Page 41 of The Puck Contract

After he leaves, I reopen my laptop and stare at the quiz I was taking. Twenty-five questions to determine my sexuality, as if the complexity of human desire could be reduced to a multiple-choice test with a neat percentage at the end.

I close the browser without finishing. Carlos is right—I don't need to label myself right this minute. But I do need to face Groover before this trip.

I pick up my phone and open our text thread.

Groover(2 days ago): Hey, you get home okay?

Groover(2 days ago): About what happened... we should probably talk.

Groover(yesterday): Mateo? Just checking you're alive.

Groover(yesterday): Sophia mentioned the trip. Let me know if you're still coming.

Groover(10 hours ago): At least let me know you're okay. Getting worried.

Groover(1 hour ago): If I don't hear from you by tonight I'm assuming you've been kidnapped and will be contacting the authorities. Or worse, your roommate.

I take a deep breath and type:

Me: Sorry for going AWOL. Not kidnapped, just processing. Yes, I'm still coming.

His response is almost immediate.

Groover:Good to know you're alive. We don't have to talk about what happened if you don't want to.

His understanding just makes me feel worse. I owe him more than that.

Me:We probably should talk. But maybe not over text.

Groover:Fair enough. We can talk on the trip. No pressure.

Groover:And Mateo? It's all good. Really.

I stare at those words, wondering if he really means them or if he's just being nice. Either way, I've committed now. Away games await, along with the conversation I've been avoiding for forty-seven hours and counting.

As Carlos would say: What's the worst that could happen?

Actually, don't answer that. My imagination is creative enough without the assistance.

CHAPTER 13

GROOVER

"NO."

I stare at the three-ring binder thrust in my face, complete with a professionally printed cover page reading "Operation Boyfriend Education: Making Mateo a Hockey Expert." There's even clip art of a hockey stick and a mortarboard. "What the actual fuck, Becker?"

Becker clutches the binder to his chest like I've insulted his firstborn child. "Do you have any idea how much time Wall and I spent on this? We stayed up until 2 AM making flowcharts of playoff scenarios!"

We're standing in the private terminal of Chicago O'Hare, waiting for the team charter to New York. Most of the guys are already settled in the waiting area, some napping, others buried in headphones or playing cards. Mateo is due to arrive any minute, and apparently, my teammates have prepared... whatever this monstrosity is.

"Flowcharts," I repeat flatly.For my fake boyfriend who's barely speaking to me after our practice kissing session turned into softcore porn.

Okay, I didn't actually say that last part out loud, but the sentiment stands.

"Think of it as a peace offering," Wall suggests, appearing beside Becker with his own copy of the binder. "Something to break the ice, since you two have been weird lately."

"We haven't been weird," I protest automatically.

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