Page 17 of The Puck Contract

My boyfriend. The phrase still gives me a little jolt every time I hear it. Which is ridiculous because Groover isn't actually my boyfriend—he's my employer, basically. Or the team is. The whole situation gets ethically murkier the more I think about it.

"Speaking of the boyfriend," Leila says, "he dropped this off for you." She hands me a folded Wolves jersey that I immediately recognize as Groover's number 17.

"Thanks," I say, unfolding it. It's clearly been worn—there's a faint scent of detergent and something distinctlyGrooverthat makes my stomach do a weird little flip.

"Go ahead, put it on," Devon encourages. "It's tradition."

I slip it over my head, feeling oddly ceremonial, like I'm being inducted into some exclusive club. The jersey is huge on me, the sleeves extending past my fingertips, the hem hitting mid-thigh.

"Perfect," Leila declares. "Nothing says 'taken' like wearing your man's jersey."

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the glass separating our box from the arena. With my hair sticking up from the static and Groover's name emblazoned across my shoulders, I look like...well, like a boyfriend. A real one.

The thought is both unsettling and oddly pleasant.

"Now, the season structure," Leila continues, apparently determined to cram an entire Hockey Partners 101 course into the hour before puck drop. "Regular season ends in April, then playoffs if they make it."

"That's when the real pressure starts," Devon adds. "For them and for us. No shaving, no haircuts, no changing routines. If they win while you're wearing that shirt, you wear that same shirt to the next game. If they lose while you're sitting in that seat, you never sit there again."

"That's..." I search for a diplomatic word. "Intense."

"Hockey players," Leila shrugs, like that explains everything. And weirdly, it kind of does.

The arena suddenly darkens, and the crowd roars as dramatic music blasts through the speakers. Spotlights sweep across the ice as an announcer's voice booms:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR CHICAGO WOLVES!"

The team bursts onto the ice in a blur of navy and silver, and despite myself, I find my heart rate picking up with the excitement of it all. I scan the players, easily spotting Groover thanks to the giant 17 on his back. He moves with a powerful grace that's mesmerizing, his skates cutting clean lines across the pristine ice.

"They're doing warmups now," Devon explains. "Game starts in about fifteen minutes."

I watch, fascinated, as the players execute drills and passing sequences. It's like a choreographed dance, precise and athletic in a way I never appreciated before.

"Want to go down to the glass?" Leila asks. "Get a closer look?"

"Can we do that?"

"Family privileges," she winks. "Come on."

We make our way down to ice level, where a section near the team bench is reserved for family members. The players are much more imposing up close, their equipment making them look like armored warriors as they whip pucks around at terrifying speeds.

I spot Groover chatting with Becker near center ice. As if sensing my presence, he looks over, does a double-take at the sight of me in his jersey, and breaks into a grin that makes my chest feel weirdly tight. He raises his stick in acknowledgment, and I give an awkward wave back.

"Oh, he's got it bad," Devon murmurs beside me.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"That smile. Kevin only looked at me like that after we'd been dating for months."

I'm saved from having to respond by the sudden sharp pain of a hockey puck smacking into the plexiglass directly in front of my face. I jump back with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, my heart hammering.

"Heads up!" someone calls belatedly, and I look up to see Wall skating by with an apologetic wave.

"Jesus," I breathe, hand pressed to my chest. "That nearly gave me a heart attack."

What I don't realize, in my adrenaline-spiked state, is that someone has captured the entire moment on their phone. By the time we return to our seats, #GrooversBF is trending on Twitter, complete with a slow-motion video of my terrified face as the puck hits the glass.

"Congratulations," Devon says, showing me his phone. "You're a meme."

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