Page 4 of The Puck Contract

"Rossi."

"Italian?"

"Half. My dad's side."

"Student?"

"Anthropology major. Junior year."

He nods, processing this information with the efficiency of someone used to memorizing play strategies. "Okay, Mateo Rossi, anthropology student. We've been dating for... let's say two months, but kept it quiet. Met through mutual friends."

"Two months is believable?" I ask, suddenly aware of how little I know about this man I'm supposed to be convincingly in love with.

"It's long enough to bring you to a team event but short enough that no one will question why they haven't heard aboutyou before." The elevator doors open, and he lowers his voice. "Just follow my lead and try not to look terrified."

"I'm not terrified," I lie, absolutely terrified.

Groover gives me a look that says he's not buying it, but there's something almost gentle in his expression. "It'll be fine. Just be yourself. Except, you know, madly in love with me."

And with that pearl of wisdom, he guides me into the lobby where a cluster of men in identical black tuxedos wait near the entrance.

My mind flashes back to last week, when this whole bizarre situation began. I'd been hunched over my laptop in the campus library, desperately trying to figure out how I was going to come up with the $3,000 I still needed for next semester's tuition. My scholarship covered most of it, but not all, and my part-time barista gig barely paid rent.

Carlos, my roommate and best friend since freshman year, had dropped into the chair across from me with the kind of grin that usually preceded terrible ideas involving tequila.

"Dude, I have the solution to your money problems."

I'd barely looked up. "Unless you're about to hand me three grand, I'm not interested."

"Better. How would you like to make ten grand for three months of easy work?"

That had gotten my attention. "If this involves drug trafficking or selling organs, I'm out."

"Nothing illegal." He'd leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know my cousin Sophia? She works in PR for the Wolves."

"The hockey team?"

"Yeah. So apparently, one of their players needs a fake boyfriend for some corporate sponsorship thing. Sophia's been tasked with finding someone discreet, trustworthy, and—her words—'reasonably attractive in a non-threatening way.'"

I'd frowned. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Focus, bro. Ten grand to pretend to date a hot hockey player for three months. All you have to do is show up to some events, take some pictures, maybe hold hands in public. Easy money."

I'd snorted. "Yeah, except I'm straight."

Carlos had given me a look. "Are you though? Because that 'girl crush' you had on Professor Evans last semester seemed pretty intense."

"He's a sixty-year-old man with elbow patches and a British accent. That's academic admiration."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself." Carlos had shrugged. "Look, no one's asking you to sleep with the guy. Just pretend to like him in public. Ten grand, Mateo. That's tuition, rent,andyour books for next semester."

He'd had a point. Ten grand would solve a lot of problems. And it wasn't like I was morally opposed to people thinking I was gay or bi. I just... wasn't.

"Which player?" I'd asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Ansel Williams. The one they call Groover."

I'd vaguely recognized the name. Carlos was the sports fan, not me. I'd pulled up a quick image search and—oh. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that was slightly crooked in the most adorable of ways.

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