Page 33 of The Puck Contract

There it is again—the Kingsport connection. Last time, Leila had rescued me from this line of questioning. Now, there's no buffer.

"I don't know what sources you're talking to," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "but they seem weirdly invested in my love life."

"Just doing my job," Miles says with a shrug that's anything but casual. "It's interesting that no one had heard of you until the deal was almost finalized. Almost like you appeared right when Groover needed a stable image for his sponsors."

I feel Groover stiffen beside me. Miles is getting dangerously close to the truth, and we both know it.

"That's enough," Groover says, voice low but firm. "We're done here."

He guides me around Miles toward a black SUV parked at the curb that I recognize as his. The driver's door opens, and a large man in a suit emerges—security detail, I realize. The team must have arranged it when they saw the photographers gathered.

"This way, Mr. Williams," the security guy says, opening the passenger door. Groover ushers me in first, then slides in beside me.

As soon as the doors close and we pull away from the curb, the atmosphere in the car shifts from tense to downright awkward. Neither of us speaks for a long moment. I stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, hyperaware of Groover's presence beside me, the lingering sensation of his lips on mine, the strange flutter in my stomach that won't settle.

"I'm sorry about that," Groover finally says, breaking the silence. "I should have warned you the paps might be there. Someone must have tipped them off."

"It's fine," I say automatically. "Part of the gig, right?"

"The kiss wasn't part of the deal. I shouldn't have put you in that position."

I turn to look at him. In the dim light of the car, his features are shadowed, but I can see the genuine concern in his eyes. He's worried he crossed a line.

"You didn't put me in any position," I say. "I agreed to it. And it was just a kiss, no big deal."

Except it kind of feels like a big deal, and I don't know why. I've kissed plenty of people before. Granted, all women, but still—it's just pressing lips together. Basic human interaction. So why am I obsessing over it?

"Still," Groover says, "it wasn't something we discussed beforehand. And Miles—he's getting more persistent."

"You think he knows something?" I ask, anxiety spiking. "About the… arrangement?"

Groover sighs, running a hand through his short hair. "Sports reporters have sources everywhere. He might not know details, but he clearly suspects the timing isn't coincidental."

"Is that bad? I mean, for the deal?"

"It could be if it starts looking like our relationship is just for show." His gaze shifts to the window. "Which it is, but no one's supposed to know that."

Right. Because I'm not actually his boyfriend. I'm an employee, essentially. A prop for his public image.

The reminder stings more than it should.

"We should probably work on making it look more convincing," I hear myself say. "The kiss, I mean. It was pretty awkward."

Groover turns back to me, eyebrow raised. "Awkward?"

"Well, yeah. We looked like middle schoolers at their first dance. That can't be great for your 'stable relationship' image."

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "You're probably right. We should at least look like we know what we're doing."

"Exactly. It's like..." I search for an analogy that will make sense to him. "Do hockey players practice checking? It's the same concept, right? You practice so it looks natural in the game."

Groover's lips twitch, almost a smile. "Are you comparing kissing me to body-checking an opponent?"

"I mean, the physics are completely different,obviously, but the principle is the same. Practice makes perfect."

Now he does smile, that crooked grin that makes the gap between his front teeth visible. "So you're suggesting we practice kissing? For authenticity."

Put like that, it sounds ridiculous. And vaguely like the plot of every rom-com ever made. But also... not the worst idea I've ever had?

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