CHAPTER 2
MATEO
ARE YOU MY BOYFRIEND, then?
Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Did those words actually just come out of my mouth? To a professional athlete? A professional athlete who looks like he could bench press me while solving differential equations?
Maybe I should just throw myself out the nearest window. The hotel's only twenty stories high. I'd probably survive the fall.
But Groover—Ansel Williams, NHL forward, six-foot-something mountain of muscle currently walking beside me toward the elevator—just laughed it off. Which somehow makes it worse, because now I feel like the bumbling idiot he's humoring.
"So," I venture as we step into the elevator, "what exactly did they tell you about... this?" I gesture vaguely between us, like that explains anything.
Groover hits the lobby button. "Absolutely nothing. You?"
"Just the basics. Three-month contract, public appearances, social media posts." I swallow. "They said you needed a boyfriend for some sponsorship deal?"
He sighs, leaning against the elevator wall. "Kingsport Sports Equipment. They're worried I'm too 'unstable' for their precious brand image."
"Because you're gay?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Because I'm gay and single." He rolls his eyes. "Apparently that's a dangerous combination. Makes people nervous I might, I don't know, spontaneously break into show tunes at a press conference or something."
The elevator dings at the lobby, and Groover straightens up, adjusting his bowtie. "Look, we've got about thirty seconds before we're thrown to the wolves. What's your last name?"
"Rossi."
"Italian?"
"Half. My dad's side."
"Student?"
"Anthropology major. Junior year."
He nods, processing this information with the efficiency of someone used to memorizing play strategies. "Okay, Mateo Rossi, anthropology student. We've been dating for... let's say two months, but kept it quiet. Met through mutual friends."
"Two months is believable?" I ask, suddenly aware of how little I know about this man I'm supposed to be convincingly in love with.
"It's long enough to bring you to a team event but short enough that no one will question why they haven't heard about you before." The elevator doors open, and he lowers his voice. "Just follow my lead and try not to look terrified."
"I'm not terrified," I lie, absolutely terrified.
Groover gives me a look that says he's not buying it, but there's something almost gentle in his expression. "It'll be fine. Just be yourself. Except, you know, madly in love with me."
And with that pearl of wisdom, he guides me into the lobby where a cluster of men in identical black tuxedos wait near the entrance.
My mind flashes back to last week, when this whole bizarre situation began. I'd been hunched over my laptop in the campus library, desperately trying to figure out how I was going to come up with the $3,000 I still needed for next semester's tuition. My scholarship covered most of it, but not all, and my part-time barista gig barely paid rent.
Carlos, my roommate and best friend since freshman year, had dropped into the chair across from me with the kind of grin that usually preceded terrible ideas involving tequila.
"Dude, I have the solution to your money problems."
I'd barely looked up. "Unless you're about to hand me three grand, I'm not interested."
"Better. How would you like to make ten grand for three months of easy work?"
That had gotten my attention. "If this involves drug trafficking or selling organs, I'm out."
"Nothing illegal." He'd leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know my cousin Sophia? She works in PR for the Wolves."
"The hockey team?"
"Yeah. So apparently, one of their players needs a fake boyfriend for some corporate sponsorship thing. Sophia's been tasked with finding someone discreet, trustworthy, and—her words—'reasonably attractive in a non-threatening way.'"
I'd frowned. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Focus, bro. Ten grand to pretend to date a hot hockey player for three months. All you have to do is show up to some events, take some pictures, maybe hold hands in public. Easy money."
I'd snorted. "Yeah, except I'm straight."
Carlos had given me a look. "Are you though? Because that 'girl crush' you had on Professor Evans last semester seemed pretty intense."
"He's a sixty-year-old man with elbow patches and a British accent. That's academic admiration."
"Whatever you need to tell yourself." Carlos had shrugged. "Look, no one's asking you to sleep with the guy. Just pretend to like him in public. Ten grand, Mateo. That's tuition, rent, and your books for next semester."
He'd had a point. Ten grand would solve a lot of problems. And it wasn't like I was morally opposed to people thinking I was gay or bi. I just... wasn't.
"Which player?" I'd asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Ansel Williams. The one they call Groover."
I'd vaguely recognized the name. Carlos was the sports fan, not me. I'd pulled up a quick image search and—oh. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that was slightly crooked in the most adorable of ways.
"He's... not bad looking," I'd admitted.
Carlos had grinned triumphantly. "So you'll do it?"
And that's how I found myself being introduced to a group of enormous hockey players in the lobby of the Grand Marquis Hotel, trying not to look like I'm about to pass out.
"Everyone, this is Mateo," Groover says, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. The casual touch sends an unexpected shiver up my spine that I attribute to nerves. "Mateo, this is... everyone."
A mountain of a man with dark skin and close-cropped hair steps forward, extending his hand. "Marcus Washington. Team captain. Nice to meet you, Mateo."
His handshake could crush coal into diamonds. "Nice to meet you too, sir."
Washington laughs. "Sir? I'm not that old. Marcus is fine."
The player who was in Groover's room earlier—Becker, I think—appears at my side. "Riley Becker, defenseman extraordinaire and Groover's much better-looking friend."
"Ignore him," Groover advises. "Everyone else does."
A fleet of sleek black SUVs pull up outside in what looks like an orchestrated fashion, and Washington checks his watch. "That's us. Let's move, gentlemen."
As we file toward the exit, Groover leans down to whisper in my ear. "Just so you know, the team has no idea this is an arrangement. As far as they're concerned, you're my actual boyfriend."
Great. So I'm not just lying to the public and the sponsors, but to his teammates too. The $10,000 is starting to feel less like easy money and more like hazard pay.
The ride to the gala venue is a blur of Groover explaining the evening's schedule and who's who in the organization. I should be paying attention, but my brain is too busy having an existential crisis about the life choices that led me here.
"So," Groover says as we near our destination, "ground rules. Nothing physical beyond hand-holding without consent. If anyone asks how we met, we stick to the mutual friends story. Keep details vague but consistent. Questions?"
I have about a thousand questions, starting with 'What the hell am I doing?' and ending with 'Why does your aftershave smell so good?' but what comes out is: "Did you know that in many indigenous cultures, sports rituals were used as proxies for warfare? The Mesoamerican ballgame was actually a representation of cosmic battle between day and night, and losing team captains were sometimes sacrificed to the gods."
Groover stares at me like I've grown a second head.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I ramble when I'm nervous. It's my thesis topic—sports rituals as cultural signifiers. The anthropological significance of competitive play is actually fascinating because it represents—"
"Mateo," Groover interrupts gently.
"Yes?"
"Take a breath."
I inhale deeply, suddenly aware I've been talking without pausing for oxygen.
"You're going to be fine," he says, and the confidence in his voice almost makes me believe him. "Just be yourself. Except maybe with fewer human sacrifices."
"Right. Got it. No human sacrifices. Save that for the third date." I attempt a joke that falls spectacularly flat.
The SUV slows to a stop, and through the tinted windows, I can see the flashing of cameras. My stomach drops into my very expensive rental shoes.
"Ready?" Groover asks, hand on the door handle.
"Not even slightly."
He grins, and it transforms his face from merely handsome to simply unfair. "Perfect. Let's go."
The door opens, and we're immediately assaulted by camera flashes and shouted questions.
"Groover! Over here!"
"Ansel! Who's your date?"
"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."