Page 45 of The Puck Contract

Wall groans. "I thought we were here to watch highlights."

"This is a highlight," Becker insists. "Of my creativity and your patience."

Washington sighs from his armchair. "Let him get it out of his system or he'll be unbearable all night."

And so begins an excruciating round of couples trivia, with Becker asking increasingly personal questions that reveal exactly how little Mateo and I actually know about each other. What's my favorite color? No idea. What's his dream vacation destination? Complete mystery. Favorite food? Childhood pet's name? Most embarrassing moment?

Leila and Washington are crushing the competition, as expected from a couple married for eight years. Devon and Ace are holding their own, though they bicker over every answer. Mateo and I are floundering spectacularly.

"Favorite book?" Becker asks me.

"Um." I search Mateo's face for a clue. "Something academic? With a really long title?"

"The Social Construction of Reality by Berger and Luckmann," Mateo supplies, looking amused. "Close enough."

Becker turns to Mateo. "Groover's pregame ritual?"

This one he actually knows. "Peanut butter toast for breakfast, gear arranged in exact same pattern, right skate always before left skate, and he touches the logo on his jersey last before heading out."

"Correct!" Becker seems genuinely impressed. "Someone's been paying attention."

I stare at Mateo. "How did you know all that?"

"Page 42 of the binder," he admits. "There's a whole section on player superstitions."

Despite our overall poor showing, Mateo plays his part perfectly—looking appropriately disappointed when we get answers wrong, celebrating the few we get right, leaning into me with comfortable familiarity. To anyone watching, we're just another couple who's still learning each other's quirks.

Only I can feel the slight tension in his shoulders, see the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when Becker makes jokes about "the honeymoon phase."

Eventually, Washington calls an end to the torture, citing the need for sleep before practice. The group disperses, and Mateo and I walk back to our room in comfortable silence.

Once inside, the awkwardness returns in full force. We take turns in the bathroom, going through our nighttime routines with careful politeness, like strangers sharing a train compartment.

I climb into my bed and switch off the lamp on my side, plunging the room into darkness except for Mateo's reading light. "Goodnight," I offer.

"Night," he responds, still sitting up against his headboard, the Hockey Boyfriend binder open in his lap.

I roll onto my side, facing away from him, and try to quiet my mind enough to sleep. It's not working. I'm too aware of his presence across the room, of all the words unsaid between us.

An hour passes. I hear Mateo's light click off, the rustle of sheets as he settles in his bed. But the pattern of his breathing tells me he's as awake as I am.

"Groover?" His voice is soft in the darkness. "You awake?"

I roll over to face his direction, though I can only make out his silhouette. "Yeah."

"Can I ask you something? Something personal?"

I prop myself up on one elbow. "Sure."

Silence stretches for a moment, then: "What was it like? Coming out?"

The question catches me off guard. It's not what I expected him to ask.

"It was... complicated," I answer honestly. "Scary. Liberating. Sometimes both in the same minute."

"Were you always sure? About being gay?"

I think about it. "Not always. I dated girls in high school, convinced myself I was just 'focusing on hockey' when it didn't feel right. But I think I always knew, deep down."

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