Page 55 of The Puck Contract

"But you wanted to," Carlos presses. "And he clearly wanted to. And you would have if I hadn't pulled a classic rom-com interruption move."

"Can we just drop it and do the lease thing?" I fumble with my keys, unable to look at him because he's right. I did want to kiss Groover. Desperately. And not for authenticity or for show or for any reason other than I'm incredibly, stupidly attracted to him.

Carlos raises his hands in surrender. "Fine, dropped. But just so you know, I'm Team Groover. That's boyfriend material right there, fake or not."

I finally get the door open and head straight for my bedroom, unwilling to continue this conversation. As I dump my backpack on the floor, my phone buzzes with a text.

Groover:Sorry about the abrupt exit. Rain check?

I stare at the message, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite everything. Rain check. As in, he still wants to kiss me. As in, this wasn't just a one-time impulse quickly forgotten.

Me:Rain check accepted. And sorry about Carlos. His timing is supernaturally bad.

Groover:At least now I know to check for roommates before attempting to kiss you again.

Again. The word sends a shiver of anticipation through me.

Me:I'll make sure he's locked in his room next time.

Groover:Sounds like a plan. Get some sleep, anthropology genius. Dream of hermenutics.

Me:Hermeneutics*

Groover:That's what I said.

I fall back on my bed, phone clutched to my chest like a lovesick teenager, grinning at the ceiling.

Rain check.

Next time.

CHAPTER 16

MATEO

THERE ARE THREE certainties in life: death, taxes, and the crippling anxiety that comes with academic presentations.

I'm currently experiencing the third with the intensity of someone facing the first. It's 7:56 AM on Thursday morning, and I'm pacing outside Room 305 of the Humanities building, muttering key points about "spatial semiotics in community gardens" under my breath like a man reciting emergency exorcism rites.

"Urban spaces become texts through which communities articulate resistance narratives..." I mumble, adjusting my collar for the seventeenth time. "The reclamation of abandoned lots represents a physical manifestation of subaltern discourse..."

I sound like I swallowed a textbook and it's trying to escape through word vomit. Dr. Winters is going to see right through me. My classmates are going to laugh. I'm going to forget everything the moment I open my mouth and just stand there making dolphin noises for twenty minutes.

And Groover isn't here.

Not that I expected him to be. Who voluntarily shows up for an 8 AM presentation about anthropological theory? He was probably just being nice when he offered. Or maybe he realized how boring it would be and decided sleep was the better option. I don't blame him. If I had a choice, I'd be in bed too, preferably under the covers in a blanket cocoon of denial.

"Mr. Rossi," Dr. Winters calls from the doorway, peering at me over her wire-rimmed glasses. "We're ready for you."

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

I nod, plaster on a smile as artificial as the sweetener in the vending machine coffee I just chugged, and follow her into the classroom. It's a small seminar room, maybe twenty-five seats arranged in a horseshoe around a central presentation area. Most of my classmates are already there, in various states of consciousness. Aisha, my sometimes-study partner, gives me an encouraging thumbs up from her front row seat.

I set up my laptop with shaking hands, connecting it to the projector. As I pull up my presentation, I scan the room one more time, a final hopeful sweep for a certain broad-shouldered hockey player.

No Groover.

Of course. It's fine. Totally fine. I'm not disappointed at all.

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