Page 18 of The Puck Contract

The video already has thousands of retweets, with captions like:

Groover's BF Takes One For Team.

When you're gay and sports are scary.

Hockey 101: Pucks hurt, glass good.

"Great," I mutter. "My fifteen minutes of fame and I look like I'm about to wet myself."

"Could be worse," Leila says cheerfully. "Last year, Petrov's girlfriend got caught on camera picking her nose during the national anthem. That was her contact photo in the team group chat for months."

The game begins shortly after, and I quickly realize that watching hockey on TV (which I'd done exactly once in preparation) is nothing like experiencing it live. It's faster, more violent, more strategic than I'd imagined. The players move with incredible speed, their bodies colliding with bone-rattling force that makes me wince.

I find myself watching Groover almost exclusively, fascinated by his transformation on the ice. In person, he's reserved, thoughtful, with a dry humor that emerges once he's comfortable. On the ice, he's aggressive, focused, his movementsprecise and powerful. When he scores in the second period, the crowd erupts, and I find myself on my feet cheering without even thinking about it.

"That's your man!" Devon shouts over the noise, high-fiving me.

He's not, though, a small voice in my head reminds me. But in that moment, with the crowd roaring and Groover's teammates mobbing him in celebration, it's easy to forget this is all for show.

During the second intermission, I'm waiting in line for the bathroom when a man with a notepad approaches me. He's in his forties, with the sharp eyes of someone who notices details for a living.

"Jason Miles, Hockey Daily," he introduces himself. "You're Mateo Rossi, right? Ansel Williams' boyfriend?"

My stomach tightens. No one prepared me for press interactions outside of organized events.

"That's me," I confirm, trying to channel Groover's media-trained composure.

"How long have you and Groover been together?"

I fall back on our rehearsed answer. "We've been friends for months but only recently started dating."

Miles' expression remains neutral, but something calculating flickers in his eyes. "Interesting timing with the Kingsport deal in the works."

My pulse quickens. Does he know about the arrangement? Is this some kind of test?

"I'm not familiar with Groover's endorsement negotiations," I say carefully.

Miles opens his mouth to ask another question, but Leila materializes beside me like a guardian angel in designer jeans.

"Jason," she says coolly, "you know player partners are off-limits during games."

Miles holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation, Leila. No harm in that."

"The harm is in delaying this poor man's bathroom break," she replies smoothly. "If you'll excuse us."

She steers me away, her grip on my arm surprisingly strong. "Rule number three," she mutters once we're out of earshot. "Never talk to Jason Miles without PR present. He's been trying to dig up dirt on the team for years."

"He seemed to… know things," I say.

"Jason always acts like he knows something," Leila dismisses. "It's how he gets people to confirm things. Don't worry about it."

But I do worry, especially when I catch Miles watching me from the press box during the third period, jotting something in his notebook.

The Wolves win 3-2, with Groover assisting on the game-winning goal in the final minutes. Despite my concerns about Miles, I can't help getting caught up in the excitement as the team celebrates on the ice.

"Now comes the fun part," Devon says as the game ends. "Locker room access."

"Wait, what?" I ask, suddenly nervous.

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