Page 91 of The Puck Contract

"The man of the hour!" Devon declares, high-fiving me.

Coach Martin actually stops me in the hallway before I reach my seat.

"Rossi," he says, face as stern as always. "Jersey backward?"

I turn in a small circle to demonstrate, feeling ridiculous.

He nods once, satisfied. "Carry on."

The Wolves win 4-1, with Groover scoring again. His second goal—a power play beauty in the third period—is followed by him skating to the family section and pointing directly at me. The crowd around me goes wild.

By Tuesday's game against Dallas, I'm fielding texts from Leila if I'm running late.

Leila:Where are you? Puck drop in 20. Devon says you're not in the seats yet.

Me:Traffic. Almost there. Jersey is backward, I swear.

Leila:Thank god. Wall is pacing the hallway muttering about "disrupted energy."

This is my life now. A grown man, anthropology major with a 3.8 GPA, reduced to a glorified rabbit's foot for professional athletes.

The ridiculous part? It's working. The Wolves win again, 3-0 shutout. They climb in the standings, firmly securing a playoff position with ten games left in the regular season. Groover's playing the best hockey of his career. And all anyone can talk about is the "Backward Boyfriend Phenomenon."

ESPN does a segment on hockey superstitions, featuring me as Exhibit A. Sports blogs debate whether I should be considered for a front-office position. The Wolves' social media team creates a compilation video of all nine goals scored over these three games.

It's absurd, embarrassing, and strangely addictive.

CHAPTER 26

GROOVER

MORNING SUNSHINE HAS no business being this cheerful. It slices through my blinds like some kind of solar assassination attempt, determined to drag me from sleep whether I'm ready or not.

I groan and throw my arm over my eyes, but it's too late—I'm awake. My body clock's been set to hockey time for so long that even after a late game, I'm up with the birds like some kind of demented Disney princess.

The weight on my chest shifts, warm and solid.

Mateo.

Still asleep, his breathing deep and even against my skin. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in every direction like he's been electrocuted, and there's a faint line pressed into his cheek from where it was smooshed against my shoulder all night.

He looks fucking adorable.

This is becoming a dangerous habit—waking up beside him, watching him sleep, feeling something warm and terrifying expand in my chest.

Careful not to wake him, I extricate myself from his octopus grip. He makes a small noise of protest but rolls over, burying his face in my pillow without fully waking. I pause at the edge of the bed, just looking at him—all sleep-warm skin and tangled limbs against my sheets.

Mine. The thought comes unbidden, possessive and raw.

I shake my head and head for the bathroom, desperate for a shower to clear my mind. Last night's game was a grinder—physical, exhausting, but ultimately satisfying with another win under our belts. My muscles ache pleasantly, the familiar soreness of a body well-used.

The shower hisses to life, steam immediately filling the glass enclosure. I step under the spray, groaning as hot water pounds against sore shoulders. For several minutes, I just stand there, letting the heat work its magic on tight muscles, head titled back, eyes closed.

That's why I don't hear the bathroom door open. Don't notice I'm not alone until the shower door slides open, letting in a rush of cooler air.

"Room for one more?"

Mateo stands there, gloriously naked, hair adorably messed up, eyes still puffy with sleep.

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