Page 6 of The Puck Contract

"Are you two together?"

I freeze like a high schooler caught with a fake ID, my brain completely shutting down under the onslaught. But then Groover's hand finds mine, warm and solid.

He guides me through the gauntlet of photographers. He's positioned himself slightly in front of me, shielding me from the worst of the chaos, but that doesn’t stop the adrenaline from melting my internal organs.

"Smile," he whispers without moving his lips. "You look like you're being marched to the guillotine."

I force my face into what I hope is a convincing approximation of a man in love and not a man contemplating whether $10,000 is worth this level of public scrutiny.

As we finally make it through the doors and into the blessed relative quiet of the venue's foyer, Groover leans down again.

"See? Not so bad."

I give him a look that makes him laugh, and the sound does something weird to my chest that I choose to ignore.

"Come on," he says, still holding my hand. "Let's get you a drink. I have a feeling you're going to need it."

CHAPTER 3

GROOVER

THE WOLVES QUARTERLY Charity Gala is exactly like it sounds—a bunch of sweaty hockey players stuffed into tuxedos, trying to convince rich people to part with their money for a good cause. Usually, I spend these events hugging the bar and counting the minutes until I can escape. But tonight, I've got Mateo's hand clutched in mine like it's the only thing keeping me from floating away.

"So this is the boyfriend!" Coach Martin materializes in front of us, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass. His bow tie is already askew, which means he's at least three drinks in. "Finally meeting the mystery man!"

I force a smile, my bullshit alert pinging at the wordfinally, given evenIdidn’t know therewasa mystery man before this evening. "Coach, this is Mateo Rossi. Mateo, Coach Martin."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Mateo says, extending his free hand. His voice only wavers slightly, which I count as a win considering he looked ready to bolt outside.

Coach pumps his hand enthusiastically. "The pleasure's all mine! Our Groover here's been so tight-lipped about his personal life. Had us wondering if he was secretly dating a celebrity or something."

Mateo laughs, a genuine sound that surprises me. "Just a boring college student, I'm afraid."

"Nothing boring about being the boyfriend of my best forward," Coach winks. "You a hockey fan, son?"

I sense Mateo tense beside me. Right. Anthropology major. Probably knows as much about hockey as I know about... whatever anthropologists study. Bones? Ancient pottery? Sports rituals where the losers get sacrificed?

"He's learning," I jump in smoothly. "Been to a few games."

Coach nods approvingly. "Well, stick with this one, Mateo. He's going places. Just signed that big contract extension, and now Kingsport's sniffing around. Our boy's a hot commodity."

Mateo smiles politely, but I catch the slight furrow between his brows. Yeah, buddy, that's why you're here—to make me an even hotter commodity. For the equipment company, not Coach. Though the way he's looking at Mateo, I'm not entirely sure.

"If you'll excuse us, Coach," I say, "I should introduce Mateo to some of the other guys."

"Of course, of course." Coach waves us off. "Enjoy the party, lovebirds!"

As we navigate through the crowd, Mateo leans in close. "Is everyone going to be that enthusiastic about us?"

"Worse," I warn. "My teammates are—"

"There they are!" Becker's voice cuts through the ambient noise like a foghorn. He's standing with Wall, Ace, and Petrov near one of the ice sculptures—a giant wolf, naturally—and waving us over with the subtlety of an air traffic controller.

"—complete fucking animals," I finish with a sigh. "Brace yourself."

Mateo squares his shoulders like he's preparing for battle. It's kind of adorable.

"Gentlemen," I greet as we approach. "Try not to scare him off, okay? I actually like this one."

---