Page 116 of The Puck Contract

And then I'm kissing him—not for the cameras, not for the crowd, not for anyone but us. His arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer as he kisses me back with equal fervor, equal certainty.

Someone—Becker, definitely Becker—lets out a whoop that breaks the spell. Mateo pulls back slightly, laughing against my lips as applause erupts around us.

"So," I whisper, keeping him close. "Does this mean you forgive me?"

"I'm thinking about it," he teases, though his smile gives him away. "You did bring the entire team. That's worth at least partial forgiveness."

"What would get me full forgiveness?"

He pretends to consider. "Dinner might be a good start. At that Italian place I like."

"Done."

"And maybe..." His eyes dance with mischief. "Maybe we could renegotiate our contract. New terms."

"What did you have in mind?"

He leans in, lips brushing my ear. "Exclusive rights. Long-term commitment. No PR department involvement whatsoever."

My heart feels too big for my chest, joy threatening to overflow. "Those terms are acceptable, Mr. Rossi."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Williams." He pulls back, eyes bright with happiness and something that looks suspiciously like tears. "Because I'm not letting you go either."

I kiss him again, sealing our new agreement in front of teammates, professors, students, and anyone else who cares to witness. This time, there's nothing fake about it.

This time, it's our real debut.

EPILOGUE

GROOVER

Three months later

THE GALA THIS time around feels like a different universe. Same hotel ballroom, same pretentious ice sculpture slowly melting in the corner, same uncomfortable bow tie trying to strangle me—but everything else has changed.

"Stop fidgeting," Mateo murmurs, reaching up to straighten my bow tie for the third time in fifteen minutes. "You look perfect."

"Easy for you to say. Your tie isn't plotting your demise." I tug at my collar, earning a light slap on my hand.

"My tie is actually behaving because I don't antagonize it." He smooths his hands over my lapels, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "Besides, I have insider information that your boyfriend thinks you look extremely fuckable in formal wear."

Heat flashes through me at his words—not just from their content, but from the casual confidence with which he delivers them. Just a few months ago, he would have stumbled andblushed. Now he just grins wickedly, fully aware of exactly what he's doing to me.

"Is that so?" I lean down, lips brushing his ear. "Well, I have it on good authority that said boyfriend is getting thoroughly ravished the second we get home."

His sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.

"Jesus, you two," Becker groans from behind us. "Can you keep it in your pants for five minutes? There are sponsors present."

"Sponsors who specifically asked for me to bring my boyfriend," I remind him, sliding an arm around Mateo's waist. "So technically, this is just good business."

It still feels surreal saying it—boyfriend—even though it's been our reality for months now. The aftermath of Operation Win Back Mateo (still hate the name, still got outvoted) had been chaotic: press conferences, team statements, a very uncomfortable meeting with management where I may have told GM Donaldson exactly where he could shove his concerns about my "image problem."

But from the ashes of the Kingsport deal rose something better: Valor Athletic, an up-and-coming equipment company specifically looking to sponsor diverse athletes. Their CEO, a former college player who'd never felt comfortable coming out during his career, had reached out personally.

"We don't want you despite who you are," he'd said during our first meeting. "We want you because of it."

The contract they offered was smaller than Kingsport's would have been, but it came with creative control over my endorsement campaign and a pledge to donate a percentage of profits to LGBTQ+ youth sports programs. It was a no-brainer.

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