Page 54 of The Puck Contract

"Close enough."

We stand there, neither making a move to leave or go inside. The moment stretches, taut with possibility. His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, but long enough that my heart rate doubles.

"Mateo," he says, voice lower than before.

"Yeah?" Mine comes out embarrassingly breathless.

He steps closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained all evening. We're standing toe to toe now, close enough that I can smell his aftershave—something earthy and clean that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.

"I've been thinking about kissing you again," he admits quietly. "Pretty much constantly since that day on my couch."

My mouth goes dry. "Oh."

"Is that okay?"

Is it okay? Is it okay that I've been having the same thoughts? That I've replayed our kiss in my mind so many times I could probably write a doctoral dissertation on the exact pressure of his lips against mine, the way his hands felt on my waist, the surprising strength of his body beneath mine?

"Yes," I whisper, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has completely malfunctioned.

He lifts his hand, gently brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. The simple touch makes me shiver. His fingers trail down, feather-light, to cup my jaw. I lean into the touch instinctively, like a plant turning toward the sun.

He leans in, our foreheads nearly touching. I can feel his breath on my lips, so close, just a fraction of an inch separating us. My eyes flutter closed in anticipation.

And then the front door of my apartment building flies open with the worst timing in the history of the universe.

"Mateo! There you are!" Carlos stands in the doorway, completely oblivious to the moment he's just shattered. "I've been calling you for like an hour. Did you forget we need to finish the lease renewal tonight? The office needs it by—" He finallyregisters the scene before him, his eyes widening. "Oh. Did I interrupt something?"

I could kill him. I could actually commit homicide right here on the steps of our apartment building, and I bet even the strictest judge would rule it justifiable once they heard the circumstances.

"No," Groover says, stepping back, his hand falling away from my face. "I was just saying goodnight."

The loss of his touch is physically painful. I want to grab his hand and put it back, to pull him close and finish what we started, Carlos be damned.

But the moment is gone, reality rushing back in like a cold tide.

Carlos, at least, has the decency to look apologetic. "Sorry, man. I can give you guys a minute..."

"It's fine," Groover says, though his tight smile suggests otherwise. "I should head out anyway. Early practice tomorrow."

I want to argue, to ask him to stay, but what would be the point? To kiss him? And then what? Continue pretending this is just part of our arrangement? Or admit that whatever is happening between us is becoming dangerously real?

"I'll text you about Thursday," Groover says, already backing down the sidewalk. "8 AM, right?"

"Right," I confirm, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. "Room 305 in the Humanities building."

"I'll be there," he promises. With a final nod to Carlos and a lingering look at me, he turns and walks away, the distance between us growing with each step.

"Dude," Carlos says once Groover is out of earshot. "Please tell me you were about to kiss Hockey Boy, and then tell me you'll forgive me for cockblocking you with lease paperwork."

"I hate you," I mutter, pushing past him into the building. "So much."

"That's fair," he concedes, following me inside. "But in my defense, the office really does need the renewal tonight, and you weren't answering your phone."

I pull out my phone and see four missed calls from Carlos. I'd silenced it during studying and forgotten to check. "Fine. You're marginally less culpable."

"So..." Carlos drags out the word as we climb the stairs to our apartment. "You and Groover, huh? Making progress on the whole 'am I bi' question?"

"We didn't actually kiss," I point out, ignoring the way my heart clenches at the near-miss.

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