Page 16 of The Puck Contract

Mateo nods. "I can do that."

"Great. You'll be in the family box with the other partners. Leila Washington and Devon Kim will show you the ropes." Sophia stands, gathering her materials. "I think we've covered everything for today."

As we leave the conference room, I notice Mateo looking thoughtful.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask as we walk toward the parking lot.

"Just processing," he says. "It's a lot to keep straight. Or, well, not straight in this case." He smiles at his own joke.

"You'll be fine," I assure him. "Just be yourself. Except, you know—"

"Madly in love with you," he finishes, echoing my words from the gala night. "I remember."

We reach my car, and an awkward moment passes where neither of us seems to know how to say goodbye. A handshake feels ridiculous given we just spent an hour cuddling for cameras, but a hug seems too familiar.

"So, Saturday," I say finally.

"I'll be there," he promises. "With bells on. Or, you know, a Wolves jersey or something more appropriate."

"Actually," I say, "I have a jersey that might fit you. If you want."

His eyes widen slightly. "Your jersey? With your name on it?"

"That's kind of the point," I laugh. "Showing support and all that."

"Right, of course." He nods a bit too enthusiastically. "That would be great."

"I'll bring it to the game," I say. "And Mateo? Thanks for doing this. I know it's weird, but I appreciate it."

He smiles, and there's something genuine in it that makes my chest feel tight. "It's not so bad. The company's decent, at least."

"High praise," I say dryly.

"The highest," he confirms with a grin. "See you Saturday, boyfriend."

As I watch him walk to his car, I can't help but think that as fake relationships go, I could have done a lot worse than Mateo Rossi.

CHAPTER 6

MATEO

"SO, RULE NUMBER one of being a hockey significant other: never, ever criticize the refs where cameras can see you."

Leila Washington delivers this wisdom while deftly balancing a glass of white wine and a plate of fancy cheese cubes that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. We're in the VIP family box at the Wolves arena, and I'm trying desperately not to look as out of place as I feel.

"Even if they're blind as bats?" asks Devon, Ace's boyfriend—a stylish guy with immaculate hair and the kind of casual confidence that comes from dating a professional athlete for longer than three days.

"Especiallythen," Leila confirms. "The league watches social media like hawks. One clip of you calling a ref an incompetent asshole, and suddenly your player is getting questionable penalties for weeks."

I nod solemnly, mentally filing this away with the other seventeen unwritten rules I've been bombarded with since arriving at the arena an hour ago.

Devon leans in conspiratorially. "Rule number two: always bring snacks for post-game. They're like toddlers when they're hungry—cranky, irrational, and liable to throw tantrums."

"Granola bars," Leila adds. "Protein-heavy. And Gatorade. Blue for Groover."

"Blue specifically?" I ask, wondering if this is another prank like the "hockey boyfriend cheat sheet" incident.

"He's superstitious," Devon explains. "They all are. Wall has to put his left skate on first, Becker taps the crossbar four times during warmups, and your boyfriend only drinks blue Gatorade after games."

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