Page 29 of The Puck Contract

"So there I am, trapped in this fancy restaurant with a guy who won't stop talking about his cryptocurrency investments," Becker recounts dramatically. "And then he asks if I want to see his NFT collection, and I'm like, 'Sorry, I left my microscope at home.'"

"You didn't!" Mateo gasps between laughs.

"I absolutely did," Becker confirms. "Worth it for the look on his face alone."

"Speaking of humiliating moments," Wall interjects, "can we talk about Mateo getting beaned by that puck last month? Because that clip still makes me laugh."

Mateo groans. "Are we still on that? It's been weeks!"

"Internet fame is forever, my friend," Wall says solemnly. "I had it as my phone background for days."

"The best part," Becker says, standing up, "was the face. It was like—" He proceeds to do an exaggerated recreation of Mateo's terrified expression, complete with flailing arms and a high-pitched yelp that sounds nothing like Mateo.

"I did not sound like that!" Mateo protests, but he's laughing too hard to be genuinely offended.

"No, no, it was more like this," Ace joins in, adding his own interpretation that somehow involves jazz hands.

Soon half the team is on their feet, each doing progressively more ridiculous impressions of "Mateo vs. The Puck," as the incident has apparently been named. Instead of being embarrassed, Mateo gets up and shows them "how it really happened," with a slow-motion reenactment that has everyone howling.

I watch from my seat, something warm unfurling in my chest. A month ago, Mateo was a stranger thrust into my life by PR machinations. Now he's in my captain's dining room, trading jokes with my teammates like he's always been part of this world.

"He's good for you," Washington says quietly, having taken Ace's empty seat beside me while the reenactment continues. "I haven't seen you this relaxed in a long time."

"What do you mean?" I ask, though I know exactly what he means.

Washington gives me a look that says he's not buying my obliviousness. "Since coming out, you've been... careful. Always watching what you say, how you act. Like you're carrying the weight of being The Gay Hockey Player."

I can't argue with that assessment. The pressure of being a representative, of knowing any misstep could affect future players who want to come out—it's exhausting.

"With him," Washington continues, nodding toward Mateo, who's now teaching Petrov some kind of elaborate handshake, "you're just Groover again. Not the poster boy, not the trailblazer. Just you."

Before I can respond to this uncomfortably accurate observation, Becker claps his hands for attention.

"Time for drinks on the deck! And Mateo, you're going to tell us all about the time you set Groover’s kitchen on fire."

"That was a dish towel, not the whole kitchen," I protest, but Mateo is already launching into the story, adding dramatic embellishments that have everyone captivated.

The party migrates to Washington's expansive deck overlooking a meticulously landscaped backyard. The early spring evening is cool but not cold, the sky clear and scattered with stars. Someone hooks up a Bluetooth speaker, and soon music mingles with conversation and laughter.

I find myself by the railing, nursing a beer and watching Mateo across the deck. He's deep in conversation with Devon, who arrived late after finishing a work project. They seem to be hitting it off, heads bent together, Devon occasionally touching Mateo's arm for emphasis.

A flare of something hot and unpleasant sparks in my chest. It takes me a moment to recognize it as jealousy, which is ridiculous. Devon is Ace's boyfriend, and Mateo is... not actually my boyfriend. He can talk to whoever he wants.

"You're scowling," Becker says, appearing beside me with fresh beers. "Not a good look on that pretty face."

"I'm not scowling," I lie, accepting the beer. "Just thinking."

"About how Devon's been monopolizing your man for the last twenty minutes?" Becker's tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp.

"They're just talking."

"Uh-huh." He takes a swig of beer. "You know, for someone in a fake relationship, you sure look like a jealous boyfriend right now."

I nearly choke, my eyes darting left and right. Then, I hiss, "Lower your voice, would you?"

Across the deck, Mateo laughs at something Devon says, his whole face lighting up. He glances over and catches my eye, his smile softening into something more private, just for me. He excuses himself from Devon and makes his way over.

"Hey," he says, slightly breathless. "Devon was just telling me about his cultural studies program. Did you know he's focusing on sports fandom as a form of modern tribalism? It's fascinating stuff."

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