—"

But I'm already backing away, fight-or-flight instinct kicking in with a vengeance. And right now, flight is winning by a landslide.

"I can't do this," I manage, keys clutched so tightly in my palm they're leaving imprints. "Not here. Not with them watching."

"Please," he says, and the raw desperation in that single word nearly breaks my resolve. "Don't go. Not like this."

But the hyenas are closing in, cameras already flashing, questions being shouted over each other in a cacophony of journalistic vulturism.

"Mr. Rossi! Were you aware the relationship was fake?"

"Groover! Was this your idea or management's?"

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