Page 49 of The Puck Contract

Neither of us moves. His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, but long enough that I know I didn't imagine it. My hands, which somehow found their way to his hips during our fall, tighten instinctively.

The buzzer sounds again, and Mateo flinches so hard he practically levitates off me.

"Jesus Christ," he swears, rolling onto the ice beside me. "I'm going to have PTSD from that sound."

"Pavlov's hockey player," I joke, trying to lighten the tension as we both sit up. "By the end of the day, you'll be salivating every time the buzzer rings."

"I think you mean having a heart attack," he corrects, but he's smiling again.

I climb to my feet first, then help him up. "Ready to try on your own? No safety net?"

He eyes me skeptically. "You'll still catch me if I fall?"

"Always," I say, and it comes out more sincere than I intended.

I position him in the center of the ice, then skate backward a few feet, still close enough to grab him if needed.

"Remember what I showed you," I encourage. "Small pushes, weight centered, knees relaxed."

Mateo takes a deep breath, then pushes off as instructed. He glides forward a foot, then another. His arms are outstretched for balance, his face a portrait of concentration. He makes it three more feet before starting to wobble.

I dart forward and catch him before he falls, my hands finding his waist from behind.

"You did it!" I say, genuinely proud. "That was at least five feet on your own."

His face lights up with triumph. "Did you see that? I was like Wayne... what's his name?"

"Gretzky," I supply. "And yes, practically identical. He also had a habit of yelping 'please don't let me die' while scoring goals."

"Shut up," he laughs, turning in my arms to face me. "Let me have this moment."

And then he's hugging me, arms wrapped around my neck, face buried in my shoulder. It's spontaneous and joyful, and I return the embrace without thinking, lifting him slightly off the ice in my enthusiasm.

The hug lasts longer than it should. What starts as celebration morphs into something quieter, more intimate. His body is warm against mine despite the cold air. I can feel his heartbeat, his breath against my neck. My eyes close, just for a moment, as I allow myself to enjoy the feel of him in my arms.

When we finally separate, neither of us speaks immediately. There's a new awareness between us, a tension that's been building since that first kiss but feels more urgent now.

"Groover," Mateo starts, then stops, seeming unsure what to say.

The moment is shattered by a sound from above—the press box door closing. We both look up to see a figure walking along the upper level.

"Is that...?" Mateo begins, squinting.

"Jason Miles," I confirm, recognizing the reporter instantly. "Looks like we have an audience."

"That guy is everywhere," Mateo says, shaking his head. "Does he live at the rink?"

"Sometimes I wonder," I mutter, irritation flaring. "Some of these guys are looking for any scandal they can find. One picture out of context can fuel a week's worth of clickbait."

The carefree mood of our skating lesson has evaporated. Mateo's body language has shifted, becoming more guarded.

"Should we go?" he asks quietly.

I consider it, but shake my head. "No. We're not doing anything wrong." I pause, then add with forced lightness, "Besides, this is probably great for our image. Devoted boyfriend learning to skate, supportive hockey player teaching him."

Mateo's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Right."

I hate the reminder of why we're really here, of the contractual nature of our relationship. But it's a reality we can't escape, especially with Jason Miles watching from above, no doubt looking for cracks in our story.

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