Page 114 of The Puck Contract

The courtyard is bustling with students when we arrive, many doing double-takes as we pass. Phones come out, picturesbeing snapped, whispers following in our wake. Word spreads quickly—by the time we reach the fountain at the center of the courtyard, a small crowd has gathered, curious about why the Chicago Wolves are invading their campus.

"There," Becker says, nodding toward a building across the way. "That's his class, right?"

I follow his gaze to see students beginning to file out of the modern glass structure. My heart immediately kicks into overdrive, hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest and find Mateo on its own.

"What if he doesn't come this way?" I ask, sudden panic setting in. "What if he sees us and runs? What if—"

"Then we chase him," Washington says simply. "Whatever it takes."

"Within reason," Wall adds hastily. "Let's not get arrested for stalking."

"Speak for yourself," Becker mutters. "I'm ride or die for this."

I'm about to respond when I spot him—dark hair, messenger bag slung across his chest, head down as he talks with a girl I vaguely recognize from his department. He hasn't seen us yet.

"Mateo!" I call before I can lose my nerve.

His head snaps up, eyes widening as they lock with mine across the courtyard. He freezes mid-step, the girl beside him following his gaze and letting out an audible gasp when she spots our assembled team.

For one terrible moment, I think he might bolt. His body tenses, weight shifting like he's preparing to flee.

But then something changes in his expression—resignation, maybe, or curiosity—and he says something to his companion before slowly approaching. He stops several feet away, wariness radiating from every line of his body.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, voice carefully neutral.

Now or never.

"I'm here because I have something to say," I begin, acutely aware of the growing crowd around us. "And you wouldn't answer my calls, so I had to get creative."

"So you brought the entire team?"

"They've supported each of us through everything," I say, gesturing to my teammates. "Now they're supporting me."

"Plus, we need to win these last games, and he's useless without you," Becker adds helpfully.

Mateo's eyes dart between us, confusion evident. "I don't understand what this is."

"It's an apology," I say. "And an explanation. And maybe, if I'm very lucky, a new beginning?"

The crowd has grown larger, students and faculty gathering at a respectful distance, phones recording what is either going to be the most romantic moment of my life or my most spectacular public failure.

No pressure.

"You heard Becker and Wall talking about the contract," I continue when Mateo doesn't respond. "About how it was only supposed to be for three months. And they were right—that's how it started."

Mateo flinches slightly, confirmation that I've hit the mark.

"Management approached me about the Kingsport deal. They suggested a stable relationship would help my image. Sophia found you through Carlos." The words come faster now, tumbling out like I'm afraid he'll walk away before I can finish. "It was a business arrangement. A PR stunt. A fake relationship for the cameras."

His expression shutters further with each admission, and I realize I'm doing this all wrong. I take a step closer, heart in my throat.

"But somewhere between your backward jerseys and anthropology lectures, between your coffee addiction and the way you stress-bake at 2 AM, between every real moment we shared when no one was watching—it stopped being fake for me."

His eyes widen slightly, the first crack in his careful facade.

"I don't care about the Kingsport," I continue, voice growing stronger. "They officially pulled their offer yesterday, and you know what? I'm fucking relieved. Because I'd rather lose every endorsement, every sponsorship, every dollar I could ever make from this sport than lose you."

A murmur runs through the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Washington nod encouragingly.

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