Page 34 of The Puck Contract

"Unless you have a better suggestion," I challenge.

Groover studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nods, just once. "Okay. For authenticity."

"For authenticity," I echo, ignoring the way my heart rate picks up.

The car pulls up in front of my apartment building, engine idling as we sit in strangely charged silence. Groover makes no move to get out, and I realize he's waiting for me to exit.

"Well," I say, hand on the door handle. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Mateo." His voice is softer than usual, almost pensive.

As I climb the stairs to my apartment, I can't stop thinking about that brief kiss, about the strange electricity it generated, about the agreement we just made.

Practice kissing. For authenticity.

Carlos is sprawled on the couch when I walk in, textbooks open but clearly forgotten in favor of the video game on the screen.

"How was date night with Hockey Boy?" he asks without looking away from his game.

"Fine," I say, heading straight for the refrigerator and the leftover coffee I know is in there. I need caffeine. Or maybe alcohol. Or both.

"Just fine? You're usually more verbose after these fancy outings. Did something happen?"

I pop the coffee in the microwave, watching it rotate while I consider how to answer. Did something happen? Yes. I kissed a guy for the first time and didn't hate it. In fact, I kind of want to do it again. For practice, obviously.

"We kissed," I say finally. "In front of photographers."

The game pauses and Carlos appears in the kitchen doorway. "Well, well, well. Details, please."

"It wasn't a big deal. Just a quick kiss for the cameras. Very PG."

"And?" Carlos prompts.

"And what?"

"And how was it? Kissing your fake boyfriend who you definitely have no real feelings for whatsoever?"

I scowl at him. "It was fine. Different."

"Different how?"

The microwave beeps, saving me from answering immediately. I take my time retrieving the coffee, adding sugar, stirring longer than necessary.

"I don't know," I finally say. "Just more... solid?"

Carlos leans against the doorframe, looking far too amused. "Solid. Wow. Such poetry. Shakespeare would weep."

"Shut up," I mutter, taking a sip of coffee that's too hot and trying not to wince. "It's not like I have a frame of reference here."

"But you're going to get one, right? Since you 'need practice for authenticity'?" He does air quotes around the words, and I freeze.

"How did you—"

"Dude, you just mumbled that phrase like three times while staring into the fridge. Not exactly CIA-level secrecy."

Great. Apparently, I talk to myself now. Another delightful development in the ongoing saga of my unraveling sanity.

"It's not what it sounds like," I insist. "It's just for the job. The kiss looked awkward, which could raise questions aboutthe legitimacy of our relationship, which could jeopardize the Kingsport deal," I robotically recite.

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