Page 118 of The Puck Contract

"Or a relationship of his own," I suggest. "Might keep him occupied."

Washington's lips twitch. "God help whoever takes on that project." He claps me on the shoulder. "Good season, Grooves. Even with all the drama."

"Thanks, Cap."

"Mateo's good for you," he adds, unexpectedly serious. "Hold onto that."

"Planning to," I assure him.

Washington nods, satisfied, and moves off to herd the remaining players toward the exit. Moments later, Mateo returns, sliding his arm around my waist.

"Ready to go home?" he asks.

Home. Not my apartment—ourhome. The thought still gives me a little thrill.

"More than ready."

As we wait for our car, Mateo leans into my side, a perfect fit. "Oh, I forgot to tell you—I have a surprise."

"Yeah?"

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of fabric. When he shakes it out, I recognize it as a custom jersey—but instead of my name and number, it reads "GROOVER'S REAL BF" across the back.

"For the first home game next season," he explains, eyes dancing with humor. "I figured it was time to update my wardrobe."

I laugh, pulling him closer. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

"Not perfect," he corrects. "But real. And that's better."

He's right, of course. What we have now—the arguments over whose turn it is to do dishes, the way he steals all the blankets, the late-night discussions about everything and nothing—it's messy and complicated and absolutely real.

And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

"Let's go home," I say, pressing a kiss to his temple as our car arrives.

As we slide into the backseat, Mateo's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. Outside the window, Chicago lights blur into streams of gold and silver, but all Ican see is his reflection—the man who started as a contract and became the center of my world.

The man who taught me that sometimes, the most real things begin with a lie.

THE END

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