Page 51 of The Puck Contract

I've been camped at the same table for six hours straight. My ass has forgotten what it feels like to not be numb. My coffee went cold two hours ago, and I'm pretty sure the guy three tables over hasn't blinked in at least forty-five minutes. We're all zombies in the academic apocalypse.

I'm highlighting a passage about the cultural significance of community gardens when my vision starts to blur. Great. My brain is officially staging a coup against further knowledge absorption. I drop my head onto my open textbook with a quiet thump, contemplating whether Dr. Winters would accept "temporary insanity" as an excuse for an extension.

"I'm guessing that's either a new study technique or you've finally snapped."

The familiar voice jerks me upright so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Standing beside my table, looking absurdly out of place among the scholarly squalor, is Groover. He's holding two to-go cups from the fancy coffee place three blocks from campus and a large paper bag that smells suspiciously like heaven.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper-hiss, acutely aware of the death glares from nearby students who take the library's silence policy more seriously than their own hygiene.

"Bringing sustenance to the academically besieged," he says, setting down the coffee and bag. "You mentioned you'd be here all day, so..."

My heart does an embarrassing little somersault. We've been texting since getting back from the road trip three days ago, but I didn't expect him to actually show up. Especially not bearing gifts.

"You remembered I was studying?" It comes out more touched than I intended.

"Hard to forget when every text for the past two days has included the words 'I'm dying' and 'Dr. Winters is Satan in sensible shoes.'" He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, completely ignoring the raised eyebrows from the table of English majors to our right.

I peek into the bag and find an assortment of pastries from Cafe Laurent, the ridiculously expensive bakery that usually has a line out the door. "How did you get these? There's always a forty-minute wait."

"The perks of being a local celebrity," he says with a self-deprecating smile that makes the gap between his front teeth visible. "The owner's kid plays hockey. Apparently, I signed his jersey last season."

I take a cautious sip of the coffee, which is exactly how I like it—medium roast with a splash of oat milk and way too much sugar. "You remembered my coffee order?"

"I pay attention," he says simply, and something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the caffeine.

I glance around at the other students, several of whom are now openly staring. "Not that I'm not grateful for the caffeine intervention, but you know this isn't exactly a low-profile location, right?"

"Would you rather I didn't come?" There's genuine uncertainty in his voice, and I rush to correct him.

"No! No, that's not—I just meant you're kind of conspicuous." I gesture vaguely at him, at the broad shoulders and athletic build that scream 'I don't belong among these academic gremlins.' "People are staring."

"Let them," he shrugs, completely unbothered. "I'm just a guy bringing his boyfriend study snacks. Very wholesome content."

Right. Boyfriend. For show. The reminder is like a splash of cold water. This is just Groover playing the part, making sure we're seen together in public spaces beyond hockey events. Perfectly on script for our arrangement.

Except he didn't text Sophia to let her know about this "appearance." And there's no media here to capture the moment. And the way he's looking at me right now, like I'm theonly person in this crowded library worth seeing, feels a lot more real than pretend.

"So," he says, nodding at my scattered notes. "What are we studying?"

"Cultural relativism in urban spaces," I say automatically. "I'm analyzing how community-created spaces reflect and resist dominant cultural narratives."

Groover blinks. "I understood approximately three of those words."

I laugh, then quickly cover my mouth as the English majors shush me aggressively. "Sorry," I stage-whisper to Groover. "Basically, I'm looking at how people turn empty lots and abandoned spaces into gardens and gathering spots, and what that says about their cultural values."

"Like people taking pictures of interesting things others throw away?" he asks, referencing a quirk he'd teased me about before.

"Exactly," I say, surprised and touched that he remembered. "It's all connected to how communities assert identity through spatial reclamation."

"Spatial reclamation," he repeats carefully, like he's testing out the words. "Is that like when Becker steals my spot on the bench?"

I snort-laugh again, earning another round of glares. "Not exactly, but I appreciate the effort."

"I aim to please," he says, with that crooked smile that does stupid things to my insides. "Can I help? Quiz you or something?"

I consider saying no—the thought of Groover attempting to pronounce anthropological terminology is both hilarious andpotentially disastrous—but the hopeful look on his face breaks my resolve.

"Sure," I say, sliding a stack of flashcards toward him. "These are key concepts I need to remember. Just read the term and I'll define it."

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