Page 5 of The Puck Contract

"He's... not bad looking," I'd admitted.

Carlos had grinned triumphantly. "So you'll do it?"

And that's how I found myself being introduced to a group of enormous hockey players in the lobby of the Grand Marquis Hotel, trying not to look like I'm about to pass out.

"Everyone, this is Mateo," Groover says, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. The casual touch sends an unexpected shiver up my spine that I attribute to nerves. "Mateo, this is... everyone."

A mountain of a man with dark skin and close-cropped hair steps forward, extending his hand. "Marcus Washington. Team captain. Nice to meet you, Mateo."

His handshake could crush coal into diamonds. "Nice to meet you too, sir."

Washington laughs. "Sir? I'm not that old. Marcus is fine."

The player who was in Groover's room earlier—Becker, I think—appears at my side. "Riley Becker, defenseman extraordinaire and Groover's much better-looking friend."

"Ignore him," Groover advises. "Everyone else does."

A fleet of sleek black SUVs pull up outside in what looks like an orchestrated fashion, and Washington checks his watch. "That's us. Let's move, gentlemen."

As we file toward the exit, Groover leans down to whisper in my ear. "Just so you know, the team has no idea this is an arrangement. As far as they're concerned, you're my actual boyfriend."

Great. So I'm not just lying to the public and the sponsors, but to his teammates too. The $10,000 is starting to feel less like easy money and more like hazard pay.

The ride to the gala venue is a blur of Groover explaining the evening's schedule and who's who in the organization. I should be paying attention, but my brain is too busy having an existential crisis about the life choices that led me here.

"So," Groover says as we near our destination, "ground rules. Nothing physical beyond hand-holding without consent. If anyone asks how we met, we stick to the mutual friends story. Keep details vague but consistent. Questions?"

I have about a thousand questions, starting with 'What the hell am I doing?' and ending with 'Why does your aftershave smell so good?' but what comes out is: "Did you know that in many indigenous cultures, sports rituals were used as proxies for warfare? The Mesoamerican ballgame was actually a representation of cosmic battle between day and night, and losing team captains were sometimes sacrificed to the gods."

Groover stares at me like I've grown a second head.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "I ramble when I'm nervous. It's my thesis topic—sports rituals as cultural signifiers. The anthropological significance of competitive play is actually fascinating because it represents—"

"Mateo," Groover interrupts gently.

"Yes?"

"Take a breath."

I inhale deeply, suddenly aware I've been talking without pausing for oxygen.

"You're going to be fine," he says, and the confidence in his voice almost makes me believe him. "Just be yourself. Except maybe with fewer human sacrifices."

"Right. Got it. No human sacrifices. Save that for the third date." I attempt a joke that falls spectacularly flat.

The SUV slows to a stop, and through the tinted windows, I can see the flashing of cameras. My stomach drops into my very expensive rental shoes.

"Ready?" Groover asks, hand on the door handle.

"Not even slightly."

He grins, and it transforms his face from merely handsome to simply unfair. "Perfect. Let's go."

The door opens, and we're immediately assaulted by camera flashes and shouted questions.

"Groover! Over here!"

"Ansel! Who's your date?"

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