Page 101 of The Puck Contract

Before I can protest, he's flagging down a waiter and ordering a round of tequila for our table. Leila groans but doesn't object as shot glasses are distributed.

"To the happy couple," Devon announces, raising his glass. "Three months of Groover being disgustingly in love, and consequently, much less of a pain in the ass to be around."

"Hear, hear!" Wall chimes in from the next table over, raising his beer.

I catch Groover's eye again as we all throw back our shots. The tequila burns, but it's the heat in his gaze that makes me shiver. He excuses himself from his conversation with Becker and makes his way over to our table, sliding onto the banquette beside me.

"Are they torturing you?" he asks, his arm settling around my shoulders like it belongs there.

"Only a little," I say, leaning into him automatically. "Devon's pushing tequila."

"Devon's a terrible influence," Groover says solemnly. "That's why we keep him around."

Devon clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm a delight and you know it."

Another round appears, seemingly manifested by Devon's sheer force of will. The conversation flows around me—hockey talk, relationship gossip, good-natured ribbing—but I'm increasingly aware of Groover beside me. The weight of his armacross my shoulders. The heat of his thigh pressed against mine. The subtle scent of his cologne I’ve grown addicted to.

Each point of contact feels like a live wire.

By the time Devon drags Leila to the dance floor, leaving us alone at the table, I've had just enough liquid courage to say what's been on my mind all night.

"Can we go somewhere quieter?" I lean in close to his ear to be heard over the music. "I want to talk to you."

He pulls back slightly, studying my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just... not here."

He nods, taking my hand as we stand. We make our excuses to the remaining teammates, ignoring Becker's exaggerated wink and Wall's knowing smirk. The music fades as Groover leads me down a hallway toward the back of the club, stopping at a door marked "Private."

"Owner's a fan," he explains, producing a key card from his pocket. "Lets us use the office when we need a break from the chaos."

The room beyond is surprisingly tasteful—a small office with sleek furniture and muted lighting. A desk occupies one wall, with a leather couch against the opposite side. Groover closes the door behind us, the thump of the bass now just a distant vibration.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod, suddenly nervous now that we're alone. The alcohol in my system makes everything feel slightly dreamlike, but not enough to quiet the thoughts racing through my mind.

"So," he says, leaning against the desk. "What did you want to talk about?"

I take a deep breath. "Today's our three-month anniversary."

"I know." His expression is carefully neutral. "Contract's almost fulfilled."

"Right." I run a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. "That's... that's what I wanted to talk about."

Something flickers across his face—concern? Disappointment? I can't quite read it.

"Mateo—"

"I'm confused," I blurt out, cutting him off. "About us. About what this is."

He straightens, taking a step toward me. "What do you think it is?"

"That's the problem. I don't know anymore." I pace the small space, trying to organize my thoughts. "It started as a contract. A job. Pretending. But then we... and I... and now I don't know where the pretending stops and the real begins."

"What feels real to you?" he asks quietly.

I stop pacing and look at him. Really look at him—the man who's become the center of my world in ways I never imagined possible.

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