Page 19 of The Puck Contract

"Family can visit the locker room after games," he explains. "Don't worry, they're usually somewhat decent by the time we get there."

Usuallyis doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, as I discover when we enter the team's locker room fifteen minutes later. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and equipment, and there are indeed half-naked hockey players everywhere.

I keep my eyes firmly fixed at face level as Devon leads me through the chaos to where Groover is sitting, already showered but wearing only a towel around his waist. His hair is damp, his skin flushed from the hot water, and I am suddenly, acutely aware that I've never seen this much of him before.

"Hey," he says, breaking into a smile when he sees me. "You made it through your first game."

"Barely," I joke, trying not to stare at the droplets of water trailing down his chest. "I nearly had a heart attack when that puck hit the glass."

"Yeah, I saw that," he laughs. "The whole internet saw it, actually."

"So I've heard," I groan. "Not my finest moment."

"I don't know," he says, eyes twinkling. "I thought it was pretty cute."

The wordcutedoes something weird to my insides.

"Nice goal," I say instead. "That shot was, um, really fast."

Groover's smile widens. "Thanks for the technical assessment, Professor."

"Hey, I'm learning," I protest. "I now know that the blue line isnotcalled that because it represents the tears of opposing players."

He laughs, and I find myself laughing too, momentarily forgetting we're surrounded by his teammates until Becker appears beside us.

"Mateo!" he exclaims, slinging a sweaty arm around my shoulders. "Did you see my check in the second period? Almost sent that guy into next week!"

"It was very... violent," I offer, which makes Becker beam like I've paid him the highest compliment.

"Violence is the point," he says cheerfully. "Hey, we're going out to celebrate. You two coming?"

Groover looks at me questioningly. It's Friday night, and I don't have class tomorrow. Plus, going out with the team seems like exactly the kind of boyfriend activity I'm being paid to do.

"Sure," I say. "I'm in."

"Great!" Becker claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. "Usual place, thirty minutes."

As the team disperses to finish getting dressed, Groover stands, adjusting his towel in a way that makes me quickly avert my eyes.

"I'll be ready in five," he says. "Wait for me by the players' exit?"

I nod and make my escape, navigating back through the locker room while trying not to look at anyone's... anything. But as I pass a row of lockers, I can't help stealing one last glance at Groover, who's now facing away from me as he pulls on a pair of boxer briefs.

The towel drops, giving me a brief but memorable view of what can only be described as a hockey player's ass in its natural state—muscular, firm, and completely impossible to unsee.

I practically sprint the rest of the way to the exit, my face burning.

I just checked out my fake boyfriend's very real backside.

And worse—I liked what I saw.

This is fine, I tell myself as I wait by the exit.Totally normal to objectively appreciate the human form. I'm an anthropology student. It's practically academic research.

But the flutter in my stomach when Groover emerges, now fully dressed in dark jeans and a blue button-down that brings out his eyes, feels distinctly un-academic.

"Ready?" he asks, completely unaware of my internal crisis.

"Ready," I lie, following him toward the parking lot and wondering what the hell am I doing.

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