Page 112 of The Puck Contract

"Mateo! How much were you paid?"

It's too much. Too loud. Too public. Too raw.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, backing toward my car. "I can't."

I slip behind the wheel before he can respond, before the reporters can reach us. Through the windshield, I see Groover's teammates form a protective barrier around him, Washington physically blocking Jason Miles's approach.

The last thing I see as I pull away is Groover's face, a mixture of devastation and resignation that will haunt me for days to come.

Maybe even forever.

CHAPTER 31

GROOVER

I'VE BEEN CHECKED into the boards so hard my vision blurred. I've taken a puck to the face that left me with twelve stitches and a scar that's barely visible now unless you know where to look. I've had my heart broken before by guys who weren't worth the emotional bandwidth they consumed.

None of that prepared me for the gut-punch of watching Mateo drive away.

That was a week ago. Seven days of hell that have felt like seven years.

Seven days of ignoring calls from PR, from management, from fucking Kingsport representatives who officially pulled their sponsorship offer yesterday with a tersely worded email about "brand incompatibility" and "public trust concerns."

Seven days of playing the worst hockey of my professional career. Missing passes a rookie could make. Fumbling shots I could nail in my sleep. Watching our playoff chances circle the drain with each pathetic performance.

Seven days without Mateo.

I slam my locker shut with enough force to rattle the entire row, drawing startled looks from teammates who've been walking on eggshells around me all week.

"You trying to break that, or just making sure we all know you're still in a mood?" Becker asks from his spot on the bench, unlacing his skates after another disastrous practice.

"Fuck off," I mutter without heat. I'm too exhausted for real anger.

"Well-spoken as always." He tosses a balled-up sock in my direction, which I don't bother dodging. It hits my shoulder and falls sadly to the floor, much like my dignity this past week.

"Leave him alone," Wall says. "He's going through shit."

"We're all going through shit," Washington interjects, appearing from the coaches' office with a face like thunder. "The difference is, the rest of us aren't tanking our playoff chances because of it."

The locker room falls silent. Captain rarely raises his voice, which makes it all the more effective when he does.

"I don't want to hear it," I say, grabbing my bag. "I know I'm playing like ass."

"No," Washington says, blocking my path to the door. "You're playing like someone who's given up. And that's not the Groover I know."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

"Bullshit." He crosses his arms, immovable as a mountain. "The Groover I know fights for what he wants. On the ice and off."

"I tried!" The words explode out of me, echoing off the locker room walls. "I called him a hundred times. I went to his apartment. He doesn't want to hear it."

"So try harder," Washington says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because—" I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "Because the whole thing was built on a lie, alright? Even if what came after was real, the foundation was rotten from the start."

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