Page 24 of The Puck Contract

It's intimate, seeing these glimpses of his private life. More intimate, somehow, than sharing a bed.

I follow the voice and coffee smell to the kitchen, where I find Groover leaning against the counter, phone pressed to his ear. He's already dressed in workout clothes—a fitted gray t-shirt and black athletic shorts that show off his hockey-toned legs. His hair is slightly damp, like he's already showered.

He looks up when I enter, offering a small smile and mouthing "sorry" as he gestures to the phone. I wave it off and head for the coffee maker, which has a full pot waiting.

"No, Mom, he's not from Chicago," Groover is saying, rolling his eyes at me in a universal "parents, am I right?" expression. "He's from Florida... Yes, I know that's far... No, I haven't met his parents yet, we've only been dating a couple months..."

I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. Apparently Groover's mother has heard about me, which makes sense—our "relationship" has been splashed across hockey blogs and social media for weeks now.

"Yes, he's in college... Anthropology... No, that's not 'digging up dinosaurs,' that's paleontology." Groover pinches thebridge of his nose. "Mom, I gotta go... Yes, I'll tell him you said hi... Love you too."

He hangs up with a sigh. "Sorry about that. My mom's been blowing up my phone all week wanting details about you."

"No problem," I say, sipping the perfectly brewed coffee. "What's the verdict? Does she approve of her son's boyfriend?"

"She's already sent me three articles about gay marriage laws and the adoption process, so I'd say she's on board." He grabs a mug and pours himself coffee. "Fair warning, if she ever meets you, she'll try to feed you until you explode. It's her love language."

"Sounds like my mom," I laugh. "Italian mothers and Midwestern mothers have that in common."

"Speaking of which, have your parents seen the, uh, news about us?"

It's a reasonable question, but it makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. "Yeah. My sister texted me a link to some hockey blog with our picture. I told them it was new and I was waiting for the right time to mention it."

"And how did they take it?"

I shrug, aiming for casual. "They were surprised, but supportive. My sister thinks it's cool I'm dating an athlete."

What I don't mention is how the conversation actually went—my mom's careful questions about when I "knew," my dad's loaded silence, my sister's excited barrage of texts asking for details. I've been avoiding a follow-up call, letting them process while I figure out how to explain that I'm not actually dating a man, just pretending to for money.

God, that sounds so much worse when I phrase it that way.

"That's good," Groover says, seemingly accepting my sanitized version. "Hungry? I can make breakfast."

"After last night's cooking demonstration? I value my life too much."

He laughs. "I can handle breakfast. It's literally the only meal I can make without setting something on fire."

"In that case, I accept. What's on the menu?"

"Peanut butter toast," he says with such seriousness that I can't help but laugh.

"That's it? That's your specialty?"

"Hey, don't knock it. It's a perfectly balanced pre-workout meal. Carbs, protein, healthy fats." He's already pulling bread from a drawer. "I've had the same breakfast every morning since I was fifteen."

"Wow. And I thought I was the one with rigid routines." I watch as he meticulously spreads peanut butter on whole grain toast. "Is that a hockey player thing or a Groover thing?"

"Both? Athletes are creatures of habit." He hands me a plate with two perfectly prepared pieces of toast. "Routines help us feel in control when so much of our careers depend on factors we can't control."

It's a surprisingly introspective answer, and I find myself nodding. "That makes sense from an anthropological perspective. Ritual behaviors often emerge as responses to environmental uncertainty."

"See? You get it." He takes a bite of his own toast. "Though I'm pretty sure my teammates would die if they heard me being psychoanalyzed over peanut butter toast at 8 AM."

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the initial awkwardness of the morning-after situation fading into something that feels strangely... normal. Like we've done this before. Like we could do it again.

The thought catches me off guard, and I focus intently on my toast to avoid examining it too closely.

"I should probably head out soon," I say after finishing. "I've got a ton of reading to catch up on."

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