Page 52 of The Puck Contract

He picks up the cards, squinting slightly at my cramped handwriting. "Let's start with... 'hem-en-u-tics'?"

"Hermeneutics," I correct gently.

"That's what I said. Herm-eh-new-tics."

"Close enough. It's the theory and methodology of interpretation, especially of texts."

Groover nods seriously, like I've just imparted profound wisdom. "Right. Text interpretation. Got it." He flips to the next card, his forehead creasing in concentration. "Fen-oh-men-ology?"

"Phenomenology. The philosophical study of structures of experience and consciousness."

"So... thinking about thinking?"

I grin. "That's actually not a terrible simplification."

"I'll take 'not terrible' as high praise from an academic." He shuffles through the cards, then pulls one out with a triumphant expression. "Here's one I might actually be able to pronounce. 'Liminality.'"

"The quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage or transition."

Groover gives me a blank look. "English, please?"

"It's like..." I search for an analogy he'll understand. "It's like being in the neutral zone in hockey. You're between defined spaces, neither here nor there."

"Ah," he says, understanding dawning. "Like being neither fully straight nor fully gay?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the busy library fades away.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Like that."

He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then clears his throat and returns to the cards. "How about 'Cultural hegemony'?"

"The dominance of one cultural group over others, often maintained through social norms and ideas rather than force."

"So when everyone assumes hockey players are dumb jocks, that's cultural hegemony in action?"

I laugh, genuinely surprised. "That's... actually a perfect example. You're better at this than you're letting on."

He shrugs, but I can tell he's pleased. "I read sometimes. Don't tell the team—it would ruin my reputation."

For the next hour, Groover continues quizzing me, mangling anthropological terms in increasingly creative ways that have me stifling laughter behind my hand. "Ethnomethodology" becomes "ethno-method-ology," "categorical imperative" transforms into "cat-egret-ical imperative," and his attempt at "phenomenological reduction" is so butchered I actually snort coffee through my nose.

It's the most I've laughed during midterms week. The stress that's been a constant companion for days gradually loosens its grip, replaced by something warmer, lighter. Even the English majors have given up on shushing us, retreating to a different corner of the library in academic disgust.

As Groover attempts to pronounce "autoethnography" for the third time, my phone buzzes with an incoming notification. I glance down to see a banking alert. Deposit Received: $3,333.33 fromCHICAGO WOLVES LLC.

The second contract payment.

I quickly dismiss the notification, a cold knot forming in my stomach, replacing the warmth that had been building. The reminder of our arrangement—of the fact that I'm being paid to sit here and laugh with him—feels like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

"Everything okay?" Groover asks, noticing my sudden shift in mood.

"Yeah, fine," I say too quickly. "Just Carlos asking about dinner plans."

Groover glances at my phone, and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if he saw the notification before I dismissed it. But he just nods and returns to the flashcards, though something in his expression has changed, become more guarded.

"We should probably take a break from the quiz show," he suggests. "How much more studying do you need to do today?"

I look at my notes, then at my watch. It's nearly nine, and my brain feels like it's been put through a blender. "I should probably call it a night. I've reached that point where nothing else is going to stick."

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