Page 74 of The Puck Contract

Christ, I'm actually nervous. Me. A professional athlete who regularly gets body-checked by guys twice my size in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. Nervous about getting a guy naked. What is this, junior prom?

The knock on my door sends my heart rate skyrocketing like I've just done a line sprint. I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair one last time before opening the door.

Holy shit.

Mateo stands in my hallway looking like someone photoshopped a GQ model into my mundane life. Dark jeans that hug his thighs in ways that makes my head spin. A forestgreen button-down that makes his skin glow golden under the hallway lights. His hair is artfully messy in that "I definitely tried but I want you to think this is effortless" way.

"Hey," he says, clutching a wine bottle like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

"Hi," I respond, brain cells frantically trying to remember how human speech works. "Come in."

He brushes past me, close enough that I catch a whiff of something new—pine and citrus with an undertone of something darker. He's wearing cologne. He bought cologne for tonight. That little detail sends a jolt straight to my dick, which is already perking up like a dog that heard the treat bag rustle.

"I brought wine," he says unnecessarily, thrusting the bottle toward me. "The guy at the store said it pairs well with..." He stops, swallows. "Well, he didn't specify what exactly, but he winked a lot, so I'm assuming it pairs well with poor life choices."

I laugh, taking the bottle. Our fingers brush, and even that tiny contact feels like touching a live wire.

"I like your candles," he says, glancing around the apartment. "Very National Geographic documentary. 'Here we observe the hockey player in his natural mating habitat.'"

And just like that, the tension breaks enough that I can breathe again. This is Mateo—snarky, quick-witted, ridiculous Mateo. The fact that I want to lick every inch of his body doesn't change that.

"Mock all you want, but I'll have you know these are 'Midnight Forest' scented," I inform him, heading to the kitchen for wine glasses. "I was this close to getting 'PassionateEncounter' before I realized I'd rather not have my apartment smell like a suburban divorced dad book club."

His laugh follows me, rich and warm. When I return with the glasses, he's standing by the window, city lights casting his profile in sharp relief against the darkness. The sight hits me in the solar plexus so hard I almost drop the wine.

"Here," I say, handing him a glass and hoping he doesn't notice how my hand trembles slightly.

He takes it, fingers deliberately mine again. Not an accident. His eyes never leave mine as he takes the first sip, throat working in a way that makes me want to trace it with my tongue.

"So," we both say simultaneously, then laugh.

"You know what's weird?" he asks, setting his glass down on the side table with deliberate care. "I've rehearsed about fifteen different conversation starters in my head on the way over, and now I can't remember a single one."

"Performance anxiety?" I suggest, earning me a glare that has zero heat behind it.

"I was going to share a fascinating observation about mating rituals across cultures, but now I'm reconsidering."

"Thank god," I mutter, stepping closer. "Because while I find your academic babbling adorable, I'd rather not discuss indigenous Polynesian sexual practices right now."

"No?" He tilts his head, a challenge in his eyes. "What would you rather discuss?"

I set my own glass down, closing the distance between us until we're standing toe to toe. "Who says we need to talk at all?"

It's a cheesy line, worthy of eye-rolling, but the way his pupils dilate in response makes it worth it. I reach up, tracing one finger along his jawline, feeling the slight stubble there. He shivers, a full-body tremor that I can see ripple through him.

"Cold?" I ask, voice dropping lower.

"Definitely not," he breathes.

I slide my hand to the back of his neck, feeling the soft hair at his nape, the heat of his skin. His eyes flutter briefly before locking back on mine, the amber flecks in the hazel almost glowing in the low light.

"I've been thinking about touching you again since the moment I woke up next to you," I admit, thumb stroking just behind his ear where I've learned he's sensitive.

"Only thinking?" His voice has a challenge in it, a boldness that catches me off guard and turns me on even more.

"Well, there was also some very creative shower activity involved," I confess, earning a laugh that morphs into a gasp when I tug gently at his hair.

"Show me," he says, and it's not a request.

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