Page 32 of The Puck Contract

"Groover! How about a kiss for the cameras?"

The shout comes from a guy with a particularly massive lens, and I feel Groover tense beside me.

"Ignore him," Groover says quietly.

But the damage is done. The other photographers pick up the chant.

"Give us a kiss!"

"Just one shot!"

"Come on, lovebirds!"

Fuck. This wasn't in the contract. Well, not explicitly, though there was some vague language about "typical couple behavior in public." Is kissing typical? For real couples, sure, but we've never discussed this particular aspect of our arrangement.

Groover stops walking and turns to me, his expression a mix of apology and question. "We don't have to," he says, low enough that only I can hear.

But I can see the photographers closing in, smell the desperation for a money shot that'll end up on every hockey blog by morning. If we refuse now, it'll seem weird. Suspicious. The opposite of what this whole charade is supposed to accomplish.

"It's fine," I say, trying for nonchalance. "It's just a kiss, right? Not like I haven't done it before."

With girls, my brain helpfully adds. Not with guys. Not with Groover.

"Right," Groover says, still looking uncertain. "Just a quick one."

He shifts to face me fully, one hand coming up to rest lightly on my jaw. I'm suddenly intensely aware of our height difference, the way I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes. Those expressive brown eyes that are currently studying me with an unfamiliar intensity that makes my stomach flip.

"Ready?" he asks.

No. Absolutely not. I'm having a minor existential crisis here, thanks for asking.

"Yep," I lie.

And then he's leaning down, and I'm rising slightly on my toes, and our lips meet.

It's... weird. Not bad-weird, just different-weird. His lips are firmer than I expected, and there's the slight scratch of stubble against my skin. The kiss itself is brief and closed-mouth, barely more than a peck, but it sends a jolt through my system like touching a live wire.

We pull apart after what couldn't have been more than two seconds, but it's enough for the photographers to erupt in a frenzy of clicking shutters and shouted questions.

I'm still trying to process what just happened—why my heart is racing and my lips are tingling—when a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

"Well, if it isn't hockey's favorite couple!"

I turn to find Jason Miles approaching, digital recorder already extended. I recognize him immediately from the game—the persistent reporter who cornered me in the VIP box a few weeks ago. The one who'd already asked suspiciously pointed questions about the timing of our relationship.

Great. Just what we need.

"Mr. Miles," I say, attempting civility while my heart's still doing Olympic-level gymnastics from the kiss. "Fancy running into you outside a restaurant nowhere near the arena."

He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "I go where the stories are, Mateo. And right now, you two are quite the story." He gestures to the photographers still clicking away. "Especially with that little display of affection."

"We were just leaving," Groover says firmly, his arm tightening around my waist.

"Just a quick follow-up from our chat at the game," Miles persists, stepping directly into our path. "Mateo, how does it feel dating someone in the spotlight? Is the public scrutiny becoming easier to handle?"

The question catches me off guard with its seeming sincerity. "It's strange," I admit, finding honesty easier than fabrication in the moment. "Having my personal life become public property wasn't something I ever expected."

Miles nods, pressing the recorder closer. "At the game, you mentioned you and Groover had been friends for months before dating. Some of my sources suggest your relationshipbegan much more recently—convenient timing with the Kingsport negotiations heating up."

---