Page 48 of The Puck Contract

Our eyes lock for a moment, and there it is again—that charge in the air between us that we're both pretending doesn't exist. I clear my throat and finish with his laces, then stand to create some much-needed distance.

"Ready?" I ask, already in my own skates. I've kept it simple—practice pants, a light long-sleeve shirt, and gloves. No need for full gear when we're just messing around.

"As I'll ever be," Mateo says, standing cautiously. He immediately wobbles, arms pinwheeling. "Oh god, I'm going to die."

I laugh and take his elbow, steadying him. "You haven't even hit the ice yet."

Getting Mateo from the bench to the ice is a journey worthy of a documentary film. Each step is a negotiation with gravity, his hand clutching my arm with increasing desperation. When we finally reach the rink entrance, he stops and stares at the gleaming surface like it's a pool of lava.

"Second thoughts?" I ask.

"About seventeen of them," he confirms. "Along with several regrets and one last will and testament. I leaveall my textbooks to Carlos, except for Theories of Modern Anthropology, which should be burned because Professor Jenkins is full of shit."

"Noted. Now step onto the ice. I've got you."

The moment Mateo's blades touch the ice, his knees lock and his entire body goes rigid. His fingernails dig into my forearm through my sleeve.

"I've made a terrible mistake," he whispers, not moving a muscle.

"Relax," I tell him, gently prying his death grip from my arm to hold his hand properly. "Bend your knees slightly. That's it. Now keep your weight centered."

His face is a mask of concentration, brows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It's ridiculously endearing.

"Good," I encourage as he manages to stand without toppling over. "Now we're going to try moving. Just a little push with your right foot, like you're scooting a penny across the floor."

He attempts the motion and promptly pitches forward. I catch him before he face-plants, my arms wrapping around his waist from behind.

"Whoa there," I say, my chest pressed against his back as I stabilize him. "Not quite that aggressive."

"This is impossible," he groans, but allows me to keep him upright. "How do small children do this?"

"Lower center of gravity. Less fear. More cartilage for the inevitable falls." I adjust my hold on him so that I'm supporting him from behind, my hands on his hips. "Try again, smaller push."

He makes another attempt, and we glide forward a few inches. "I did it!" he exclaims, then immediately wobbles again.

For the next half hour, I guide Mateo around the rink like this—my front to his back, hands steady on his hips, occasionally sliding up to his waist when he needs more support. It's both torture and delight, having him in my arms like this, all lean muscle and warmth despite the cold air around us.

Each small success is celebrated with enthusiasm disproportionate to the achievement. Each fall (and there are many) is met with laughter once I assure myself he's not actually hurt.

"I'm going to be one giant bruise tomorrow," Mateo predicts after his fifth tumble onto the ice. He's sitting where he fell, looking up at me with snowflakes of shaved ice clinging to the "GROOVER'S BF" lettering.

"Badge of honor," I say, extending a hand to help him up. "Every hockey player has intimate knowledge of ice temperature against their ass."

"Truly a detail I could have lived without experiencing firsthand," he grumbles, but his eyes are bright with humor.

Just as I pull him to his feet, the practice buzzer goes off—a sound designed to cut through chaos, loud enough to be heard over the noise of twenty men skating and shouting.

Mateo jumps like he's been electrocuted, his feet sliding out from under him as he grabs onto me in panic. We both go down in a tangle of limbs, me landing on my back with him sprawled on top of me, face pressed into my neck.

"What the fuck was that?" he gasps against my skin.

"Practice buzzer," I manage, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. "Sorry, I forgot to warn you. They're on an automatic timer."

He lifts his head to look at me, his face inches from mine. "A little warning would have been nice!"

"I'll add it to the Hockey Boyfriend Binder," I promise. "Section four: Unexpected Loud Noises and Where to Find Them."

He laughs, the movement vibrating through both our bodies, and suddenly the situation shifts from funny to something else entirely. His smile fades as awareness dawns. I can see the exact moment he realizes our position—his thighs bracketing mine, our chests pressed together, faces close enough to share breath.

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