Page 71 of The Puck Contract

"Try writing him a love poem about his butt!" he calls after me as I stalk toward the gym. "Works sixty percent of the time, every time!"

I flip him off without looking back, but as I push through the doors to the workout area, I can't help the smile tugging at my lips.

CHAPTER 20

MATEO

THE THING ABOUT questioning your sexuality at twenty-one is you're armed with just enough knowledge to be eager but not enough to avoid making a complete fucking idiot of yourself.

Case in point: I'm currently sitting cross-legged on my bed at 2 AM, laptop balanced on my knees, while my browser history spirals into what can only be described as "Gay Sex For Complete Beginners: The Desperate Edition."

It started innocently enough. A casual search for "first time gay sex tips." Reasonable, right? But three hours and seventeen tabs later, I've gone so far down the rabbit hole that I'm reading medical journal articles about the nerve endings in the male rectum. Because apparently when I panic-research, I go full academic.

My search history now includes such gems as:

"does anal hurt first time"

"best positions for beginners anal"

"how much lube is too much lube" (answer: there's no such thing, apparently)

"can you practice with fingers first"

And my personal favorite: "is gay sex supposed to feel good or am I doing it wrong", because I don’t fucking know what I’m doing anymore.

I slam my laptop shut when that last search brings up detailed anatomical diagrams that make me feel like I'm studying for some bizarre sex exam I'm definitely going to fail.

This is ridiculous. I'm an anthropology student, for fuck's sake. I've read ethnographic studies on sexual practices across cultures. I've written papers on sexual identity formation in indigenous communities. I should be able to handle this without turning into a blushing Victorian maiden.

But this isn't academic. This is personal. This is me, Mateo Rossi, trying to figure out if I want Ansel Williams—professional hockey player, walking Greek statue, and my fake-turned-something-else boyfriend—to fuck me. And if so, how exactly that's supposed to work without me dying of embarrassment or actual physical injury.

Because what happened in his bed two nights ago? That was amazing. Mind-blowing. Universe-altering. But also just the tip of the iceberg. (Pun not intended, but now I can't unthink it. Great.)

I reopen my laptop, determined to be an adult about this. One more search: "how do you know if you're ready for anal sex?"

The first article seems sensible enough. Communication. Trust. Lots of preparation. Go slowly. Use protection. Sounds like advice for defusing a bomb, which isn't entirely inaccurate.

I'm so engrossed in an unnecessarily detailed description of proper cleaning techniques that I don't hear my bedroom door open.

"Dude, can I borrow your—WHOA!"

I slam the laptop shut in record speed, but it's too late. Carlos is standing in my doorway, eyes wide as dinner plates, having clearly seen exactly what was on my screen.

"Ever heard of knocking?" I hiss, mortified beyond belief.

"The door was half-open!" he defends, then a slow, shit-eating grin spreads across his face. "Planning something special, Romeo?"

I shove the laptop under my pillow like it contains state secrets. "Shut up."

"No, no, this is educational." Carlos invites himself in, flopping onto the foot of my bed. "I'm learning so much about my roommate right now."

"I swear to god, Carlos, I will murder you in your sleep."

"With what? Your extensive knowledge of anal anatomy?"

I grab a pillow and chuck it at his head. He dodges, laughing.

"Come on, it's not a big deal," he says, tossing the pillow back. "Everyone googles this stuff."

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