Page 68 of The Puck Contract

"Great. I'll text you."

He nods, then leans in and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that starts as a quick goodbye but rapidly evolves into something hungrier. My hands find his waist, pulling him closer as he makes a soft sound into my mouth.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing harder than a simple goodbye kiss warrants.

"I really have to go," he says, though he doesn't move away.

"I know." I steal one more quick kiss. "Go be smart and anthropological."

He rolls his eyes but backs toward the elevator with a grin. "Text me."

"I will."

I watch until the elevator doors close, then head back inside, shutting the door and leaning against it like a teenager after prom night. My apartment feels different somehow—emptier without his presence, yet filled with traces of him. His coffee mug on the counter. The faint scent of my shampoo in his hair. The ghost impression of his body in my sheets.

Fuck. I am so screwed.

It's one thing to have mind-blowing sex with your fake boyfriend. It's entirely another to wake up the next morning and realize you want him to stay. Not just for more sex, but for coffee and breakfast and lazy Sunday mornings. For conversations about anthropology and hockey. For his laugh and his rambling tangents about cultural relativism and the way his eyes light up when he's excited about something.

This isn't in the contract. This isn't what I signed up for. This is messy and complicated and potentially disastrous for both of us.

And I want it anyway.

My phone chimes from the bedroom, and I retrieve it to find a text from Sophia.

Sophia:Meeting today to discuss contract progress. 2 PM at the practice facility. Don't be late.

Perfect. Because what I really need right now is a reminder of the professional arrangement underlying whatever the hell is happening between Mateo and me.

I shoot back a quick confirmation, then hop in the shower, trying unsuccessfully not to think about Mateo standing in this same spot less than an hour ago.

***

BY THE TIME I reach the practice facility, I've almost convinced myself I'm overreacting. So we hooked up. So it was fantastic. So what? Doesn't mean I'm catching feelings. Doesn't mean this has to be complicated. We're both adults. We can handle this.

Sophia is waiting in one of the small conference rooms, tablet already open, perfectly coiffed and professional as always.

"Ansel," she greets me, gesturing to the chair across from her. "Right on time."

"You know me," I say, dropping into the seat. "Mr. Punctuality."

She gives me a look that says she knows better. "We're halfway through the contract period. I wanted to check in, see how things are progressing."

"Aren't you the one keeping tabs on our social media engagement and press coverage?" I counter. "You tell me how it's progressing."

"The numbers are excellent," she confirms, swiping through some charts on her tablet. "Social media engagement up 47% since the relationship went public. Positive press mentions increased by 33%. The Mateo Puck Incident game created a viral moment that generated more positive engagement than anything else this season."

I can’t contain the bark of laughter that escapes me at the memory.

"The point is," Sophia continues, "from a PR perspective, the arrangement is working exactly as intended. Kingsportrepresentatives have indicated they're increasingly comfortable with your public image. Things are on track for the sponsorship to be finalized after playoffs."

"Great," I say, though the reminder of the impending contract end date sits like a stone in my gut. "That's... great."

Sophia narrows her eyes at me. "Is there something I should know? Any problems between you two?"

"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. "No problem. Things are fine. Good, even."

"Good," she repeats skeptically. "You don't sound convinced."

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