Page 23 of The Puck Contract

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen is clean, and we've established a bathroom usage order that would make military strategists proud. I find Mateo a t-shirt and sweatpants that will inevitably be too big on him, and we dance around each other with careful politeness that wasn't there an hour ago.

It's weird how the prospect of sharing a bed—even platonically—changes the dynamic.

When we finally turn in, I'm hyperaware of every movement, every shift of weight on the mattress. We're both lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling, with at least two feet of space between us.

"This is awkward, isn't it?" Mateo says into the darkness.

"Little bit," I admit.

"Should I tell you a bedtime story to break the tension? Once upon a time, there was a hockey player who couldn't cook..."

I snort. "Don't start. I've seen you nearly burn down my kitchen, so you have zero culinary high ground."

"Fair point." He yawns. "For what it's worth, I think we're doing a good job. At the fake relationship thing, I mean."

"Yeah?" I turn my head to look at his profile in the dim light filtering through the blinds.

"Yeah." He turns too, meeting my gaze. "Your teammates seem convinced. Wall keeps giving me relationship advice."

"God, I hope you're not taking it. Wall's longest relationship was with a houseplant, and even that died of neglect."

Mateo laughs softly. "Don't worry. I'm filtering his wisdom appropriately."

A comfortable silence falls between us, and I feel myself starting to relax.

"Groover?" Mateo's voice is quiet, already thick with approaching sleep.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for not being weird about this. The whole situation, I mean."

"Back at you," I murmur. "Get some sleep, Mateo."

"Night," he mumbles, already drifting off.

I lie awake a little longer, listening to his breathing even out. There's something strangely intimate about sharing a space like this, even without any physical contact. I can smell the mint of his borrowed toothpaste, feel the slight dip in the mattress from his weight, hear the soft sounds of his sleep-deepened breaths.

It's been a long time since I've had anyone in my bed, even just to sleep. My lifestyle doesn't exactly lend itself to long-term relationships, and hookups usually don't involve overnight stays. There's something nice about not being alone, even if it's all for show.

As I finally drift toward sleep, Sophia's words echo in my mind:For someone who claims to be faking it, you two look pretty comfortable together.

The thought should probably worry me more than it does.

CHAPTER 8

MATEO

I WAKE UP to the sound of someone talking softly and the smell of coffee. For a disorienting moment, I forget where I am—this isn't my lumpy twin bed in the apartment I share with Carlos, and that's definitely not Carlos's voice I'm hearing.

Last night comes rushing back. The photo shoot. The kitchen fire. The awkward negotiation over sleeping arrangements.

I'm in Groover's apartment. In Groover's bed. Wearing Groover's clothes.

I sit up, blinking in the morning light streaming through unfamiliar blinds. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. I check my phone: 7:43 AM. Early for a college student on a Saturday, but probably normal hours for a professional athlete.

The voice continues from somewhere in the apartment, too low to make out the words but clear enough to recognize as Groover's. I stretch, wincing at the slight stiffness in my neck—apparently I slept in one position all night, probably too nervous about invading Groover's space to move naturally.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to look around the room I was too preoccupied to properly observe last night. Like the rest of the apartment, it's neat and minimalist, but with personal touches that make it feel lived-in. A framed photo of what must be his family sits on the dresser. A stack of books on the nightstand—mostly biographies and historical fiction. A hoodie draped over a chair.

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