Page 3 of The Puck Contract

"I'm sorry," I finally manage. "What did you just say?"

The guy winces, running a hand through his hair, which only makes it more chaotic. "That came out wrong. I'm Mateo. Sophia from PR sent me? For the, um, arrangement?"

And suddenly, it clicks. The meeting. Claire's suggestion. The Kingsport deal.

They didn't justsuggestI get a boyfriend. They fuckingfoundme one.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "They actually did it."

Mateo shifts uncomfortably. "Should I... not be here?"

I look at him. He's actually pretty attractive in a scholarly sort of way. Golden skin, expressive eyes, a mouth that seems ready to break into either a smile or a nervous ramble at any moment. His tux is definitely budget, but he fills it out nicely with a lean frame that suggests he's athletic.

Under different circumstances, he might be exactly my type.

But these are not different circumstances. These are fucked-up, management-meddling-in-my-personal-life circumstances.

I check my watch. The car leaves in three minutes, and I don't have time to unpack the ethical nightmare that is my team procuring me a fake boyfriend.

"No, it's fine," I say, grabbing my wallet and room key. "We're late. We'll figure this out in the car."

I step into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me.

"So," Mateo says as we walk toward the elevator, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "This is weird, right? It's not just me?"

Despite everything, I find myself laughing. "Yeah, it's definitely weird."

He grins. "Good. Just checking."

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and as we step in, I have the distinct feeling that my life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

And the bowtie is still trying to kill me.

CHAPTER 2

MATEO

ARE YOU MY BOYFRIEND, then?

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Did those words actually just come out of my mouth? To a professional athlete? A professional athlete who looks like he could bench press me while solving differential equations?

Maybe I should just throw myself out the nearest window. The hotel's only twenty stories high. I'd probably survive the fall.

But Groover—Ansel Williams, NHL forward, six-foot-something mountain of muscle currently walking beside me toward the elevator—just laughed it off. Which somehow makes it worse, because now I feel like the bumbling idiot he's humoring.

"So," I venture as we step into the elevator, "what exactly did they tell you about... this?" I gesture vaguely between us, like that explains anything.

Groover hits the lobby button. "Absolutely nothing. You?"

"Just the basics. Three-month contract, public appearances, social media posts." I swallow. "They said you needed a boyfriend for some sponsorship deal?"

He sighs, leaning against the elevator wall. "Kingsport Sports Equipment. They're worried I'm too 'unstable' for their precious brand image."

"Because you're gay?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Because I'm gay and single." He rolls his eyes. "Apparently that's a dangerous combination. Makes people nervous I might, I don't know, spontaneously break into show tunes at a press conference or something."

The elevator dings at the lobby, and Groover straightens up, adjusting his bowtie. "Look, we've got about thirty seconds before we're thrown to the wolves. What's your last name?"

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