Page 31 of The Puck Contract

"Never have I ever," Petrov says when the commotion dies down, "pretended to be someone I'm not."

The prompt seems innocent enough, but I freeze. Beside me, I feel Mateo stiffen slightly.

Everyone drinks to this one—it's universal enough—but when I raise my glass, I catch Becker watching me with that too-perceptive gaze of his.

The game continues, but the mood has shifted, at least for me. The reminder of our deception sits uneasily, especially with Mateo warm and solid against me in a way that feels anything but fake.

Eventually, the party begins to wind down. Mateo slips off my lap to help clean up, chatting easily with Leila as they gather empty bottles and plates. I watch him move around the space, fitting in seamlessly with the people who matter most to me.

"He's a keeper," Washington says, appearing beside me again. "Smart, funny, gets along with everyone. Even Petrov likes him, and Petrov doesn't like anybody."

"Yeah," I agree, not knowing what else to say.

"Just don't screw it up," he adds, clapping me on the shoulder before moving on to say goodbye to departing teammates.

Don't screw it up. As if there's something real here to ruin.

But as Mateo catches my eye across the room and smiles that soft, private smile again, I'm not so sure anymore where the acting ends and the truth begins.

CHAPTER 10

MATEO

"YOU'RE TELLING ME that humanity's greatest achievement isn't the iPhone or space travel, but ice cream?" Groover leans back in his chair, that crooked smile doing unfair things to his face.

"Absolutely." I stab my spoon into the last of my tiramisu. "Think about it—we figured out how to take cow juice, freeze it while simultaneously whipping in air, and create a substance that releases dopamine more effectively than most illegal drugs. And we did this before electricity was even a thing."

Groover laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. "When you put it like that, it's hard to argue."

We're at Bella Notte, a cozy Italian place downtown that Groover insisted has "the best tiramisu outside of actual Italy." He wasn't wrong. The meal has been incredible—handmade pasta, wine that costs more per bottle than my textbooks, and dessert that made me briefly consider proposing marriage to the pastry chef.

It's our third "date" this week, which seems excessive for the contractual requirements, but Sophia insisted we needed more public outings. At least, that's what Groover told me when he texted about dinner. I didn't question it because, well, free food. And the company isn't terrible either.

Okay, fine, the company is actually pretty great. Over the past few weeks, I've discovered that behind Groover's reserved exterior is a wickedly smart, surprisingly funny guy who listens like what I'm saying actually matters. Not what I expected from a professional athlete.

"Ready to head out?" Groover asks, signaling for the check. "Early practice tomorrow."

"Sure. Though I'm going to need to be rolled to the car. I think I just consumed my body weight in carbonara."

Groover pays—another perk of fake-dating a guy with an NHL salary—and we head toward the exit. He places his hand on my lower back as we navigate between tables, a gesture that's become familiar over the past weeks. It's just part of the act, I remind myself, ignoring the way my skin warms under his touch.

The maître d' holds the door open with a flourish. "Thank you for dining with us, Mr. Williams. Please visit again soon."

"Thanks, Marco. Tell your mother the tiramisu was perfect as always."

And then we're outside in the cool evening air, and holy shit, there are people with cameras waiting for us.

"Groover! Over here!"

"Ansel, look this way!"

"Can we get a shot of you two together?"

The sudden barrage of flashbulbs makes me freeze like a startled rabbit. I've gotten somewhat used to being recognized when I'm with Groover—a hazard of dating (fake-dating) a celebrity—but this is different. These aren't just random fans with cell phones; these are actual photographers with professional equipment.

Groover's hand moves from my back to my waist, pulling me closer to his side. "Just smile and keep walking," he murmurs close to my ear. "Car's just down the block."

I manage what I hope is a natural-looking smile and not a grimace of panic as we start walking. Groover seems unfazed, nodding politely at the photographers but not stopping. Years of media training, I guess.

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