Page 59 of The Puck Contract

"Good." He gives my hands a gentle squeeze before releasing them. "That's good."

As we gather our things to leave, Groover casually drapes his arm across my shoulders. It's a gesture that could be interpreted as part of our act—the devoted boyfriend after a successful presentation—but the way his fingers lightly stroke the side of my neck feels like something else entirely. Something real.

And as we walk across campus, his solid presence beside me, I'm struck by the realization that I don't want our story to be made up anymore. I want the charity event meet-cute to be real. I want the texting-the-same-night eagerness to be genuine. I want us to be authentic.

But with the contract end date looming and my own identity still in flux, I have no idea how to make that happen. Or even if Groover wants the same thing.

All I know is that when he looks at me the way he did in that café, everything else—the contract, the sponsorship, myconfusion—fades into background noise. And for now, maybe that's enough.

CHAPTER 17

GROOVER

WHAT DO YOU call it when twenty-something millionaires with more muscles than common sense congregate in a luxury high-rise with enough alcohol to sink a battleship?

A post-game victory party at Riley Becker's apartment, apparently.

And I'm here for it, riding the high of our 4-2 win against Detroit, with Mateo pressed against my side on a leather sectional that probably cost more than a semester of his tuition. He's nursing the same beer he's had for the past hour, playing it safe while my teammates cycle through increasingly stupid drinking games around us.

"Never have I ever fucked in a penalty box!" Wall shouts over the pulsing music, causing half the room to drink, including Captain Washington, who makes intense eye contact with his wife Leila across the table.

"Jesus, get a room," Becker groans, throwing a balled-up napkin at them. "Some of us are trying to forget our parents have sex, not be reminded our captain does."

Mateo leans closer to whisper in my ear, "Is this what all hockey parties are like? Just increasingly filthy confessions and alcohol?"

His breath tickles my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning and everything to do with how long it's been since our almost-kiss outside his apartment. Five days, seventeen hours, and roughly twenty-three minutes, not that I'm counting.

"Pretty much," I confirm, hyper-aware of his thigh against mine. "Except usually there's someone naked in the pool by now. Becker must be losing his touch."

Mateo laughs, the sound warming me more effectively than the expensive whiskey I've been sipping. I shouldn't be noticing things like this—the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how his hair falls across his forehead when he tilts his head, the faint coffee-and-cinnamon scent that clings to him even after hours at a hockey game.

But I am noticing. I'm noticing everything.

"Attention, degenerates and significant others!" Becker stands on his absurdly expensive coffee table, drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge of his glass. "Never Have I Ever has gotten stale, and I, for one, am not drunk enough yet. So we're switching to Truth or Dare."

A chorus of groans and cheers meets this announcement.

"What are we, sixteen?" Ace complains from his position on the floor, head resting in Devon's lap.

"Mentally? Yes, obviously," Becker confirms without hesitation. "Now, who's first? Truth or dare?"

The game progresses exactly as you'd expect when you combine professional athletes, alcohol, and the maturity level of high school sophomores. Wall admits to puking in the Stanley Cup during his rookie year. Ace is dared to text our head coach a shirtless selfie (he does, God help us). Petrov reveals he's afraid of butterflies, which earns him an entirely new nickname on the spot.

Mateo watches it all with anthropological fascination, like we're some primitive tribe performing ritual bonding ceremonies. Which, to be fair, isn't entirely inaccurate.

"Groover!" Becker points at me, swaying slightly. "Truth or dare?"

I consider my options. Truth means invasive questions about my love life, probably aimed at embarrassing both me and Mateo. Dare means physical humiliation, but at least it will be over quickly.

"Dare," I decide, bracing for whatever idiocy is coming my way.

Becker's face splits into a grin that makes me instantly regret my choice. "I dare you and Mateo to make out. Thirty seconds, with tongue, or it doesn't count."

Fuck. I should have seen this coming a mile away.

I glance at Mateo, ready to shut this down if he looks even slightly hesitant. But instead, I find his eyes already on me, his expression unreadable save for the slight flush creeping up his neck.

"You don't have to—" I start quietly.

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