The Puck Contract (Melting Ice #1)

CHAPTER 1

GROOVER

THE BOWTIE IS trying to kill me. I'm not kidding—this demonic strip of fabric is currently staging a hostile takeover of my windpipe. I've wrestled 250-pound defensemen with less murderous intent than this fucking accessory.

"Need help there, Grooves? Or are you trying to strangle yourself to avoid the gala?" Riley Becker leans against the hotel bathroom doorframe, already dressed in his tux and looking annoyingly put-together. The smirk on his face tells me he's enjoying my suffering a little too much.

"If you're just going to stand there and watch me die, at least have the decency to film it for TikTok," I mutter, yanking at the bowtie for the fifteenth time. My reflection in the mirror shows a man who looks like he's being slowly asphyxiated—which isn't far from the truth.

Becker pushes off the doorframe with a dramatic sigh. "You're a professional athlete who can execute a perfect slapshot at sixty miles per hour, but you can't tie a bowtie? Move over, penguin boy."

I drop my hands and let him take over, tilting my chin up like I'm about to get my throat slit. Honestly, that might be preferable to attending this gala.

"There," Becker says after thirty seconds of expert manipulation. "Now you look almost presentable."

I turn back to the mirror. The bowtie sits perfectly centered against my crisp white shirt. The black tuxedo fits surprisingly, which is a miracle considering most formal wear doesn't account for hockey thighs.

"I look like a waiter at a fancy restaurant," I grumble.

"Yeah, but like, a hot waiter," Becker offers helpfully. "The kind that gets massive tips from horny soccer moms and dads."

My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. Captain's name flashes across the screen.

"Washington," I answer, putting it on speaker.

"You two ready? Car's leaving in ten." Marcus Washington's voice has that same authoritative tone he uses during third period when we're down by one.

"Groover was having a fashion emergency, but I saved the day," Becker announces proudly.

I roll my eyes. "We'll be down in five."

"Good. And remember—"

"Best behavior, smile for the cameras, don't get drunk before speeches," I recite. "We know, Cap."

"And for fuck's sake, don't let Becker near the open bar unsupervised."

Becker clutches his chest in mock offense. "That was one time —"

"The PR team still has nightmares about the chocolate fountain incident," Washington interrupts. "See you downstairs." He hangs up before Becker can defend his honor.

I pocket my phone and grab my coat from the bed. "Remind me again why we do these things?"

"Because the team owners like watching us suffer in formal wear while rich people decide if they want to give us money," Becker says, checking his reflection one last time. "Plus, free booze."

"Right." I adjust my cuffs, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach that has nothing to do with the bowtie.

Ever since I came out last year, these public events have taken on a new dimension of stress. It's not just about representing the team anymore—it's about being The Gay Hockey Player?. Every interaction gets analyzed, every photo scrutinized.

And then there's the fan fiction.

Jesus Christ, the fan fiction.

Last month, Becker showed me a 50,000-word epic someone wrote pairing me with our goalie, Wall. I couldn't look the poor guy in the eyes for a week. There's apparently an entire online community dedicated to imagining my sex life in excruciating detail, complete with artwork that's both impressive and deeply disturbing.

"Earth to Groover." Becker waves a hand in front of my face. "You're doing that thousand-yard stare again. What's up?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just thinking about that meeting with management last week."

"Ah." Becker's usual smirk fades. "The Kingsport thing?"

Yeah. The Kingsport thing.

One week ago, I'd been called into GM Donaldson's office, where he and Claire from PR were waiting with expressions so serious I thought I was being traded.

"Ansel, thanks for coming in," Donaldson had said, using my real name, which was the first red flag. Nobody calls me Ansel except my mother when she's pissed.

Claire had jumped right in with her tablet ready. "We've been in final negotiations with Kingsport for your equipment endorsement deal."

"And?" I'd asked, already sensing the 'but' coming.

"And they're expressing some... hesitation." Claire's professional smile hadn't reached her eyes. "They're concerned about investing in what they called an 'unstable public image.'"

I'd laughed without humor. "Unstable? I've been out for almost a year. What's unstable about that?"

Donaldson had cleared his throat. "They're worried about controversy. You're the first openly gay player they're looking to sponsor, and they want assurances that you're... settled."

"Settled," I'd repeated flatly. "So they're fine with a gay player as long as I'm perfectly boring?"

"Not boring," Claire had corrected quickly. "Stable. Family-oriented. They mentioned that most of their other athletes are in committed relationships, with social media presence that reflects traditional values."

I'd stared at her. "Traditional values. Right."

"What Claire is trying to say," Donaldson had cut in, "is that Kingsport would feel more comfortable if you presented a more... consistent personal life. The speculation about your dating habits isn't helping."

"My dating habits?" I'd echoed. "I've gone on like three dates in the past year!"

Claire had swiped through her tablet. "Yes, but the tabloids have linked you to at least seven different men, including that actor and the barista from the coffee shop near the practice facility."

"I asked for extra foam! That's not a relationship!"

"The point is," Donaldson had continued, "Kingsport is prepared to offer a very generous deal, but they want to see stability before they commit. The contract would be finalized right after playoffs."

Claire had leaned forward with that PR gleam in her eye. "We think a steady relationship would help your image. Show them you're the same reliable Groover, just with a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend."

I'd sat back, stunned. "You want me to get a boyfriend to sell hockey sticks?"

"We want you to consider how your personal choices affect your professional opportunities," Donaldson had replied smoothly.

And that had been that. No ultimatum, just a strongly worded suggestion that my seven-figure endorsement deal hinged on my ability to present myself as one half of a stable, boring, gay couple.

Back in the hotel room, Becker checks his watch. "We should head down. You good?"

"Yeah," I sigh, shaking off the memory. "Let's get this over with."

We're halfway to the door when a sharp knock makes us both turn. Becker raises an eyebrow at me. "Expecting someone?"

"No." I move to open it, expecting maybe Washington or one of the other players.

Instead, I find a young guy standing in the hallway, fidgeting in a tuxedo that's clearly rental quality. He's shorter than me by a few inches, with wavy black hair that looks like he tried and failed to tame it. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, then dart to Becker, then back to me.

"Hi," he says, his voice a bundle of nerves and forced confidence. "Are you my boyfriend, then?"

I blink, utterly confused, as Becker lets out a bark of laughter behind me.

"Well," Becker says, clapping me on the shoulder as he squeezes past, "looks like your Kingsport problem just solved itself. I'll tell Cap you'll be down in a minute."

He disappears down the hallway, leaving me staring at the stranger in my doorway.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage. "What did you just say?"

The guy winces, running a hand through his hair, which only makes it more chaotic. "That came out wrong. I'm Mateo. Sophia from PR sent me? For the, um, arrangement?"

And suddenly, it clicks. The meeting. Claire's suggestion. The Kingsport deal.

They didn't just suggest I get a boyfriend. They fucking found me one.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "They actually did it."

Mateo shifts uncomfortably. "Should I... not be here?"

I look at him. He's actually pretty attractive in a scholarly sort of way. Golden skin, expressive eyes, a mouth that seems ready to break into either a smile or a nervous ramble at any moment. His tux is definitely budget, but he fills it out nicely with a lean frame that suggests he's athletic.

Under different circumstances, he might be exactly my type.

But these are not different circumstances. These are fucked-up, management-meddling-in-my-personal-life circumstances.

I check my watch. The car leaves in three minutes, and I don't have time to unpack the ethical nightmare that is my team procuring me a fake boyfriend.

"No, it's fine," I say, grabbing my wallet and room key. "We're late. We'll figure this out in the car."

I step into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me.

"So," Mateo says as we walk toward the elevator, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "This is weird, right? It's not just me?"

Despite everything, I find myself laughing. "Yeah, it's definitely weird."

He grins. "Good. Just checking."

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and as we step in, I have the distinct feeling that my life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

And the bowtie is still trying to kill me.