Page 98 of The Puck Contract

It's a modest two-story in a quiet suburb, with neatly trimmed hedges and a basketball hoop over the garage. The kind of solidly middle-class home where you raise kids and host barbecues and accumulate Christmas decorations that get more elaborate each year.

What I didn't expect was the rainbow welcome mat at the front door.

"Mom's subtle way of showing support," Groover explains when he catches me staring. "She ordered it the day after I came out."

"That's... really sweet."

"Wait until you see the inside. She's been collecting PFLAG pamphlets like they're going out of style."

Before I can respond, the front door swings open to reveal a woman who could only be Groover's mother—same warm eyes, same slight gap between her front teeth when she smiles. She's shorter than I expected, barely reaching her son's shoulder when she pulls him into a fierce hug.

"It's about time you brought him over!" She releases Groover and turns to me, arms already opening. "You must be Mateo. Come here, honey."

I find myself enveloped in a hug that smells like lasagna and fabric softener. Mrs. Williams holds me at arm's length after, studying my face with unabashed interest.

"Well, aren't you handsome! And those eyes—Ansel, you didn't tell me he had such beautiful eyes."

"Mom," Groover groans, but he's smiling. "Can we at least get inside before you start embarrassing everyone?"

"Oh hush. I'm just being friendly." She ushers us in, one arm linked through mine like we're old friends. "Mateo, I hope you're hungry. I may have gone a little overboard. Maya's already here—she couldn't wait to meet you."

The inside of the house is warm and lived-in, family photos covering nearly every surface. I spot a gangly teenage Groover in hockey gear, a gap-toothed child version holding a trophy, a family vacation shot on some beach.

In the living room, a young woman who must be Maya is curled up on the couch with a book. She looks up when we enter, and the family resemblance is striking—same eyes, same smile, though her hair is longer and lighter than Groover's.

"The famous Mateo," she says, marking her place in the book before standing. "I was starting to think he made you up."

"Still might have," I joke, shaking her offered hand. "I could be an elaborate hologram."

She laughs, a sound surprisingly similar to her brother's. "I like this one, Ansel. Much better than Julian."

"Maya," Mrs. Williams scolds, though there's no heat in it. "Be nice."

"What? It's a compliment." She links her arm through mine, mirroring her mother on my other side. "Come on. I'll show you all the embarrassing baby photos Ansel doesn't want you to see."

"I hate both of you," Groover mutters, trailing behind as they lead me to a bookshelf laden with photo albums.

The next hour passes in a blur of childhood stories, family photos, and gentle teasing. Maya shows me Groover's awkward middle school years ("The braces and acne phase—we all went through it, but some suffered more than others"). Mrs. Williams brings out his first pair of skates, tiny and worn, preserved like a religious relic.

By the time we sit down to dinner, I feel like I've gained a decade of insight into the man sitting across from me, who alternates between groaning in embarrassment and adding his own self-deprecating commentary to the stories.

"Enough about Ansel," Mrs. Williams says as she serves enormous portions of lasagna. "Tell us about you, Mateo. Ansel says you're studying anthropology?"

"Yes, ma'am. Cultural anthropology with a focus on urban spaces and community identities."

"Please, call me Helen. 'Ma'am' makes me feel ancient." She passes the garlic bread. "And what does that mean exactly, your focus?"

I launch into an explanation of my thesis research, expecting eyes to glaze over the way they usually do when I talk about academic subjects. Instead, both Helen and Maya ask thoughtful questions, seeming genuinely interested.

"That sounds fascinating," Maya says. "I'm studying comparative literature, and there's a lot of overlap with cultural analysis."

"Maya's the smart one," Groover interjects with obvious pride. "Full ride to Northwestern."

"Says the man who got drafted to the NHL at nineteen," Maya retorts, rolling her eyes. "Just because your intelligence is on ice doesn't make it less impressive."

The easy banter between them, the obvious affection beneath the teasing, makes something in my chest ache with recognition. It reminds me of my own family, of Elena's relentless teasing and unwavering support.

"This lasagna is amazing," I say, hoping to divert attention as emotion threatens to overwhelm me. "I'd love the recipe."

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