Page 113 of The Puck Contract

"So what?" Becker chimes in, abandoning any pretense of not listening. "You think he cares how it started? He cares how you feel about him now."

"And how would you know that, relationship guru?" I snap.

"Because I have eyes," Becker says. "The way that guy looked at you—like you hung the fucking moon and stars—that wasn't acting. And the way you've been walking around like someone died this past week? That's not about some sponsorship deal."

I stare at him, momentarily speechless.

"He's right," Wall adds quietly. "For once."

"Hey!" Becker protests.

"Look," Washington says, his voice softening slightly. "You've got two choices here. You can let this break you—let Miles and his tabloid bullshit win, let Kingsport walk away, let Mateo go. Or you can fight."

"Fight how?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "He won't listen."

"Thenmake himlisten," Ace says from his locker, speaking up for the first time.

"Go big or go home, right?" Becker says, looking thoughtful.

"I don't know..."

"What, you've got a better plan?" Washington asks. "Because your current strategy of moping and missing easy shots isn't exactly working out."

He's right. They're all right. And I hate it.

"Even if I wanted to do something... dramatic," I say carefully, "what exactly did you have in mind?"

The smiles that spread across their faces should terrify me. They absolutely do terrify me. But for the first time in seven days, I feel something other than despair.

Something that feels dangerously close to hope.

***

"THIS IS INSANE," I mutter, pacing the small office that serves as our makeshift command center. "He's going to think I've lost my mind."

"That ship sailed when you agreed to Becker's part of the plan," Wall says, not looking up from his phone where he's coordinating with the rest of the team.

"Hey!" Becker protests from his position by the window. "My contribution is inspired."

"Inspired by what, exactly? A fever dream?"

"Children, please," Washington interrupts, adjusting his tie. We're all dressed in full game-day suits, looking like we're heading to a funeral instead of a rescue mission. "Focus on the objective."

The objective. Right. Operation Win Back Mateo—a name I vetoed but was overruled on by unanimous team vote.

Step one: Locate target. (Mateo's in class, according to Carlos, who's been surprisingly helpful for someone who threatened to castrate me two days ago.)

Step two: Intercept target in non-threatening public location. (The anthropology department courtyard, where his class lets out in approximately seventeen minutes.)

Step three: Grand gesture. (This is where Becker's "inspiration" comes in, God help me.)

"It's time," Washington announces, checking his watch. "You ready?"

No. Absolutely not. I'm about to publicly humiliate myself in front of Mateo's entire academic department on the off-chance it might convince him to talk to me again.

"As I'll ever be," I say instead, straightening my tie one last time.

We move out in formation like we're heading onto the ice—Washington in the lead, me flanked by Becker and Wall, the rest of the team falling in behind us. The campus security guard who was supposed to stop us takes one look at fifteen professional hockey players in suits and wisely decides today isn't the day to be a hero.

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