Page 38 of The Puck Contract

"Thanks for, um, the lesson." He's backing toward the door, grabbing his jacket from where he tossed it on a chair earlier. "Very educational. Super helpful for, you know, public appearances and stuff."

"Any time," I say, because what else am I supposed to say?Sorry my kissing gave you an inconvenient boner?

He nods jerkily. "Great. Okay. I'll text you. About the next game. Or whatever."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence of my apartment.

I let out a long, slow breath, head falling back against the couch cushions. What the fuck just happened?

One minute we're having a clinical kissing lesson, and the next we're practically dry humping on my couch. And Mateo—supposedly straight Mateo who's only in this for the money—was the one who took control. Who got hard.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. This is bad. This is complicated in waysI didn't sign up for. Fake relationships are one thing, but real attraction? That wasn't part of the deal.

And Iamattracted to him.

There's no point denying it anymore. I've been fighting it since that first night at the gala, telling myself it was just convenient fiction, just playing a part. But the way my body responded to him just now was anything but fake.

The question is: what do I do now? Pretend it never happened? Talk about it like adults? Terminate the agreement before things get messier?

My phone buzzes with a text. For a wild moment I think it might be Mateo, but it's just Becker.

Becker:Wall says you're coming to optional skate tomorrow. Please confirm so I can plan my mockery accordingly.

I stare at the screen, reality slowly reasserting itself. Right. Hockey. My actual job. The reason for this whole fake boyfriend scheme in the first place.

I type back a quick confirmation, then toss the phone aside, sighing.

Whatever just happened with Mateo, I'll have to figure it out later. For now, I've got a sponsorship deal on the line, a team counting on me, and a practice to prepare for. My complicated feelings for my fake boyfriend will have to wait.

But as I head to the shower—a cold one, obviously—I can't stop replaying those moments on the couch, the feel ofMateo's lips against mine, the surprising strength in his hands, the way he took control.

Well, fuck. This is going to be a problem.

CHAPTER 12

MATEO

IT'S BEEN FORTY-SEVEN hours since I fled Groover's apartment like it was on fire. Forty-seven hours, six ignored texts, two dodged calls, and approximately eight thousand existential crises.

I'm not avoiding him, per se. I'm just... strategically unavailable while I sort through the emotional tsunami currently drowning my brain. Totally different.

My phone buzzes again from its burial spot under my pillow. I ignore it with the dedication of a monk who's taken a vow of technological celibacy. It's probably Groover again, asking if I'm alive or if I've been kidnapped by anthropology-hating aliens.

I should answer him. A normal person would answer him. But every time I think about typing a response, my brain helpfully replaysThe Incidentin 4K ultra-high-definition: me, straddling Groover's lap like I was auditioning for Magic Mike: The Academic Edition, getting hard from kissing him, thenfleeing with all the dignity of a cartoon character leaving a dust outline behind.

Not my proudest moment.

I groan and roll over, staring at my laptop screen where I've been conducting what can only be described as the most confused Google search session in human history. Current tab: "Am I bisexual quiz: 25 questions to determine your sexuality!"

My search history is a map of my mental breakdown:

"enjoyed kissing a guy am I gay"

"how to know if you're bisexual"

"is getting hard from kissing a guy normal"

"bisexuality sudden onset possible?"

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