Page 117 of The Puck Contract

"Earth to Groover," Mateo says, waving a hand in front of my face.

"Sorry." I press a quick kiss to his forehead. "Just thinking about how different things are from the last time we were here."

His eyes soften, understanding immediately. "Better or worse?"

"Better. Infinitely better."

And it is. The team made playoffs—we lost in the second round to fucking Boston, but still, not bad considering our mid-season slump. Mateo moved into my apartment last month after his semester ended, bringing with him an alarming number of books and a coffee maker that requires an engineering degree to operate. My family adores him—Mom sends him recipes he'll never successfully make, and Maya texts him more than she texts me.

Best of all, he's here tonight as himself—not as a contractual obligation or a PR stunt, but as the man I love. The man who loves me back.

"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "Let's make the rounds before Washington sends out a search party."

We weave through the crowd, stopping to chat with teammates, management (who've been walking on eggshells around me since I threatened to go public with the whole scheme being their idea), and various team sponsors. Mateo, no longer the bundle of nerves out of his depth, discusses hockey with the confidence of someone who's spent countless hours learning the game.

"...and that's why the power play percentage improved in the second half of the season," he explains to a fascinated Valorrepresentative, who's hanging on his every word. "The modified zone entry created more high-danger scoring chances."

I stare at him in amazement. "When did you become a hockey analyst?"

He shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I may have been paying attention during all those games. Besides, Wall has been tutoring me. Says I need to 'pull my weight in hockey conversations since I'm team family now.'"

Team family. The words warm me from the inside out.

"What?" he asks, noticing my expression.

"Nothing." I squeeze his hand. "Just love you."

His smile could power the entire city. "Love you too."

Later, as the evening winds down and we're preparing to leave, Mateo excuses himself to use the restroom. I'm checking my phone when Becker sidles up beside me, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

"So," he says, rocking back on his heels. "I've been thinking."

"Always dangerous."

He ignores the jab. "The whole Groover-and-Mateo situation worked out pretty well, all things considered."

"If by 'worked out well' you mean 'nearly imploded before miraculously coming together against all odds,' then sure."

"Details." He waves dismissively. "The point is, I've got expertise now. Experience. Wisdom to share with the world."

I eye him warily. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm starting a podcast," he announces with the gravitas of someone revealing a cure for cancer. "'Hockey Relationship Advice with Riley Becker.' What do you think?"

I blink at him. "I think you've been hit in the head one too many times."

"It's genius! I'll interview you guys, other players with partners, give tips on dating while famous—"

"You're single," I point out.

"That's just temporary," he says with a wink that can only be described as disturbing. "Trust me, I've got prospects."

"Becker," Washington says, appearing beside us like a disapproving apparition. "Stop harassing Groover and help Wall with the car service. He's trying to organize rides and you're on the list."

"Fine, fine." Becker sighs dramatically. "But remember my podcast when it tops the charts."

As he walks away, Washington shakes his head. "That man needs professional help."

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