Page 30 of The Puck Contract

"Sounds riveting," I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

Mateo tilts his head, studying me. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I say, too quickly. "Just tired."

Becker makes a coughing sound that suspiciously resembles the word "jealous" before wandering off, leaving us alone.

"What was that about?" Mateo asks.

"Nothing. Becker being Becker." I take a long pull of my beer. "Having fun?"

"Yeah, actually. Your teammates are great." He leans against the railing beside me, our shoulders almost touching. "Thanks for inviting me."

"They invited you," I point out. "I just passed along the message."

"Still." He bumps his shoulder against mine. "It's nice to feel included."

Before I can respond, Wall shouts from across the deck: "Drinking game! Everyone inside!"

Mateo raises an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Definitely," I confirm. "Wall's drinking games are legendary for their ability to destroy livers and dignity in equal measure."

"Sounds perfect," Mateo grins, grabbing my hand. "Let's go."

The simple touch—his warm fingers wrapped around mine—sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with our audience. I let him pull me inside, trying to ignore the knowing look from Becker.

Wall's game turns out to be a hockey-themed version of "Never Have I Ever," with increasingly specific and embarrassing prompts. Mateo is at a distinct advantage until Becker starts targeting him with prompts like "Never have I everused the word 'anthropological' in hockey conversation" and "Never have I ever been hit by a hockey puck while standing safely behind the glass."

Several rounds in, the group has dwindled as people tap out to use the bathroom or get more drinks. During a particularly rowdy debate about whether Petrov's answer counts (the prompt involved ice baths, and apparently Russian definitions differ), Mateo ends up perched on the arm of my chair.

When Petrov gesticulates wildly to make his point, Mateo loses his balance and slides directly into my lap.

"Whoa!" he laughs, clearly feeling the effects of the alcohol. "Sorry about that."

I should help him up. I should make a joke and restore the appropriate distance between us. What I shouldn't do is notice how perfectly he fits against me, or how good his hair smells, or how the weight of him feels right somehow.

"You're fine," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Stay if you want."

He hesitates for a beat, then settles more comfortably, his back against my chest. "Okay. But only because I'm too lazy to find another seat."

The game resumes, but I'm barely paying attention. All my focus is on the points of contact between us—his weight on my thighs, his shoulder blade against my sternum, his hair occasionally tickling my chin when he turns his head to laugh.

I'm hyperaware of every movement, every shift of his body. When he reaches for his drink, the muscles in his back flex against my chest. When he laughs, I can feel the vibration through his body. It's torturous and wonderful at the same time.

"Never have I ever," Wall announces with drunken gravity, "fantasized about a teammate."

Several players drink, including Becker, who winks dramatically at no one in particular. Mateo, of course, doesn't drink—he's not on the team.

"Never have I ever," Ace continues, "hooked up with someone in this room."

He and Devon drink, as do Washington and Leila, who arrived halfway through the game. To my shock, Becker also takes a sip.

"Whoa, what?" Wall demands. "Who?"

Becker just taps his nose mysteriously. "A gentleman never tells."

The room erupts in speculation and demands for details, which Becker steadfastly refuses to provide. I'm grateful for the distraction, because it means no one notices how tense I've become with Mateo still in my lap.

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