Page 25 of The Puck Contract

"Sure," Groover says. "But, uh, don't forget the whole reason you stayed was for the gossip blogger to see you leaving."

"Right." I'd almost forgotten the actual purpose of this sleepover. "So I should, what, mess up my hair and wear yesterday's clothes?"

He laughs. "I don't think we need to go full walk of shame. Just looking like you spent the night is probably enough."

I glance down at my borrowed clothes—his t-shirt hanging loosely on my smaller frame, the sweatpants I had to roll at the waist to keep from tripping. "I think this makes it pretty obvious."

"True." His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary, then he clears his throat. "You can change if you want, though. No need to be uncomfortable."

"I'm good. These are actually really soft." I pluck at the t-shirt. "Much nicer than my cheap Target specials."

"The perks of an NHL salary," he says dryly. "Luxury sleepwear."

I help him clear the breakfast dishes, and there's a moment of domestic synchronicity as we move around each other in the kitchen—him rinsing plates, me wiping down the counter—that feels so natural it's almost disconcerting.

When it's time for me to leave, Groover walks me to the door. There's an awkward pause as we both seem to realize we don't have an established goodbye ritual.

"So," I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

"So," he echoes, looking equally uncertain.

"Thanks for breakfast. And for not hogging the blankets."

He smiles. "Thanks for not setting anything else on fire."

"One time!" I protest, laughing. "And technically, you're the one who put out the fire, so I didn't actually burn anything."

"A technicality I'm sure my insurance company would appreciate."

Another pause, less awkward but still charged with something I can't quite name.

"I should—" I gesture vaguely toward the door.

"Right, yeah." He steps forward, and for a wild second I think he might hug me, but he just reaches past me to open the door. "Let me know when you get home safe."

"It's a fifteen-minute Uber ride, not an Arctic expedition," I tease.

"Humor me. It's the boyfriend thing to do."

The reminder of our arrangement snaps me back to reality. Right. This is all for show—the domesticity, the shared breakfast, the concern for my safety. Just playing parts in an elaborate performance for the benefit of sponsorship deals and tuition payments.

"Sure," I say, my smile feeling slightly less natural. "I'll text you."

In the elevator down to the lobby, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall. Groover's clothes hang loose on my frame, making me look smaller than I am. My hair is mussed from sleep, and there's a faint pillow crease on my cheek.

I look exactly like someone who spent the night with their boyfriend. The irony isn't lost on me.

As predicted, there's a woman in the lobby who does a double-take when she sees me, her eyes widening in recognition. She quickly pretends to be absorbed in her phone, but I can practically see the social media post being composed in her head: "Just saw Groover's boyfriend leaving his apartment in morning walk of shame! #hockeyboyfriend #couplesighting"

Mission accomplished, I guess.

The Uber ride home gives me too much time to think. About the strange intimacy of sharing sleep space with someone. About how comfortable it felt to move around Groover's kitchen like I belonged there. About the way his t-shirt smells faintly like him and how I don't hate it.

By the time I reach my apartment, I've convinced myself it's all just method acting—I'm getting into the role, that's all. Daniel Day-Lewis would be proud.

Carlos is sprawled on our sagging couch when I walk in, textbook open but clearly abandoned in favor of the video game on our ancient TV.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, pausing his game. "Look what the cat dragged in. Nice outfit."

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