Page 115 of The Puck Contract

"The contract might have brought us together, but it's not what kept me coming back. It's not why I memorized your coffee order or learned what the hell a 'cultural signifier' is or spent hours listening to you talk about sports rituals in societies I can't even pronounce."

I take another step forward, close enough now that I could touch him if I dared.

"I fell in love with you, Mateo. Completely. Irrevocably. The contract be damned."

The words hang in the air between us, the most terrifying truth I've ever spoken aloud. Mateo stares at me, eyes wide and impossibly vulnerable.

"How do I know?" he asks finally, voice barely above a whisper. "How do I know what's real and what's for show?"

Before I can answer, a voice calls from the edge of the crowd.

"If I may offer an anthropological perspective?"

We both turn to see Dr. Winters approaching, tweed jacket and all, looking like she's stumbled into the most fascinating field study of his career.

"Professor," Mateo acknowledges, cheeks flushing.

"In anthropological terms," Dr. Winters begins, adjusting her glasses, "what we're witnessing is the evolution from performative partnership to authentic pair bonding."

I blink, not entirely sure what's happening.

"The initial contract," she continues, warming to her subject, "created a framework of expected behaviors—a script, if you will. But genuine emotional attachment cannot be sustained through performance alone. It requires authentic connection."

"Exactly," I say, seizing on this unexpected ally. "What she said."

Mateo's lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through.

"Furthermore," Dr. Winters adds, "the public nature of this declaration suggests a willingness to risk social status for emotional fulfillment—a hallmark of genuine romantic attachment across cultures."

"Are you... academically validating my grand gesture?" I ask, bemused.

"Merely providing contextual analysis," Dr. Winters replies with dignity. "The interpretation, Mr. Rossi, is entirely up to you."

All eyes turn to Mateo, whose carefully constructed walls seem to be crumbling before our eyes.

"I came out to my family for you," he says finally, voice quiet but steady. "That wasn't in any contract."

Hope flares in my chest, bright and terrifying. "No, it wasn't."

"I let you teach me to skate even though I knew I'd fall on my ass a hundred times."

"Ninety-seven, actually. I counted."

A real smile this time, brief but beautiful. "I wore your jersey backward because your superstitious teammates thought it would help you win."

"And it did."

"I made love with you," he continues, voice dropping so only I can hear. "That definitely wasn't in the contract."

"No," I agree, heart pounding. "That was just us. The real us."

He takes a deep breath, eyes never leaving mine. "I think I've been in love with you since that first kiss. The one for the cameras that felt too real to be fake."

The world narrows to just his face, everything else fading to background noise. "Mateo—"

"I love you," he says, the words simple and devastating in their honesty. "Contract or no contract. Sponsorship or no sponsorship. I love you, Ansel Williams."

I close the remaining distance between us in two steps, hands coming up to frame his face. "I love you too. So fucking much."

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