Page 7 of The Puck Contract

The words come out automatically, part of the act. Well, actually I do like Mateo, even if we've known each other for approximately forty-five minutes. There's something endearing about his nervous energy and random factoids.

"Too late for warnings," Becker says, slinging an arm around Mateo's shoulders. "We've already started a betting pool on how long until he comes to his senses and dumps your sorry ass."

I shoot Baker a pointed look. Unlike everyone else, heknows. Yet still decides to make my life difficult in his usual fashion.

"Ignore him," Wall says, extending a hand to Mateo. "Trent Wallace. Everyone calls me Wall."

"Because nothing gets past him," Ace adds. "Kevin Jackson. They call me Ace."

"Because he thinks he's the best at everything," Petrov chimes in with his slight Russian accent. "Dmitri Petrov. No nickname yet. They say I must earn it."

Mateo shakes hands all around, looking slightly overwhelmed by the rapid-fire introductions. "Nice to meet you all."

"So, Mateo," Becker says, still not releasing him from his side-hug, "what's your favorite hockey play? I bet it's Groover's between-the-legs shot from the blue line against Toronto last season."

Mateo freezes, and I can practically see the panic calculations running behind his eyes. "I, uh... I really love how fast the puck moves?" he offers weakly.

The guys exchange glances, and I step in before they can pounce on the obvious non-answer. "Mateo's more interested in the anthropological aspects of sports. He's doing his thesis on ritual behaviors in competitive environments."

"Anthropology?" Ace perks up. "My boyfriend Devon is in cultural studies. You two should talk sometime."

"I'd like that," Mateo says, visibly relieved at the change of subject. "My focus is on how sports rituals evolve from their cultural origins into modern expressions of community identity."

"Like our playoff beards?" Wall asks, genuinely interested.

Mateo's face lights up. "Exactly! The beard as a symbol of masculine prowess dates back to ancient civilizations, but in hockey, it's been adapted into a team bonding ritual that signifies shared sacrifice and commitment to a goal."

The guys are nodding, seemingly impressed, and I feel a weird surge of pride. Look at my fake boyfriend, charming the hell out of my teammates with his big brain.

"Groover." GM Donaldson's voice cuts through my moment of satisfaction. He's standing a few feet away, beckoning me over with a subtle head tilt that means business.

"Be right back," I tell Mateo, who gives me a slightly panicked look as Becker launches into a story about last year's playoffs.

I follow Donaldson to a quieter corner of the ballroom. "Sir?"

"Kingsport representatives are here," he says without preamble. "Harrison and Choi from their marketing division. Make sure yourboyfriendbehaves."

I bristle at his tone. "Mateo is fine. He's doing great, actually."

Donaldson gives me a look that says he's not interested in my opinion. "This deal is important to the whole organization, Ansel. Seven figures important. Just keep things... appropriate."

He walks away before I can respond, which is probably for the best since what I want to say would definitely violate the "no causing scenes at charity events" clause in my contract.

I scan the room for Mateo and find him still surrounded by my teammates, who appear to be demonstrating some kind of play with elaborate hand gestures. He's nodding along, but his eyes have the slightly glazed look of someone who's completely lost.

As I make my way back, I'm intercepted by a sleek couple in designer formal wear—Harrison and Choi, I presume. Harrison is tall and WASP-y with the kind of perfect teeth that suggest extensive orthodontic intervention, while Choi is a stylish woman with sharp eyes that miss nothing.

"Ansel Williams," Harrison says, extending his hand. "Brad Harrison, Kingsport Marketing. This is my colleague, Elaine Choi."

"Nice to meet you both," I say, shaking their hands. "Enjoying the gala?"

"Very much," Choi says, her gaze drifting past me. "Is that your partner over there?"

I follow her line of sight to Mateo, who's now laughing at something Petrov said. "Yes, that's Mateo."

"Bring him over," Harrison suggests in a tone that's not really a suggestion. "We'd love to meet him."

I signal to Mateo, who excuses himself from the group and makes his way over. There's a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he's smiling.

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