Page 47 of The Puck Contract

CHAPTER 14

GROOVER

IN PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY, winning on the road is sweet. Winning on the road when your maybe-not-so-fake boyfriend is watching? Practically orgasmic.

Last night's third-period comeback against New York had the whole team buzzing. Two goals in the final five minutes (one of them mine, thank you very much) sent us back to the hotel riding high on adrenaline and victory beers. Now we've got a blessed day off before heading to Boston for the next game, and I've got plans.

"You want me to what?" Mateo stares at me over the room service breakfast I ordered for us, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

"Skate," I repeat, helping myself to another piece of bacon. "The practice rink is empty today. I checked with management, and we can use it this afternoon."

"Let me get this straight," he says slowly. "You want to put me, a person with the natural grace of a newborn giraffe, on a slippery surface with knives strapped to my feet?"

I grin around my bacon. "That's the general idea, yes."

"Have you forgotten the puck incident? I got hit standing safely behind plexiglass. Imagine the damage I could do to myself with actual ice involved."

"I'll be there to catch you," I promise. "Besides, it's practically a crime that you've been dating a hockey player for two months and never been on the ice."

His expression shifts slightly at the word "dating," a quick flicker I might have missed if I wasn't watching for it. Since our middle-of-the-night talk, things have been easier between us—not quite back to normal, but less strained. We've achieved a fragile détente where we acknowledge something happened but don't directly address it.

It's cowardly, probably. But it's working for now.

"Fine," Mateo sighs dramatically. "But when I break something important, you're explaining to Dr. Winters why I can't finish my ethnographic analysis of urban foraging practices."

"Deal." I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. "I'll even throw in a signed jersey for her. She seems like the type who'd appreciate that."

"Throw in a signed jersey for me with padding sewn in, and we've got a deal."

Two hours later, we're entering the practice facility through a side door, the security guard nodding at me with recognition. The place is eerily quiet—no coaches shouting, no pucks slapping against boards, no players chirping each other.Just the low hum of the refrigeration system keeping the ice pristine.

"It's bigger than it looks from up there," Mateo observes, gazing around the empty rink. "And colder."

"Wait until you're on the ice," I warn him. "That's when it really gets cold."

I lead him to the equipment room where I've already arranged for skates in his size and some basic protective gear. The team PR department has apparently decided this outing is photo-worthy, because there's also a bundle of Wolves merch waiting for us.

"This is for you," I say, holding up a blue practice jersey. When Mateo turns it around, he bursts out laughing.

Instead of a player name on the back, someone has printed "GROOVER'S BF" above the number 69. Real subtle.

"This is... subtle," he echoes my thoughts, still laughing. "Who ordered these? Becker?"

"My money's on Sophia," I say. "She's got a twisted sense of humor beneath that professional exterior."

Mateo slips the jersey over his head, and something warm blooms in my chest at the sight of him in my team's colors, the words "GROOVER'S BF" stretching across his shoulders. It's silly and promotional and probably meant to generate social media buzz, but part of me—the part I try to keep firmly in check—really likes seeing him marked as mine, even in this jokey way.

"How do I look?" Mateo spreads his arms, doing a little turn that's more adorable than it has any right to be.

"Like you're about to fall on your ass repeatedly," I say instead ofperfectorlike someone I'd very much like to kiss again.

Helping Mateo into his skates is an exercise in patience and inappropriate thoughts. He sits on the bench while I kneel in front of him, showing him how to lace them properly.

"Too tight and you'll cut off circulation," I explain, fingers working efficiently. "Too loose and you won't have enough ankle support."

"There's ankle support in these medieval torture devices?" he asks dubiously.

"Trust me," I say, looking up to find his face closer than expected. "I've been doing this since I was three."

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