Page 28 of The Puck Contract

He's rambling, which I've learned means he's nervous. It's oddly endearing.

"What'd you make?" I ask as we head toward the kitchen.

"Baked ziti. It's my nonna's recipe, but I simplified it because, well, you've seen me cook." He grimaces. "No kitchen fires were involved in the production of this pasta, I promise."

"I'm impressed." And I genuinely am. The fact that he went to the trouble of cooking something for my teammates makes that weird twisting feeling in my chest intensify.

"Mateo!" Becker calls from the living room. "Get in here. We need to settle a debate."

Mateo gives me a questioning look, and I shrug. "No idea. But it's Becker, so it's probably ridiculous."

We enter the living room where most of the team has gathered. Becker has repurposed his whiteboard to display what appears to be a complex diagram of... something.

"Mateo, as our resident academic, we need your expert opinion," Becker announces. "Is a hot dog a sandwich? Wall says yes, Petrov says no, and the future of team harmony depends on your ruling."

Mateo blinks, clearly not expecting this question. "Um... structurally speaking, a hot dog bun is a single piece of bread partially split but still connected on one side, so by the strictest definition, no, it's not a sandwich, which requires two separate pieces of bread."

The room goes quiet as everyone stares at him.

"However," he continues, warming to the topic, "from a cultural perspective, food classifications are social constructs that vary across cultures and time periods. So while a hot dog might not meet the technical definition of a sandwich, its cultural position and usage patterns align with how we use and think about sandwiches in American society."

More silence.

"So... yes and no?" Wall ventures.

"It exists in a liminal space between sandwich and non-sandwich," Mateo concludes with an academic flourish. "It's a quantum sandwich."

Becker throws up his hands. "This is why I love this guy!”

The tension breaks, and suddenly everyone is laughing, including Mateo, who looks slightly puzzled, but pleased.

"Quantum sandwich," Ace repeats, shaking his head. "That's going on a t-shirt."

Washington appears from the kitchen. "Food's ready. Everyone grab a plate and head to the dining room."

As we line up for the buffet-style spread of steaks, baked potatoes, and various sides, I notice how easily Mateo slips into conversation with my teammates. He's asking Petrov about growing up in Russia, listening intently as the rookie describes his hometown with obvious homesickness in his voice.

"That's fascinating," Mateo says. "The cultural adaptation process for international athletes is severely understudied. You should consider letting someone document your experience."

Petrov looks both flattered and confused. "Document? Like... a book?"

"Or an academic paper," Mateo suggests. "The intersection of cultural identity, professional athletics, and immigration is rich territory."

"See?" Becker nudges me as we fill our plates. "Your boyfriend is trying to turn Petrov into a research subject. Classic academic move."

"He's just interested in people," I defend. "It's his thing."

"Uh-huh." Becker gives me a knowing look. "And you're into that, huh? The whole curious intellectual vibe?"

I shrug, trying to seem casual. "It's different. Refreshing."

"Different from your usual type, that's for sure." Becker loads his plate with a second steak. "Remember that model you dated last year? Pretty sure he thought anthropology was a clothing brand."

I wince at the memory. Julian had been gorgeous, but conversations with him had the intellectual depth of a puddle. Not that looks and brains are mutually exclusive—Mateo proves that particular fallacy wrong.

Not that I'm thinking about Mateo's looks. Much.

We settle around Washington's massive dining table, and I find myself between Mateo and Ace. The conversation flows easily, jumping from hockey to movies to Becker's latest disastrous Tinder date.

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