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 word finally , given even I didn’t know there was a 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."
The words come out automatically, part of the act. Well, actually I do like Mateo, even if we've known each other for approximately forty-five minutes. There's something endearing about his nervous energy and random factoids.
"Too late for warnings," Becker says, slinging an arm around Mateo's shoulders. "We've already started a betting pool on how long until he comes to his senses and dumps your sorry ass."
I shoot Baker a pointed look. Unlike everyone else, he knows . Yet still decides to make my life difficult in his usual fashion.
"Ignore him," Wall says, extending a hand to Mateo. "Trent Wallace. Everyone calls me Wall."
"Because nothing gets past him," Ace adds. "Kevin Jackson. They call me Ace."
"Because he thinks he's the best at everything," Petrov chimes in with his slight Russian accent. "Dmitri Petrov. No nickname yet. They say I must earn it."
Mateo shakes hands all around, looking slightly overwhelmed by the rapid-fire introductions. "Nice to meet you all."
"So, Mateo," Becker says, still not releasing him from his side-hug, "what's your favorite hockey play? I bet it's Groover's between-the-legs shot from the blue line against Toronto last season."
Mateo freezes, and I can practically see the panic calculations running behind his eyes. "I, uh... I really love how fast the puck moves?" he offers weakly.
The guys exchange glances, and I step in before they can pounce on the obvious non-answer. "Mateo's more interested in the anthropological aspects of sports. He's doing his thesis on ritual behaviors in competitive environments."
"Anthropology?" Ace perks up. "My boyfriend Devon is in cultural studies. You two should talk sometime."
"I'd like that," Mateo says, visibly relieved at the change of subject. "My focus is on how sports rituals evolve from their cultural origins into modern expressions of community identity."
"Like our playoff beards?" Wall asks, genuinely interested.
Mateo's face lights up. "Exactly! The beard as a symbol of masculine prowess dates back to ancient civilizations, but in hockey, it's been adapted into a team bonding ritual that signifies shared sacrifice and commitment to a goal."
The guys are nodding, seemingly impressed, and I feel a weird surge of pride. Look at my fake boyfriend, charming the hell out of my teammates with his big brain.
"Groover." GM Donaldson's voice cuts through my moment of satisfaction. He's standing a few feet away, beckoning me over with a subtle head tilt that means business.
"Be right back," I tell Mateo, who gives me a slightly panicked look as Becker launches into a story about last year's playoffs.
I follow Donaldson to a quieter corner of the ballroom. "Sir?"
"Kingsport representatives are here," he says without preamble. "Harrison and Choi from their marketing division. Make sure your boyfriend behaves."
I bristle at his tone. "Mateo is fine. He's doing great, actually."
Donaldson gives me a look that says he's not interested in my opinion. "This deal is important to the whole organization, Ansel. Seven figures important. Just keep things... appropriate."
He walks away before I can respond, which is probably for the best since what I want to say would definitely violate the "no causing scenes at charity events" clause in my contract.
I scan the room for Mateo and find him still surrounded by my teammates, who appear to be demonstrating some kind of play with elaborate hand gestures. He's nodding along, but his eyes have the slightly glazed look of someone who's completely lost.
As I make my way back, I'm intercepted by a sleek couple in designer formal wear—Harrison and Choi, I presume. Harrison is tall and WASP-y with the kind of perfect teeth that suggest extensive orthodontic intervention, while Choi is a stylish woman with sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"Ansel Williams," Harrison says, extending his hand. "Brad Harrison, Kingsport Marketing. This is my colleague, Elaine Choi."
"Nice to meet you both," I say, shaking their hands. "Enjoying the gala?"
"Very much," Choi says, her gaze drifting past me. "Is that your partner over there?"
I follow her line of sight to Mateo, who's now laughing at something Petrov said. "Yes, that's Mateo."
"Bring him over," Harrison suggests in a tone that's not really a suggestion. "We'd love to meet him."
I signal to Mateo, who excuses himself from the group and makes his way over. There's a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he's smiling.
"Mateo, this is Brad Harrison and Elaine Choi from Kingsport," I introduce. "This is Mateo Rossi, my boyfriend."
Mateo shakes their hands with perfect politeness. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Harrison says, studying Mateo with calculating eyes. "Ansel tells us you're a student?"
"Anthropology at State," Mateo confirms. "Junior year."
"Fascinating," Choi says in a tone that suggests it's anything but. "And how did you two meet?"
"Mutual friends," we say in unison, then exchange a quick glance that probably looks like cute couple synchronicity but is actually mutual relief at getting our story straight.
"Mateo was friends with my teammate Ace's boyfriend," I elaborate, building on our agreed-upon backstory. "We met at a team barbecue last summer."
"But only started dating recently," Mateo adds, then looks at me with a smile that seems so genuine I almost believe it myself. "Sometimes the right person is right in front of you, but it takes time to realize it."
Harrison and Choi exchange a look I can't quite interpret. "Well, we won't keep you from enjoying the party," Harrison says. "Ansel, we'll be in touch."
They glide away, and I release a breath that’s been trapped for way too long.
"How'd I do?" Mateo whispers.
"Perfect," I assure him. "That bit about the right person being right in front of you? Nice touch."
He grins. "I watch a lot of rom-coms. Figured it sounded believable."
"Very believable. You're a natural at this."
"At lying, you mean?" His smile falters slightly.
"At adapting," I correct. "Big difference."
Before he can respond, Washington appears with his wife Leila, a stunning woman who somehow manages to wrangle both a successful law practice and their two kids.
"Mateo! We've been looking for you," Washington says. "My wife wanted to meet the man who's finally tamed our Groover."
Leila extends her hand with a warm smile. "I've heard so much about you."
Mateo looks momentarily panicked—since no one had heard anything about him until tonight—but recovers quickly. "All good things, I hope."
"Marcus says you're in anthropology? My sister studied that at UCLA."
And just like that, Mateo is swept into a conversation about academic disciplines while Washington pulls me aside.
"He seems great," Cap says quietly. "Different from your usual type, but in a good way."
I raise an eyebrow. "I have a type?"
"Yeah. Emotionally unavailable pretty boys who disappear after two weeks." He glances at Mateo, who's animatedly explaining something to Leila. "This one seems like he might stick around."
The observation hits me with unexpected force. Because Mateo won't stick around—that's the whole point of this arrangement. Three months, and then a clean break once Kingsport signs the deal.
"Yeah, well, early days," I mutter.
Washington gives me a knowing look. "Just saying, it's nice to see you with someone who actually seems interested in you, not just the NHL player part."
I'm saved from responding by a commotion near the entrance. A swarm of reporters has broken through the event security and is now spreading through the ballroom like a plague of locusts with press badges.
"Shit," I mutter. "Mateo, we need to—"
But he's already being cornered by a particularly aggressive entertainment reporter who's shoving a microphone in his face.
I push through the crowd, catching the tail end of a question: "—first public appearance together. Is this a serious relationship?"
Mateo looks like a deer in headlights, and I'm about to intervene when he straightens his shoulders and says, "We're taking things one day at a time, but yes, it's serious for us."
The reporter turns to me as I reach them. "Ansel, quite a change from your usual privacy. Why go public now?"
"Because some things are too good to keep hidden," I say smoothly, placing a protective hand on Mateo's lower back. "Now if you'll excuse us, we'd like to enjoy the party."
I steer Mateo away from the reporter and toward a service hallway I know leads to a quieter area of the venue. Once we're safely out of sight, he sags against the wall.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "Is it always like this?"
"Welcome to life as a semi-public figure," I say ruefully. "Sorry about that. You okay?"
"Yeah, just... processing. That reporter looked like she wanted to dissect me and examine my organs."
"That's Trish Winters. She specializes in making people uncomfortable enough to say stupid things."
"Great. Did I say anything stupid?"
I lean against the wall beside him. "No, you were perfect. 'Taking things one day at a time' was exactly right—committed enough to sound stable, vague enough to not get pinned down."
"I was channeling every reality TV contestant ever," he admits. "They're all masters of saying nothing while sounding profound."
That startles a laugh out of me—a real one, not the polite chuckle I've been using all night. Mateo looks surprised, then pleased, and then he's laughing too.
For a moment, we're just two guys hiding in a hallway, sharing a joke that isn't really that funny but feels like the most hilarious thing in the world because we're both running on adrenaline and champagne.
When our laughter finally subsides, I notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. It's... distracting.
"We should probably get back," I say, pushing off the wall. "Before they send a search party."
Mateo nods, straightening his bowtie. "Back into the lion's den."
As we head back toward the ballroom, I find myself oddly reluctant to return to the crowd. Which is ridiculous—I've known this guy for all of two hours. There's no reason I should prefer his company to that of my teammates and the people who sign my paychecks.
But as we rejoin the party and Mateo gives me a small, conspiratorial smile, I have to admit there are worse ways to spend an evening than playing boyfriend to Mateo Rossi.
Even if it is all for show.