Page 82 of The Puck Contract

Becker spots me and does a theatrical double-take. "Well, well, well! If it isn't Professor Boyfriend, lurking in the hallways." He plops down next to me, still damp from the shower, smelling like expensive body wash. "What brings you to our humble hockey dungeon?"

"Just waiting for Groover," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to guilty.

Becker's eyes narrow, a grin spreading across his face. "Waiting for Groover... in the empty corridor... when everyone's supposed to be at a team meeting." He nods slowly. "I see. Well, as a completely unrelated piece of information, Coach always talks to Groover last about strategy. And as another totally unconnected fact, the equipment manager is off today, so no one will be coming back to the locker room for at least an hour."

My face heats to approximately the temperature of the sun's surface. "I don't know what you're implying."

"Of course not," Becker agrees, standing with a wink. "And I definitely won't tell Coach that Groover is helping you with an urgent, um, anthropological emergency that might make him late to the meeting."

Before I can respond, he's sauntering down the hallway, whistling what sounds suspiciously like "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye.

Great. So subtle.

I check my watch. If Becker is right—and I can't believe I'm taking relationship advice from a man who once tried tomicrowave a whole watermelon on a dare—I have about ten seconds to make up my mind. Ten second to either bolster my courage or talk myself out of this entirely.

The universe decides for me when the locker room door swings open again and the object of my increasingly filthy thoughts walks out, hair damp from the shower, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He stops short when he sees me, surprise quickly morphing into pleasure.

"Hey," he says, dropping onto the bench beside me. "I thought you had a morning class?"

"Professor canceled," I reply, which is actually true, though I would have skipped it anyway. "Thought I'd surprise you."

He leans in, voice dropping to a register that makes my spine tingle. "Consider me very pleasantly surprised."

A group of facility staff walk past, forcing us to lean apart. Groover checks his watch and frowns. "I've got a team meeting in five. Rain check on whatever you had planned?"

This is it. Decision time. I can nod and reschedule, preserving my dignity and my nerves. Or I can...

"I need to show you something," I blurt out, standing abruptly. "In the locker room. It'll just take a minute."

His eyebrows shoot up, but he follows as I grab his wrist and pull him back through the door he just exited. The locker room is empty now, smelling of soap and sweat and whatever industrial-strength cleaner they use on the stalls. I lead him to the back corner, where his locker—number 17, now adorned with a small anthropology textbook sticker I gave him as a joke—stands open.

"Mateo, what—"

I silence him by crowding into his space, backing him against the lockers. His eyes widen as I press against him, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders.

"I can't stop thinking about what you did to me," I admit, the words falling out in a rush. So much for avoiding desperation. "The other night. It's all I can think about. All I can focus on."

His expression softens, big hands coming to rest on my hips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And I want... I want to return the favor." I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the heat rushing to my face. "Right now."

"Here?Now? Shit. I need to—"

"Becker's covering for you," I say, which is probably true. "Says you're helping me with an urgent anthropological emergency."

A laugh escapes him. "Of course he is. Look, Mateo, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to," I interrupt, fingers digging into his shoulders. "I want to. I've been thinking about it for days. Researching. Planning." I lean in, lips brushing his ear. "I want to know what you taste like."

His sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement I need. I drop to my knees on the locker room floor, the surface hard but not painful through my jeans. Looking up at him from this position—his eyes dark and intense, lips parted in surprise—sends a thrill through me I never expected.

"Fuck," he breathes, one hand moving to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip. "You have no idea how hot you look right now."

I lean into his touch, turning to nip at his thumb. "Guide me through it?" I ask, hands already reaching for his belt. "I want to make it good for you."

"Anything you do will be good," he assures me, but I see the need in his eyes, the way his breathing has accelerated. "But I'll help."

My fingers shake slightly as I undo his belt, then the button of his jeans, then the zipper. Each metallic rasp of teeth separating sends another jolt of anticipation through me. When I hook my fingers in his waistband, he helps by lifting his hips away from the lockers.

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