Page 27 of The Puck Contract

I hesitate only briefly before replying.

Me:Count me in. But only for the food.

Groover:Sure, the food. Not the charming company at all.

Me:The food doesn't try to convince me that blue lines represent tears.

Groover:Fair point. See you tomorrow, 6:30?

Me:It's a date.

I freeze as soon as I hit send. A date? Why did I phrase it like that?

Groover::thumb_up_emoji:

Just a thumbs up. No acknowledgment of my poor word choice. Thank god.

I toss my phone onto my bed and flop down beside it, staring at the ceiling. Carlos's words echo in my head:You're enjoying playing boyfriend a little too much.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I am getting too comfortable in this role. But it's just temporary, I remind myself. A means to an end. In a couple months, once the Kingsport deal is finalized, Groover and I will "break up" amicably, and life will go back to normal.

So what's the harm in enjoying the ride while it lasts?

CHAPTER 9

GROOVER

"ABSOLUTELY NOT," I say, staring at the whiteboard Becker has set up in Washington's living room. "Take it down. Now."

"Come on, Grooves," Becker whines, protectively standing in front of his creation. "It's tradition!"

"It's harassment," I counter, crossing my arms. "And if HR ever saw this, we'd all be in sensitivity training until retirement."

The whiteboard in question is labeled "Partner Power Ranking" in Becker's neat handwriting, with a list of all the significant others of team members ranked by various absurd criteria. Leila Washington is at the top with a near-perfect score, while Mateo—who hasn't even arrived yet—is at the bottom with notes like "Brings no snacks" and "Doesn't understand icing."

"It's just for fun," Wall argues from his spot on Washington's massive sectional. "We did it last year too."

"Yeah, and Devon nearly broke up with Ace over it," I remind them. "Remember the 'too high maintenance' comment?"

Ace winces from the kitchen where he's arranging beer bottles in the cooler. "Don't remind me. I was in the doghouse for a week."

Washington enters from the backyard where he's been manning the grill. "What are we arguing about now?" His eyes land on the whiteboard, and he sighs. "Becker, we talked about this. Leila will murder me in my sleep if she sees that thing again."

"Fine," Becker grumbles, erasing the board. "But for the record, Mateo was about to move up the rankings."

I roll my eyes, but secretly I'm relieved. The last thing I need is Mateo feeling judged by my teammates, especially when he's been making such an effort to fit in despite knowing nothing about hockey a month ago.

The doorbell rings, and Washington nods at me. "That's probably your boy. Let him in while I finish the steaks."

Your boy. The casual way he says it makes something twist in my chest. It's been happening more and more lately—these little moments where I forget, just for a second, that Mateo isn't actually mine.

I open the front door to find Mateo juggling a six-pack of beer and what looks like a homemade dish of some kind.

"Hey," he says, slightly breathless. "Sorry I'm late. I had to wait for this to cool enough to transport." He holds up the dish. "I brought something. Hopefully that makes up for it?"

"You didn't have to bring anything," I say, taking the beer from him.

"Actually, I did." He follows me inside. "It's rude to show up empty-handed to dinner at someone's house, my dad always says. It's an Italian thing. Well, actually, maybe that’s his thing."

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