Page 13 of The Puck Contract

Groover laughs. "Don't worry, they did the same thing to Ace's boyfriend last year. Convinced him that players have to gargle maple syrup before overtime for extra Canadian luck."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Devon actually tried it. Ace said he was sticky for days."

That makes me feel marginally better. "So it's like a hockey hazing ritual?"

"Exactly. Consider yourself officially welcomed to the hockey WAGs."

"WAGs?"

"Wives And Girlfriends. Though in our case, it's more like... HABs? Husbands And Boyfriends?" He shrugs. "The terminology is still catching up."

I look down at my "cheat sheet" full of nonsense hockey explanations. "I should probably throw this away."

"Keep it," Groover suggests. "It might be wrong, but at least it's entertaining. And who knows? Maybe you can use it in your anthropology thesis. 'Ritualistic Hazing of Romantic Partners in Professional Sports' or something."

I laugh, tucking the paper into my notebook. "Not a bad idea, actually."

Groover picks up one of my legitimate flashcards. "You were really studying this stuff, huh?"

"I didn't want to embarrass you," I admit. "You know, if someone asks me a hockey question and I say something completely wrong."

His expression softens. "That's... actually really considerate."

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "It's the least I could do, considering..." I trail off, not wanting to bring up the financial arrangement too directly.

"Well, I appreciate it," he says. "And for what it's worth, I'll try to learn about anthropology too. Though I can't promise I won't mix up my Paleolithic and Neolithic periods."

"That's okay," I say with a grin. "I'll make you a cheat sheet. And I promise all the information will be accurate."

"Deal." He extends his hand, and I shake it, feeling oddly formal given we're supposed to be dating.

As our hands touch, I have a flash of memory from last night—his warm against my lower back as he guided me through the crowd of reporters, steady and protective. The same unexpected tingles race up my arm now, and I pull my hand back maybe a little too quickly.

If Groover notices, he doesn't comment. Instead, he stands and heads toward the kitchen. "Hungry? I was thinking we could order lunch and go over that calendar Sophia sent."

"Sounds good," I say, grateful for the change of subject. "As long as it's not protein powder."

He laughs, and just like that, the awkwardness dissolves. Maybe this fake relationship thing won't be so bad after all.

As long as I can figure out what the hell icing actually is before the next game.

CHAPTER 5

GROOVER

"SO, TO SUMMARIZE: hand-holding is encouraged, casual touches look natural, and kissing is... TBD." Sophia taps her tablet with a perfectly manicured nail. "Any questions?"

Mateo and I are sitting across from her in a glass-walled conference room at the team's practice facility. It's been three days since the gala, and apparently management has decided we need "media training" to properly fake our relationship for the public.

Because nothing says true love like a PowerPoint presentation titled "Strategic Public Displays of Affection: Guidelines and Best Practices."

"I have a question," I raise my hand like I'm in fucking grade school. "Is there a specific quota of heart-eye emojis I'm supposed to use in Instagram captions, or is that left to my discretion?"

Sophia gives me a look that could freeze hell. "Your sarcasm is noted, Ansel."

"Sorry," I mutter, anything but. "Continue with the relationship choreography."

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