CHAPTER 4
MATEO
MY PHONE BUZZES at 9:17 AM, yanking me from a dream where I was being interviewed by a panel of hockey players who kept asking me to explain the offsides rule while Groover watched, shaking his head in disappointment.
Unknown : Hey, it's Groover. Got your number from Sophia. Free today? Need to discuss next steps and flesh out our backstory.
I stare at the text, still half-asleep and wondering if last night actually happened or if I hallucinated the whole "pretending to date a professional hockey player" thing. The mild hangover pulsing behind my eyes confirms it was very real.
Me : I have class at 2. Free until then.
The response comes almost immediately.
Groover : Perfect. My place at 10:30? 334 Maple Blvd, Apt 21B
I save his contact info and drag myself out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom. Carlos is already gone—early morning class—which means I don't have to explain where I'm going.
After the quickest shower in human history and a frantic search for clothes that don't scream "broke college student," I'm in an Uber headed to an address in one of those luxury high-rises downtown that I usually only see from the outside.
The doorman actually calls up to announce me, which makes me feel simultaneously important and completely out of place. When I step out of the elevator on the 17th floor, Groover is waiting in his doorway.
"Morning," he says, looking unfairly good for someone who was at the same party I was last night. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a blue Wolves t-shirt.
"Morning," I reply, suddenly aware I'm staring at his arms. For anthropological reasons., obviously.
He gestures me inside, and I step into an apartment that makes me want to cry about my life choices. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a panoramic view of the city. The furniture is sleek and modern but still looks comfortable. Everything is in shades of blue, gray, and white, with splashes of color from art on the walls.
Either he has a cleaning service or hockey players are neater than college guys, because there's not a dirty sock or empty pizza box in sight.
"Nice place," I say, which is like calling the Grand Canyon "a pretty big hole."
"Thanks." He leads me to the kitchen area, which is all gleaming stainless steel and marble countertops. "Coffee?"
"God, yes. Black, please."
He raises an eyebrow. "Rough night?"
"I had stress dreams about hockey rules," I admit, accepting the mug he hands me. "I kept trying to explain icing but it came out as something about frozen cakes."
Groover laughs. "Don't worry about the rules. No one's expecting you to be an expert."
"Your teammates seemed to expect it," I point out, taking a sip of what turns out to be excellent coffee. "That Becker guy was practically quizzing me."
"Becker's an ass," Groover says fondly. "He just likes messing with people. Come on, let's sit."
I follow him to the living room, where we settle on opposite ends of a ridiculously comfortable sectional. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to check.
A banking notification. A deposit of $3,333.33 has just hit my account.
The first payment from the team. A third of the total.
I stare at the screen, a weird mix of emotions washing over me. Relief, because now I can pay my tuition balance with money to spare. And something else—something that feels uncomfortably like guilt as I glance at Groover.
He's scrolling through his own phone, oblivious to my moral crisis. He seems like a genuinely nice guy, and here I am literally being paid to pretend to like him.
But then I think about my looming tuition deadline and the notice of academic hold that would come if I didn't pay. About how hard my parents worked to help me get this far, and how I promised I wouldn't drop out.
The guilt fades a bit. This is just a job. A weird, ethically ambiguous job, but still—just a job.
"So," Groover says, setting his phone down. "I figured we should go over some basics. Make sure we're on the same page with our story, schedule, expectations, all that."
"Right." I put my phone away. "Good idea."
"Sophia sent over a calendar of team events you'd need to attend. Mostly home games, a few charity things, maybe an away game or two if you're up for it."
"I can work with that," I say. "As long as it doesn't conflict with my classes or exams."
"Of course." He nods. "Education comes first. I'm not trying to mess up your future for a hockey stick endorsement."
There's that guilt again, poking at me with its pointy little fingers.
Groover's phone rings, and he glances at it with a frown. "Sorry, I need to take this. It's the team nutritionist."
He answers, and I half-listen to his side of the conversation, gathering that some special protein order has arrived at a nearby store and needs to be picked up urgently.
"I have to run out," he says after hanging up. "Protein business. Very important.” He rolls his eyes. “Should only take 20 minutes. Make yourself at home. Remote's on the coffee table if you want to watch something."
"No problem," I assure him. "I'll just chill here."
After he leaves, I sit in the silence of his apartment for about thirty seconds before the awkwardness of being alone in a near-stranger's home sets in. I should probably use this time productively.
I pull out my phone and google "Hockey for Dummies."
Twenty minutes later, I've gone down a rabbit hole of hockey terminology, rules explanations, and YouTube highlights. I've learned that icing has nothing to do with cake, that a hat trick is three goals in one game (not a magic trick performed while wearing a hat), and that the blue lines separate the neutral zone from the offensive and defensive zones.
I dig a notebook from my backpack and start making flashcards. If I'm going to pull this off, I need to at least understand the basics of my fake boyfriend's career.
I'm so engrossed in my DIY hockey education that I don't hear the door open until a voice says, "Door was unlocked. Where's Grooves? I need my jersey back."
I nearly jump out of my skin, whipping around to find Riley Becker standing in the entryway, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
"Jesus Christ!" I clutch my chest. "Do you always just walk into people's apartments?"
Becker grins, completely unapologetic. "Only my teammates'. Groover never locks his door when he's home. Where is he?"
"Running an errand. Something about protein powder?"
"Ah, the famous Groover Blend." Becker drops his bag and saunters over. "He'll be a while then. The supplement shop guy always talks his ear off."
He plops down on the couch beside me, then notices the flashcards spread across the coffee table. His eyebrows shoot up.
"Dude, are you studying hockey?"
Heat rushes to my face. "Just trying to understand the basics. So I don't embarrass myself. Or him."
Becker's expression shifts from amusement to something almost soft before he pulls out his phone and starts typing.
"What are you doing?" I ask suspiciously.
"Emergency at Groover's," he reads aloud as he types. "Boyfriend needs hockey intervention. All available hands report for duty."
I lunge for the phone. "Hey! Don't—"
Becker holds it out of reach, grinning. "Too late. Sent."
"To who?" I demand, mortified.
"The guys. Well, the ones who won't be busy on a Monday morning."
Great. Just great. Now Groover's teammates are going to think I'm some pathetic loser who has to study to understand his boyfriend's job.
Which, okay, is exactly what I am, but they weren't supposed to know that.
I'm contemplating the feasibility of hiding in Groover's bathroom for the rest of the morning when the door bursts open again. This time it's three hockey players—the goalie (Wall), the Russian rookie (Petrov), and the veteran (Ace), if memory serves me well. All in athletic wear, looking like they just came from the gym.
"Where's the emergency?" Wall asks, scanning the apartment.
Becker gestures dramatically at my flashcards. "Hockey education crisis. Mateo's trying to learn the game from Google."
The three newcomers exchange glances, then Ace's face breaks into a grin. "Groover's got himself a keener!"
"That's adorable," Wall agrees, examining my flashcards. "But these official explanations are so boring. No wonder you look confused."
"We fix," Petrov declares, grabbing my notebook. "Make better explanation."
And that's how I find myself surrounded by four professional hockey players who have decided to create their own "Hockey Boyfriend Emergency Cheat Sheet."
They huddle around the coffee table, arguing about the best way to explain concepts while I watch in a mixture of horror and fascination.
"The blue line is called that because it represents the tears of opposing players," Becker says with complete seriousness as Petrov writes it down.
"Wait, what?" I frown. "That doesn't sound right."
"Trust me," Wall assures me. "I'm a goalie. We know these things."
Ace nods solemnly. "When a goalie makes a glove save, he has to whisper something nice to the puck before releasing it. For good luck."
"Really?" That definitely wasn't in any of the articles I read.
"Oh yeah," Becker confirms. "And a 'face wash' isn't just shoving your glove in someone's face—it's also a traditional post-game skincare routine. The whole team does sheet masks together after wins."
I dutifully take notes, though something seems off about these explanations. Still, they're professional players. They would know, right?
"So when they say someone 'went five-hole,' that means...?" I ask, trying to show I'm picking up the terminology.
The four of them burst into laughter, which doesn't exactly boost my confidence.
"It means they scored through the secret fifth hole on the ice," Wall wheezes, wiping his eyes. "Very rare. Only the elite players can find it."
The door opens again, and this time it's Groover, carrying a bag from a health food store. He stops dead when he sees the gathering in his living room.
"What the hell is going on here?" he asks, taking in the scene—four hockey players sprawled across his living room furniture, notebooks and flashcards everywhere, and me in the middle looking like I've been taken hostage by a very athletic study group.
"Groover!" I say, too brightly. "Your friends were just helping me understand hockey better."
I hold up my notebook proudly. "Did you know goalies whisper sweet nothings to the puck after making a save?"
Groover's expression morphs from confusion to understanding to exasperation in the span of two seconds. He sets down his bag and crosses his arms.
"What have you idiots been teaching him?" he demands.
Becker puts on an innocent face that wouldn't fool a blind referee. "Important hockey culture. He needs to know this stuff."
"Yeah," Wall adds. "Can't have your boyfriend thinking a power play is something that happens in the bedroom." He pauses. "I mean, it can be, but that's different."
I feel my face heat up as I look down at my notes. "Wait, so... none of this is real?"
"No, Mateo," Groover sighs, reading over my shoulder. "Goalies don't whisper to pucks, the blue line doesn't represent tears, and for the love of God, we don't do sheet masks together."
"Oh."
Groover must see something in my expression because his voice softens. "Don't you all have optional training to get to?" he asks his teammates.
"This was training," Becker protests. "Cultural education!"
"Out," Groover points to the door. "Now."
The guys gather their things, not looking particularly remorseful.
"Sorry about the misinformation," Ace says to me, though his grin suggests he's not sorry at all. "No hard feelings?"
"It's fine," I say, trying to sound like I'm in on the joke and not completely mortified.
After they file out, Groover sits beside me on the couch. "Sorry about that. They're like overgrown children sometimes."
"It's okay," I say, though I'm still feeling pretty stupid. "I should have known better than to believe goalies whisper to pucks."
Groover laughs. "Don't worry, they did the same thing to Ace's boyfriend last year. Convinced him that players have to gargle maple syrup before overtime for extra Canadian luck."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Devon actually tried it. Ace said he was sticky for days."
That makes me feel marginally better. "So it's like a hockey hazing ritual?"
"Exactly. Consider yourself officially welcomed to the hockey WAGs."
"WAGs?"
"Wives And Girlfriends. Though in our case, it's more like... HABs? Husbands And Boyfriends?" He shrugs. "The terminology is still catching up."
I look down at my "cheat sheet" full of nonsense hockey explanations. "I should probably throw this away."
"Keep it," Groover suggests. "It might be wrong, but at least it's entertaining. And who knows? Maybe you can use it in your anthropology thesis. 'Ritualistic Hazing of Romantic Partners in Professional Sports' or something."
I laugh, tucking the paper into my notebook. "Not a bad idea, actually."
Groover picks up one of my legitimate flashcards. "You were really studying this stuff, huh?"
"I didn't want to embarrass you," I admit. "You know, if someone asks me a hockey question and I say something completely wrong."
His expression softens. "That's... actually really considerate."
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "It's the least I could do, considering..." I trail off, not wanting to bring up the financial arrangement too directly.
"Well, I appreciate it," he says. "And for what it's worth, I'll try to learn about anthropology too. Though I can't promise I won't mix up my Paleolithic and Neolithic periods."
"That's okay," I say with a grin. "I'll make you a cheat sheet. And I promise all the information will be accurate."
"Deal." He extends his hand, and I shake it, feeling oddly formal given we're supposed to be dating.
As our hands touch, I have a flash of memory from last night—his warm against my lower back as he guided me through the crowd of reporters, steady and protective. The same unexpected tingles race up my arm now, and I pull my hand back maybe a little too quickly.
If Groover notices, he doesn't comment. Instead, he stands and heads toward the kitchen. "Hungry? I was thinking we could order lunch and go over that calendar Sophia sent."
"Sounds good," I say, grateful for the change of subject. "As long as it's not protein powder."
He laughs, and just like that, the awkwardness dissolves. Maybe this fake relationship thing won't be so bad after all.
As long as I can figure out what the hell icing actually is before the next game.