Page 86 of The Puck Contract

"Julian is an ass," I say when we're relatively private. "Always has been. We broke up because he cared more about his Instagram following than actual connection. And for the record, I don't want him touching me any more than you want to see it."

Mateo studies my face, searching for the truth. Whatever he sees there makes some of the tension drain from his body.

"I just didn't expect to feel so..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely.

"Murderous?" I suggest.

"I was going to say possessive, but murderous works too." A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "It caught me off guard."

Before I can respond, Washington appears at my shoulder. "Team photo time, lovebirds. Try to look charitable."

The moment breaks, and we're swept into the obligations of the evening. But throughout the photos and speeches, I catch Mateo watching me with an intensity that wasn't there before—something sharp and claiming that makes my skin heat despite the ballroom's aggressive air conditioning.

***

THREE HOURS LATER, we escape the event, dodging the gauntlet of photographers at the exit before ducking into the sanctuary of my Range Rover. The night air is unseasonably warm, and the valet has left the sunroof open, letting in the sounds of the city.

"Finally," I sigh, loosening my bow tie as I slide behind the wheel. "If I had to hear one more speech about the transformative power of hockey, I’d have to transform someone's face with my fist."

"Very charitable of you," Mateo notes dryly.

I pull out of the hotel driveway, the city sprawling before us, lights blurring like stars. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it's charged—Julian's appearance having triggered something neither of us quite knows how to address.

"Where to?" I ask, glancing at the clock. Just past 11PM. "Your place or mine?"

Mateo looks out the window, profile outlined in the glow of street lamps. "Yours," he decides after a moment. "Carlos has his study group over. It's like a library but with more energy drinks and existential dread."

We drive in silence for several minutes, the muted soundtrack of the city our only accompaniment—horns honking,distant sirens, the rhythmic thump of bass from a car stopped beside us at a light.

"You know I don't care about Julian, right?" I say finally, eyes on the road. "He's not even in the same galaxy as what matters to me."

Mateo turns to look at me, the city lights painting shadows across his face. "And what does matter to you?"

The question hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

"You," I say simply. Because it's true. Because the contract and the complications and the uncertainty all pale in comparison to the fact that when I look at him, everything else fades to background noise.

His sharp intake of breath is audible over the hum of the engine. I risk a glance at him, finding his eyes dark and intent on my face.

"Pull over," he says, voice tight.

"What?"

"I said, pull over." Each word deliberate, leaving no room for argument.

I scan the street, spotting a secluded pocket between streetlights, a corner where construction barriers block the sidewalk. I guide the car to the curb, shifting into park and turning to face him, confused and slightly concerned.

"Are you okay? If I said some—"

His mouth crashes into mine, cutting off whatever I was about to say. There's nothing tentative about this kiss—it's all teeth and tongue and barely contained want, his hands fisting in my dress shirt hard enough that I hear a button pop.

"Jesus," I gasp when he breaks away, both of us breathing hard. "What was that for?"

"Because you said I matter," he says against my lips. "Because you looked at me like that while saying it."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like I'm everything," he whispers, the vulnerability in those three words hitting me harder than his kiss. Then, as if embarrassed by the admission, he bites my lower lip. "And because I've been wanting to mess up your perfect hair since we left your apartment."

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