Page 89 of The Puck Contract

The simple sincerity in his voice hits me harder than any passionate declaration could. I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm, hoping he can't feel the rapid beat of my heart.

"Always," I say, the word carrying more weight than I intended.

CHAPTER 25

MATEO

I'M WEARING THE wrong fucking thing.

Scratch that.

I’m wearing the right thing. What’s wrong is, I'm wearing it backward.

The number 17 that should be prominently displayed on my back is currently stretched across my chest like some kind of dyslexic hockey fashion statement.

And I didn't even notice until I saw myself on the fucking JumboTron.

Let me backtrack. It's Thursday night, and I'm running late because Professor Winters decided our seminar discussion on cultural determinism was more important than my boyfriend's hockey game. By the time I arrived at the arena, puck drop was fifteen minutes away.

Groover’s jersey has somehow become a regular part of my attire. (Yes, I sleep in it sometimes. No, we're not discussingthat.) In my frantic rush to not miss opening face-off, I grabbed it from my laundry pile, threw it over my head while sprinting for the Uber, and apparently failed to notice it was backward.

Now I'm sitting in the VIP family section beside Leila, whose expression falls somewhere between amused and concerned as she points out my wardrobe malfunction.

"Sooo…are yousurethis isn’t intentional?" she asks, perfectly manicured nail indicating the number plastered across my chest.

I groan, Devon joining Leila in torturing me before I can respond.

"Oh my god, you're trending." He leans over from the seat behind us, phone extended to show me a Twitter feed filled with pictures of me, #BackwardBoyfriend already gathering thousands of impressions.

"Kill me now," I mutter, sinking lower in my seat as the ambient chatter in our section increases noticeably.

"You can't fix it now," Leila says, patting my knee sympathetically. "The boys have already seen you on the pre-game feed."

"Besides," Devon adds cheerfully, "it's kind of adorable. Like you're so excited about your man you can't even dress yourself properly."

I'm contemplating the feasibility of climbing over the glass and disappearing into the penalty box when the arena lights dim. Saved by the starting lineup.

The crowd roars as the players skate out, spotlights dancing across the ice. When Groover emerges, he scans the family section immediately, eyes landing on me with laserprecision. His double-take when he notices my backward jersey is subtle but unmistakable.

Then he grins. Not his media smile or his polite-in-public smile. The full, gap-toothed, crinkly-eyed grin that usually only appears in private moments. Even from this distance, I can see him shake with silent laughter as he takes his position for the anthem.

Great. I've amused my professional athlete boyfriend with my inability to dress myself. Add it to my list of accomplishments, right under "can name every bone in the human foot" and "once ate an entire pizza in under ten minutes."

The game starts, and I try to forget about my embarrassment by focusing on the action. The Wolves are playing Montreal, who—according to the stats Becker drilled into my head—are currently leading the conference. The odds are not in Chicago's favor.

Yet something strange happens. The Wolves come out flying. Groover scores in the first three minutes, a beautiful end-to-end rush that has the crowd on their feet. By the end of the first period, Chicago is up 3-0, with Groover factoring in on all three goals.

"He's playing out of his mind tonight," Devon comments during intermission. "Whatever you did to him before the game, keep doing it."

I choke on my overpriced beer. "I didn't—we haven't—I was running late!"

Devon winks. "Well, being late clearly works for him."

The second period is tighter, with Montreal clawing back two goals. The tension in the arena ratchets up as the visitors press for the equalizer. During a TV timeout, I noticeWashington on the bench, scanning the crowd until he spots me. He points directly at my chest, then gives a thumbs up before returning to the game.

"Did he just... acknowledge my fashion disaster?" I ask Leila.

She laughs. "Hockey players are the most superstitious creatures on the planet. If they think something is bringing luck, they'll latch onto it like barnacles on a whale."

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