Page 43 of The Puck Contract

The smile widens slightly, and for a moment it feels like us again, before The Kiss That Shall Not Be Named. Then Washington calls for us to board, and the moment passes.

The flight itself is mercifully uneventful, except for Ace's white-knuckled grip on the armrests during takeoff. Mateo sits beside me, but we don't talk much—him buried in the Hockey Boyfriend binder, me pretending to nap while actually hyper-aware of every time his elbow brushes mine.

By the time we land, I've rehearsed about fifteen different versions of "so about that kiss" conversations in my head, all of them terrible.

The real challenge comes when we check into the hotel. Usually on road trips, players room together by assigned pairs, but the "significant others" get to stay with their players. Which means Mateo and I are sharing a room. A room with two queen beds and a whole lot of unresolved tension.

"This is nice," Mateo says as we enter our room, both of us carefully circling each other like wary animals. "Better than my dorm freshman year."

"One of the perks of professional sports," I agree, setting my bag on the bed farthest from the window. "Mediocre hotels in exciting cities we barely see."

Mateo claims the other bed, carefully placing the Hockey Boyfriend binder on the nightstand. "So what's the schedule?"

"Team dinner in an hour, then free time. Practice tomorrow morning, game tomorrow night."

He nods, and we lapse into silence, the elephant in the room doing jumping jacks between us.

"Mateo—" I start, just as he says, "Groover—"

We both stop, then share a small laugh that breaks a fraction of the tension.

"You first," I offer.

He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry for avoiding you after... you know."

"It's okay."

"It's not," he insists. "It was immature and probably made you feel like you did something wrong, which you didn't."

"I appreciate that." I sit on the edge of my bed, facing him. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have let things go so far."

"It wasn't just you," he says quietly. "I was pretty enthusiastically participating."

The memory of him taking control, pushing me back against the couch cushions, flashes vividly in my mind. Yeah, "enthusiastic" is one word for it.

"Still," I say, "I know this is just a job for you. I shouldn't have complicated things."

Something flickers across his face that I can't quite read. "Right. The job."

More awkward silence. This is going great.

"Anyway," I say, standing up, "we should probably head down soon. The team gets cranky when they're hungry."

"Sure. I just need to freshen up a bit." He grabs his toiletry bag and retreats to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which are primarily variations on: You're so fucked, Williams.

Dinner is in a private room at an upscale steakhouse near the hotel. The team is rowdy as usual, riding the high of a good flight and the anticipation of tomorrow's game. Mateo is seated beside me, putting on a good show of being the attentive boyfriend despite our earlier awkwardness.

"So, Mateo," Leila asks from across the table, "how are you enjoying your first road trip with the team?"

"It's interesting," Mateo says diplomatically. "Everyone's been very welcoming."

"Especially Groover, I bet," Becker waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I briefly contemplate whether I could get away with stabbing him with my salad fork.

"Actually," Mateo says smoothly, "Groover's been a perfect gentleman. Unlike some people at this table."

There's a chorus of "Ooooohs" as the team reacts to Becker getting burned. Ace slaps him on the back consolingly.

"You walked into that one, man."

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