Page 57 of The Puck Contract

"He's just here for support," I mumble, suddenly self-conscious.

"Support, right." Aisha smirks. "The kind of support that involves biceps like that? Sign me up."

I feel an unexpected flash of heat in my chest—not embarrassment, but something sharper, more territorial. The realization hits me with the subtlety of a freight train: I'm jealous. Actually, possessively jealous.

When did that happen? When did I start thinking of Groover as mine in any capacity beyond our contractual arrangement?

"We're going for lunch to celebrate if you want to join," I offer, because I'm a glutton for punishment apparently.

"Lunch with you and the hot hockey player?" Aisha's eyes gleam. "Absolutely. Let me just grab my things."

By the time we extract Groover from Dr. Winters' clutches (she's somehow gotten him to agree to sign a jersey for her grandson), half the class has lingered, pretending to pack up while obviously eavesdropping. Groover handles it with practiced ease, being friendly but not encouraging, until we're finally able to escape the Humanities building.

"Sorry about that," I say as we walk toward the campus café I'd picked for lunch. "I didn't expect Dr. Winters to go full fangirl."

"Are you kidding? That was amazing." Groover laughs. “'Skating on thin intellectual ice' is my new favorite phrase."

"Your presentation was really good," Aisha chimes in, walking a little too close to Groover for my comfort. "I especially liked your application of Lefebvre's spatial triad to community gardens."

"Thanks," I say, fighting the urge to step between them. "It's still a work in progress."

"He's being modest," Groover tells Aisha. "He's been working on this research for months. Sometimes I find him taking pictures of abandoned lots at weird hours. Once I had to talk him out of climbing a fence to examine a community garden that was closed for the night."

The fact that Groover knows this about me—that he's paid enough attention to remember these details—makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

At the café, we snag a corner table. Groover insists on paying, brushing off my protests with a casual "You can get the next one" that makes my heart stutter because it implies there will be a next one.

"So how did you two meet?" Aisha asks once we've ordered, leaning forward with undisguised curiosity. "Mateo's been impressively tight-lipped about the whole thing."

Groover glances at me, a silent question in his eyes. We have a rehearsed story—the "mutual friends" narrative we agreed on that first night in the hotel room. It's simple, plausible, and most importantly, forgettable enough that we won't get tripped up on details.

But suddenly, I don't want to tell that story. It feels thin, inadequate for the complex reality of what's developed between us.

"We met through a mutual friend," I begin, sticking to the script. "Carlos's cousin Sophia works for the team, and she thought we might hit it off."

"That's the official version," Groover adds, playing along.

"But really," I continue, veering off-script, "we first talked at this charity event. I was there helping Carlos, who was photographing it for his portfolio." This is completely made up, but I can't seem to stop myself. "Groover was by the bar, looking absolutely miserable in his suit."

Groover's eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't contradict me.

"I was definitely not miserable," he protests with a smile that says he's willing to follow my lead. "Uncomfortable, maybe. Those events always feel so artificial."

"Exactly," I nod, warming to my fabrication. "So I went over and asked if he was having as terrible a time as he looked. Which, in retrospect, wasn't the smoothest opening line."

"It worked though," Groover says, his eyes never leaving mine. "Most people at those events are busy kissing up orpretending everything's amazing. Mateo just cut through the bullshit."

My heart is racing now. This imaginary meet-cute feels more real with every word, like we're creating a past we both wish we had.

"We ended up talking for almost an hour," I continue, embellishing freely. "About everything except hockey, which I think was a relief for him. I didn't even know who he was at first."

"He thought I was a waiter," Groover adds, improvising now too, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"I did not!" I laugh, genuinely delighted by his addition. "Especially everyone kept interrupting our conversation to take pictures with you."

"When he finally figured it out, he wasn't impressed at all," Groover tells Aisha. "Just asked if being famous meant I got free drinks, and if so, could he have one."

Aisha laughs, looking between us. "That does sound like Mateo."

---