Page 60 of The Puck Contract

"It's fine," he interrupts, setting his beer down on the side table. "It's just a game, right?"

Just a game. Right. Except there's nothing "just" about the way my heart is suddenly trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest.

"Thirty seconds!" Becker announces, holding up his phone timer like he's about to officiate the Olympic fucking Games. "And I'll be watching to make sure there's proper tongue action. No cheating!"

"You're a pervert, Becker," I inform him, but he just wiggles his eyebrows in response.

The room has gone quiet, all eyes on us. Mateo shifts to face me, his knee bumping mine. "Ready?" he asks, so softly only I can hear.

Ready? I've been ready since I walked him home from the library. Since our interrupted almost-kiss. Since that first practice session on my couch that turned into something else entirely.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Three, two, one... Go!" Becker hits the timer with a flourish.

I lean in, one hand coming up to cup Mateo's jaw, our lips meeting in what I intend to be a careful, controlled kiss. Something performative enough to satisfy the dare but restrained enough not to make things weird.

That plan lasts approximately half a second.

The moment our mouths connect, something electric sparks between us. Mateo makes a small, surprised sound in the back of his throat, his lips parting against mine. And then—holy shit—his tongue is tracing the seam of my lips, tentativebut eager, and my brain short-circuits like someone dumped a bucket of water on the control panel.

I slide my hand from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as I deepen the kiss. He tastes like the craft beer he's been nursing and something sweeter, uniquely him. His hand finds my shoulder, gripping tight like he needs an anchor.

Dimly, I'm aware of wolf whistles and catcalls from around the room, but they're background noise, irrelevant compared to the thundering of my pulse and the soft, urgent press of Mateo's mouth against mine.

This isn't like our practice kiss. That was exploration, hesitant and curious. This is hunger, barely contained. His other hand lands on my thigh, fingers digging in slightly, and I have to physically restrain myself from pulling him into my lap.

"Ten seconds left!" Becker announces, and I realize with a jolt that we've been kissing for twenty seconds already. It felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough.

Mateo pulls back slightly, his eyes opening to meet mine, pupils blown wide. For a moment, we just stare at each other, breathing hard. Then, as if driven by the same impulse, we surge forward again, meeting in the middle with renewed urgency.

His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I can't quite suppress the groan that escapes me. My hand slides down his back, pulling him closer, propriety be damned.

"Time!" Becker announces with way too much enthusiasm. "Though I gotta say, you two didn't need the full thirty seconds to make the point. Get a room, why don't you?"

Mateo breaks away first, leaning back just enough to put space between us but not so far that my hand falls from his waist.His cheeks are flushed, lips slightly swollen, and I've never seen anything more gorgeous in my life.

"Happy now?" I ask Becker, my voice embarrassingly rough.

"Ecstatic," he confirms with a shit-eating grin. "Moving on! Ace, truth or dare?"

The game continues around us, but I barely register it. Mateo and I remain side by side, not quite looking at each other, but not moving apart either. My hand has migrated to rest on his knee, and he hasn't pushed it away.

Every few minutes, I catch him glancing at me from the corner of his eye, quickly looking away when I notice. The tension between us has ratcheted up to nearly unbearable levels. If this were a hockey game, we'd be headed for sudden death overtime.

After what feels like years but is probably only half an hour, Mateo leans in close again. "Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?"

My heart skips several beats. "Yeah. Of course."

We extract ourselves from the sectional, muttering excuses about getting fresh drinks. Nobody buys it—the knowing looks from my teammates could power a small city—but no one calls us out either.

I lead Mateo down the hallway to the relative quiet of Becker's balcony. The April night is just warm enough, the Chicago skyline a tapestry of lights stretching in every direction. We stand side by side at the railing, close enough that our arms brush.

"So," I start eloquently.

"So," he echoes, staring out at the city.

Real compelling conversation we've got going here. Shakespeare would be proud.

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