Page 42 of The Puck Contract

Both of them give me identical looks of disbelief.

"Dude," Becker says, "he sat three seats away from you at film review yesterday and jumped like a startled cat when you passed him a water bottle."

"And you've been staring at him like a sad puppy whenever he's not looking," Wall adds helpfully.

"I do not—" I start to argue, but I'm cut off by Captain Washington's approach.

"Mateo's car just pulled up," he says. "Whatever you three are plotting, wrap it up."

"We're not plotting," I grumble. "These idiots made Mateo a 'Hockey Boyfriend' binder like we're in middle school."

Washington peers at the binder in Becker's hands. "Is that a statistical breakdown of our penalty kill effectiveness by opponent?"

"With color-coding," Becker confirms proudly.

Washington nods approvingly. "Good work. Any mention of my turnover percentage?"

"Page 27," Wall says. "We were diplomatic."

I throw up my hands in defeat. "You're all insane. He's going to think the entire team has lost their minds."

"Too late for that," Washington says mildly. "Here he comes."

I turn to see Mateo entering the terminal, looking sleep-rumpled and nervous in jeans and a hoodie, a weekend bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is doing that thing where it falls across his forehead because he hasn't had time to style it properly, and despite everything, my stupid heart does a stupid little flip.

Fuck. I'm in deeper than I thought.

"Hi," he says, approaching our group with visible caution. "Sorry if I'm late."

"Right on time," Washington assures him. "We're boarding in five."

"Mateo!" Becker says with all the subtlety of an air horn. "We made you something!"

Mateo blinks as the binder is thrust into his hands. "Um, thank you? What is—"

"Operation Boyfriend Education," Wall explains. "Everything you need to know about hockey, the team, and the playoff race."

Mateo opens the binder, eyes widening as he flips through pages of stats, diagrams, and what appears to be unauthorized childhood photos of me. "This is... comprehensive."

"We stayed up late making it," Becker says proudly. "Now you won't have to pretend to understand what's happening on the ice."

I wait for Mateo to laugh it off or make a joke, but instead, something soft passes over his face. "That's actually really thoughtful. Thank you."

And just like that, Becker and Wall are preening like they've won the Stanley Cup, each trying to point out their favorite sections of the binder. I watch, slightly stunned, as Mateo listens to their explanations with genuine interest, his initial nervousness fading.

"Boarding now," the flight attendant calls, and the team begins gathering their carry-ons.

Mateo closes the binder and glances at me, a hint of uncertainty returning. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," I say, attempting normalcy. "Sleep okay?"

"Not really." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "You?"

"Like garbage. Ready for a thrilling flight watching Ace throw up because he's afraid of flying?"

That gets a small smile. "Is that why he looks so green?"

"Yep. Two-hundred-pound professional athlete, terrified of commercial air travel. We're not allowed to mention it, but feel free to enjoy the show."

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