Page 50 of The Puck Contract

"Come on," I say, trying to salvage the afternoon. "Let's see if you can make it from here to the blue line. I'll buy you dinner anywhere you want if you make it without falling."

Mateo's competitive streak flares to life, as I knew it would. "Anywhere? Even that fancy sushi place Wall was talking about?"

"Even there," I confirm. "Though my wallet is already crying at the possibility."

He squares his shoulders, determination replacing the momentary awkwardness. "You're on, Williams."

I skate a few feet away, positioning myself near the blue line with arms outstretched, ready to catch him. "Your goal is right here. Think you can make it?"

"Prepare to buy me so much sushi," he says with exaggerated confidence that doesn't quite mask his nervousness.

He pushes off, wobbling immediately but correcting himself. Another push, stronger this time, sends him gliding toward me. His form is terrible, his balance precarious, but he's moving steadily in my direction.

Three feet from the blue line, his left skate catches on a rough patch of ice. He lurches forward, arms pinwheeling, a look of comical panic crossing his face.

I skate forward and catch him, our bodies colliding with enough force to knock us both backward. My ass hits the ice first, then my back, with Mateo landing on top of me for the second time today.

"Déjà vu," I manage, slightly winded.

"Did I make it?" he asks, lifting his head to look around. His body is still sprawled across mine, our legs tangled together.

I glance over at the blue line, which is about a foot away from where we landed. "Not quite."

"Damn it," he sighs dramatically. "I was so close to fancy sushi."

"Tell you what," I say, "I'll buy you dinner anyway. That was a valiant effort."

He props himself up on my chest, looking down at me with those bright hazel eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I confirm, hyper-aware of his weight on me, of how easy it would be to lift my head those few inches and kiss him again. "You earned it."

For a moment, I think he might be considering the same thing. His eyes drop to my mouth again, lingering this time. I feel his breath hitch, the subtle shift of his body against mine.

The damn buzzer blares again, shattering the moment like a puck through glass. Mateo jumps, as expected, and rolls off me with a groan.

"I swear that thing is sentient and malicious," he complains, lying flat on his back beside me.

I laugh, turning my head to look at him. "You should hear it from here during an actual game. Multiply that by about a thousand screaming fans."

"Hard pass," he says, making a face. "I'll stick to the soundproofed comfort of the VIP box, thank you very much."

As I help him to his feet again, I glance up at the press box. Jason Miles is still there, watching us with undisguised interest. I can practically see the gears turning in his reporter brain, looking for angles, searching for a story.

Let him look, I decide, putting an arm around Mateo's shoulders as we skate slowly toward the exit. If he wants a show, we'll give him one—the perfect hockey couple enjoying a day off together. It's what we're being paid for, after all.

But as Mateo leans into me, laughing about something ridiculous Becker said at breakfast, I have to remind myself that this is still just pretend. The touches, the laughter, the moments of tension—they're all part of an elaborate performance.

Aren't they?

I'm not so sure anymore. And judging by the way Mateo's hand lingers on my arm as I help him off the ice, I don't think he is either.

Thin ice, indeed.

CHAPTER 15

MATEO

IF HELL EXISTS, it probably looks like the third floor of the Murray Library during midterms week. Sleep-deprived students hunched over laptops, the air thick with desperation and Red Bull fumes, and me—buried under a mountain of ethnographic field notes I'm supposed to be transforming into coherent arguments about cultural relativism in urban spaces.

---