Page 58 of The Puck Contract

"Anyway," I continue, "we exchanged numbers, and he texted me that same night."

"I couldn't wait," Groover says softly, and the sincerity in his voice makes my breath catch.

Are we still acting? It doesn't feel like it anymore.

"That's... actually really romantic," Aisha says, looking slightly deflated, like she's finally registering that Groover is genuinely off the market. "How long ago was this?"

"Almost three months," I say, the reminder of our contract timeline ending soon rearing its ugly head.

"Two months and seventeen days," Groover corrects, then looks embarrassed, like he didn't mean to reveal he's been counting.

Aisha glances at her watch and sighs. "I hate to eat and run, but I've got another class in fifteen minutes. Thanks for letting me crash your celebration lunch."

After she leaves, a comfortable silence falls between us. I pick at my sandwich, trying to process what just happened.

"So," Groover says finally, a hint of teasing in his voice. "A charity event, huh? That's quite a creative revision toAre you my boyfriend, then?"

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "God, don't remind me. I don't know what came over me just now. I just started talking and couldn't stop."

"I liked it," he says simply. "It's a good story. Better than 'My team bought me a boyfriend for corporate sponsorship purposes.'"

I peek through my fingers at him. "You're not mad I went off-script?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?" He reaches across the table and gently pulls my hands away from my face. "It was a nice story. And the part about not being able to wait to text you?" His expression softens. "That wouldn't have been a lie."

My heart does a somersault. "No?"

"No." He holds my gaze, his fingers still wrapped loosely around my wrists. "You knocked me off balance from the first moment, Mateo. Fake relationship or not."

I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hands and the intensity in his eyes. "Your presentation was really good," he says, changing the subject but not letting go ofmy wrists. "I mean, I understood maybe forty percent of it, but that forty percent was fascinating."

"You actually came," I say, still slightly amazed by this fact. "At 8 AM. Voluntarily."

"I said I would," he shrugs, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "I wanted to see you in your element. And it was worth every early minute, especially for Dr. Winters' antics."

I laugh, turning my hands in his so our palms meet. "She was pretty star-struck. I've never seen her so excited about anything, including the time the department got a research grant for actual field work."

"Apparently her grandson plays hockey," Groover says. "She made me promise to record a video encouragement for him. I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I'm getting invited to guest lecture."

"You're not actually going to do that, are you? Guest lecture?"

"Why not?" he asks. "It could be fun. I could talk about ritualistic behaviors in locker rooms. Did you know some guys refuse to wash their playoff beards or change their underwear during winning streaks?"

"That's disgusting," I inform him. "And also perfect for a Sports and Society lecture."

"See? Academic anthropology and hockey, a match made in heaven." His thumbs trace light circles on my palms, sending shivers up my arms. "Kind of like us."

The casual comment hits me with unexpected force. Us. Such a simple word for something that feels increasingly complex.

"Hockey player and anthropologist," I say lightly, trying to mask how much his touch is affecting me. "Not exactly a combination people would expect."

"The best things rarely are." His eyes are warm, serious despite his smile. "Speaking of unexpected combinations, I have an away game this weekend, but I was thinking when I get back... maybe we could have that rain check?"

The rain check.

My mouth goes dry at the memory.

"I'd like that," I manage to say, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite my racing heart.

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