Page 72 of The Puck Contract

"Do they google it at 2 AM while having an existential crisis?"

"The timing might be a bit extreme," he concedes. "But the rest tracks. So... you and Hockey Boy are taking things to the next level, huh?"

I groan, falling back on my bed and covering my face with both hands. "I don't know. Maybe? We haven't talked about it."

"But you want to," Carlos points out. "Hence the Anal Sex 101 search spree."

Put like that, it sounds so clinical. So calculated. But it's not just about the mechanics. It's about what it means. About stepping over a line I never thought I'd cross. About admitting that whatever is happening between Groover and me is more than just experimentation or curiosity.

"I just want to be prepared," I mumble through my fingers. "If it happens."

"When it happens," Carlos corrects with infuriating confidence. "Look, all I'm saying is, you guys clearly have chemistry. The way he looks at you could power a small country. So maybe instead of treating this like a research project, you could just... talk to him?"

"Right, because 'hey, want to fuck me in the ass?' is such a casual conversation starter." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to die. Since when do I say things like that out loud?

Since Groover, apparently.

Carlos just laughs. "Maybe save that for the third date. Just get the basics and go with the flow."

The basics. Right. Lube. Condoms. How hard can it be?

Famous last words.

***

THE ANSWER, IT turns out, is very hard. Buying lube and condoms when you've only ever purchased the latter for heterosexual activities is a special kind of humbling experience.

I stand in the personal care aisle of the convenience store near campus, staring at the overwhelming array of options like I'm decoding hieroglyphics. Water-based. Silicone-based. Flavored. Warming. Tingling. Since when did lubricant require a doctoral thesis to select?

After fifteen excruciating minutes of reading tiny print on bottles—while trying to look like I'm just casually browsing and not having a sexual identity crisis in public—I grab a water-based option that claims to be "extra long-lasting" and move on to condoms.

At least this territory is somewhat familiar, even if the context is entirely new. I pick a box of Trojans, then second-guess myself and grab a second variety pack. Better safe than sorry, right?

Arms full of sexual preparedness products, I head for the checkout, rehearsing casual facial expressions that say "Yes, I buy these all the time, nothing to see here, fellow adults."

The universe, never missing an opportunity to humble me further, ensures the cashier is a girl who looks vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to place her—she's in my Anthropological Methods seminar.

Of course she is.

I consider abandoning my purchases and fleeing the store, but my need to be prepared outweighs my embarrassment. I place the items on the counter, avoiding eye contact.

"Oh my god," she says, eyes widening in recognition. "You're the hockey boyfriend guy!"

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Um," I respond eloquently.

"I saw you on Instagram! You're dating that player... Groover, right?" She's practically bouncing with excitement. "My boyfriend is obsessed with the Wolves. He's going to freak when I tell him you shop here!"

Panic kicks in. If she recognizes me, that means other people might too. Which means the contents of my basket could end up as gossip fodder. Which means the whole world might know I'm planning anal adventures with my hockey player not-quite-boyfriend.

"Actually, I'm not—"

"Ring those up for you?" she interrupts, already scanning the lube with the enthusiasm of someone who has no concept of personal boundaries.

In a moment of pure fight-or-flight idiocy, I grab random items from the nearby display and add them to the counter.

"These too," I say, voice strangled.

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