Page 81 of The Puck Contract

I sigh, relishing what’s already becoming a memory as Groover scrambles off the mattress and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth. The careful way he cleans us both, the thorough attention to detail, feels weirdly more intimate than having his mouth on my dick.

When he slides back into bed, he pulls me against him without hesitation, arm draped over my waist, chest pressed to my back. His breath warms the nape of my neck, his body solid and secure against mine.

"Stay," he says, not a question.

I close my eyes and smile against his skin. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

CHAPTER 23

MATEO

HOCKEY PRACTICE IS a fucking spectacle.

I'm perched in the stands of the Wolves practice facility, supposedly reading my Anthropological Methods textbook, but who am I kidding? For the past twenty minutes, my eyes haven't left Groover's ass as he flies across the ice, executing maneuvers that seem physically impossible for someone his size.

There's something hypnotic about the way he moves—power and precision wrapped in grace, like a predator that's learned to dance. The scrape of skates against ice, the thunderous crash of bodies against boards, the sharp crack of stick meeting puck—it's primitive and elegant all at once.

And it's doing unmentionable things to my libido.

Three days. It's been three days since Groover introduced my dick to his throat like they were long-lost soulmates finally reunited. Three days of replaying every wet, hot second in excruciating detail. Three days of waking up hard as concrete from dreams so filthy they'd make a porn director blush.

Three days of wondering what it would be like to return the favor.

On the ice, Groover wins a puck battle in the corner. He fires a pass across the ice that lands perfectly on a teammate's stick, leading to a shot that makes Wall throw himself sideways like he's auditioning for a dramatic death scene.

The team erupts in cheers and stick taps against the ice. Even Coach Martin looks grudgingly impressed, which from what I've gathered is like getting a five-star review from Gordon Ramsay.

"Not bad, Williams!" Coach barks. "If you played like that during games, we might actually win the division!"

Groover just grins, helmet pushed back on his head, face flushed from exertion. When he skates past the boards near where I'm sitting, our eyes meet briefly, and the wink he throws my way makes my stomach flip like I'm fourteen with my first crush.

Pathetic? Absolutely. Can I help it? Not even slightly.

Practice wraps up with some conditioning drills that look like medieval torture disguised as hockey training. The players race from blue line to blue line until their legs shake, then drop to do push-ups on the ice, then race again. By the end, even Becker—who never seems to tire of anything except serious conversation—is hunched over, hands on knees, gasping for breath.

Coach blows the whistle one final time. "Hit the showers! Team meeting in thirty."

The players file off the ice, exhaustion evident in their heavy strides. Groover is among the last to leave, exchanging words with Washington before skating toward the exit.

I gather my books, pretending I've actually accomplished any studying, and head toward the lower level. My heart is pounding like I'm the one who just did wind sprints, but not from exercise—from what I'm about to do.

You see, I have a plan. A plan that formed somewhere between yesterday's anthropology lecture (during which I drew disturbingly detailed diagrams of male anatomy in the margins of my notes) and last night's explicit research session (which left my browser history in need of federal witness protection).

I'm going to surprise Groover. After everyone else leaves, of course—I'm adventurous, not suicidal. And then I'm going to drop to my knees and show him exactly what a dedicated academic can accomplish with proper research and enthusiasm.

Assuming I don't chicken out. Or pass out. Or throw up from nerves. All distinct possibilities at this point.

I take the stairs down to the locker room level, finding a bench in the corridor where I can wait without looking like a complete stalker. I pull out my phone, pretending to check messages while actually counting down the minutes, rehearsing what I'll say when I see him.

Hey, thought I'd surprise you. No, too casual.

I can't stop thinking about what you did to me. Too desperate.

Your cock. My mouth. Now. Way too porn-dialogue.

Jesus Christ, am I actually this bad at seduction? My dating history suggests yes, but I was hoping for some kind of evolutionary leap forward after having my brain liquefied by the best orgasm of my life.

I'm so deep in my spiral of overthinking that I don't notice the locker room door opening until players startstreaming out. I slouch lower on the bench, suddenly very interested in my phone screen as they pass. A few nod in recognition, but most are focused on getting to the team meeting.

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