CHAPTER 6
MATEO
"SO, RULE NUMBER one of being a hockey significant other: never, ever criticize the refs where cameras can see you."
Leila Washington delivers this wisdom while deftly balancing a glass of white wine and a plate of fancy cheese cubes that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. We're in the VIP family box at the Wolves arena, and I'm trying desperately not to look as out of place as I feel.
"Even if they're blind as bats?" asks Devon, Ace's boyfriend—a stylish guy with immaculate hair and the kind of casual confidence that comes from dating a professional athlete for longer than three days.
" Especially then," Leila confirms. "The league watches social media like hawks. One clip of you calling a ref an incompetent asshole, and suddenly your player is getting questionable penalties for weeks."
I nod solemnly, mentally filing this away with the other seventeen unwritten rules I've been bombarded with since arriving at the arena an hour ago.
Devon leans in conspiratorially. "Rule number two: always bring snacks for post-game. They're like toddlers when they're hungry—cranky, irrational, and liable to throw tantrums."
"Granola bars," Leila adds. "Protein-heavy. And Gatorade. Blue for Groover."
"Blue specifically?" I ask, wondering if this is another prank like the "hockey boyfriend cheat sheet" incident.
"He's superstitious," Devon explains. "They all are. Wall has to put his left skate on first, Becker taps the crossbar four times during warmups, and your boyfriend only drinks blue Gatorade after games."
My boyfriend . The phrase still gives me a little jolt every time I hear it. Which is ridiculous because Groover isn't actually my boyfriend—he's my employer, basically. Or the team is. The whole situation gets ethically murkier the more I think about it.
"Speaking of the boyfriend," Leila says, "he dropped this off for you." She hands me a folded Wolves jersey that I immediately recognize as Groover's number 17.
"Thanks," I say, unfolding it. It's clearly been worn—there's a faint scent of detergent and something distinctly Groover that makes my stomach do a weird little flip.
"Go ahead, put it on," Devon encourages. "It's tradition."
I slip it over my head, feeling oddly ceremonial, like I'm being inducted into some exclusive club. The jersey is huge on me, the sleeves extending past my fingertips, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
"Perfect," Leila declares. "Nothing says 'taken' like wearing your man's jersey."
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the glass separating our box from the arena. With my hair sticking up from the static and Groover's name emblazoned across my shoulders, I look like...well, like a boyfriend. A real one.
The thought is both unsettling and oddly pleasant.
"Now, the season structure," Leila continues, apparently determined to cram an entire Hockey Partners 101 course into the hour before puck drop. "Regular season ends in April, then playoffs if they make it."
"That's when the real pressure starts," Devon adds. "For them and for us. No shaving, no haircuts, no changing routines. If they win while you're wearing that shirt, you wear that same shirt to the next game. If they lose while you're sitting in that seat, you never sit there again."
"That's..." I search for a diplomatic word. "Intense."
"Hockey players," Leila shrugs, like that explains everything. And weirdly, it kind of does.
The arena suddenly darkens, and the crowd roars as dramatic music blasts through the speakers. Spotlights sweep across the ice as an announcer's voice booms:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR CHICAGO WOLVES!"
The team bursts onto the ice in a blur of navy and silver, and despite myself, I find my heart rate picking up with the excitement of it all. I scan the players, easily spotting Groover thanks to the giant 17 on his back. He moves with a powerful grace that's mesmerizing, his skates cutting clean lines across the pristine ice.
"They're doing warmups now," Devon explains. "Game starts in about fifteen minutes."
I watch, fascinated, as the players execute drills and passing sequences. It's like a choreographed dance, precise and athletic in a way I never appreciated before.
"Want to go down to the glass?" Leila asks. "Get a closer look?"
"Can we do that?"
"Family privileges," she winks. "Come on."
We make our way down to ice level, where a section near the team bench is reserved for family members. The players are much more imposing up close, their equipment making them look like armored warriors as they whip pucks around at terrifying speeds.
I spot Groover chatting with Becker near center ice. As if sensing my presence, he looks over, does a double-take at the sight of me in his jersey, and breaks into a grin that makes my chest feel weirdly tight. He raises his stick in acknowledgment, and I give an awkward wave back.
"Oh, he's got it bad," Devon murmurs beside me.
"What?" I ask, confused.
"That smile. Kevin only looked at me like that after we'd been dating for months."
I'm saved from having to respond by the sudden sharp pain of a hockey puck smacking into the plexiglass directly in front of my face. I jump back with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, my heart hammering.
"Heads up!" someone calls belatedly, and I look up to see Wall skating by with an apologetic wave.
"Jesus," I breathe, hand pressed to my chest. "That nearly gave me a heart attack."
What I don't realize, in my adrenaline-spiked state, is that someone has captured the entire moment on their phone. By the time we return to our seats, #GrooversBF is trending on Twitter, complete with a slow-motion video of my terrified face as the puck hits the glass.
"Congratulations," Devon says, showing me his phone. "You're a meme."
The video already has thousands of retweets, with captions like:
Groover's BF Takes One For Team.
When you're gay and sports are scary.
Hockey 101: Pucks hurt, glass good.
"Great," I mutter. "My fifteen minutes of fame and I look like I'm about to wet myself."
"Could be worse," Leila says cheerfully. "Last year, Petrov's girlfriend got caught on camera picking her nose during the national anthem. That was her contact photo in the team group chat for months."
The game begins shortly after, and I quickly realize that watching hockey on TV (which I'd done exactly once in preparation) is nothing like experiencing it live. It's faster, more violent, more strategic than I'd imagined. The players move with incredible speed, their bodies colliding with bone-rattling force that makes me wince.
I find myself watching Groover almost exclusively, fascinated by his transformation on the ice. In person, he's reserved, thoughtful, with a dry humor that emerges once he's comfortable. On the ice, he's aggressive, focused, his movements precise and powerful. When he scores in the second period, the crowd erupts, and I find myself on my feet cheering without even thinking about it.
"That's your man!" Devon shouts over the noise, high-fiving me.
He's not, though , a small voice in my head reminds me. But in that moment, with the crowd roaring and Groover's teammates mobbing him in celebration, it's easy to forget this is all for show.
During the second intermission, I'm waiting in line for the bathroom when a man with a notepad approaches me. He's in his forties, with the sharp eyes of someone who notices details for a living.
"Jason Miles, Hockey Daily," he introduces himself. "You're Mateo Rossi, right? Ansel Williams' boyfriend?"
My stomach tightens. No one prepared me for press interactions outside of organized events.
"That's me," I confirm, trying to channel Groover's media-trained composure.
"How long have you and Groover been together?"
I fall back on our rehearsed answer. "We've been friends for months but only recently started dating."
Miles' expression remains neutral, but something calculating flickers in his eyes. "Interesting timing with the Kingsport deal in the works."
My pulse quickens. Does he know about the arrangement? Is this some kind of test?
"I'm not familiar with Groover's endorsement negotiations," I say carefully.
Miles opens his mouth to ask another question, but Leila materializes beside me like a guardian angel in designer jeans.
"Jason," she says coolly, "you know player partners are off-limits during games."
Miles holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation, Leila. No harm in that."
"The harm is in delaying this poor man's bathroom break," she replies smoothly. "If you'll excuse us."
She steers me away, her grip on my arm surprisingly strong. "Rule number three," she mutters once we're out of earshot. "Never talk to Jason Miles without PR present. He's been trying to dig up dirt on the team for years."
"He seemed to… know things," I say.
"Jason always acts like he knows something," Leila dismisses. "It's how he gets people to confirm things. Don't worry about it."
But I do worry, especially when I catch Miles watching me from the press box during the third period, jotting something in his notebook.
The Wolves win 3-2, with Groover assisting on the game-winning goal in the final minutes. Despite my concerns about Miles, I can't help getting caught up in the excitement as the team celebrates on the ice.
"Now comes the fun part," Devon says as the game ends. "Locker room access."
"Wait, what?" I ask, suddenly nervous.
"Family can visit the locker room after games," he explains. "Don't worry, they're usually somewhat decent by the time we get there."
Usually is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, as I discover when we enter the team's locker room fifteen minutes later. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and equipment, and there are indeed half-naked hockey players everywhere.
I keep my eyes firmly fixed at face level as Devon leads me through the chaos to where Groover is sitting, already showered but wearing only a towel around his waist. His hair is damp, his skin flushed from the hot water, and I am suddenly, acutely aware that I've never seen this much of him before.
"Hey," he says, breaking into a smile when he sees me. "You made it through your first game."
"Barely," I joke, trying not to stare at the droplets of water trailing down his chest. "I nearly had a heart attack when that puck hit the glass."
"Yeah, I saw that," he laughs. "The whole internet saw it, actually."
"So I've heard," I groan. "Not my finest moment."
"I don't know," he says, eyes twinkling. "I thought it was pretty cute."
The word cute does something weird to my insides.
"Nice goal," I say instead. "That shot was, um, really fast."
Groover's smile widens. "Thanks for the technical assessment, Professor."
"Hey, I'm learning," I protest. "I now know that the blue line is not called that because it represents the tears of opposing players."
He laughs, and I find myself laughing too, momentarily forgetting we're surrounded by his teammates until Becker appears beside us.
"Mateo!" he exclaims, slinging a sweaty arm around my shoulders. "Did you see my check in the second period? Almost sent that guy into next week!"
"It was very... violent," I offer, which makes Becker beam like I've paid him the highest compliment.
"Violence is the point," he says cheerfully. "Hey, we're going out to celebrate. You two coming?"
Groover looks at me questioningly. It's Friday night, and I don't have class tomorrow. Plus, going out with the team seems like exactly the kind of boyfriend activity I'm being paid to do.
"Sure," I say. "I'm in."
"Great!" Becker claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. "Usual place, thirty minutes."
As the team disperses to finish getting dressed, Groover stands, adjusting his towel in a way that makes me quickly avert my eyes.
"I'll be ready in five," he says. "Wait for me by the players' exit?"
I nod and make my escape, navigating back through the locker room while trying not to look at anyone's... anything. But as I pass a row of lockers, I can't help stealing one last glance at Groover, who's now facing away from me as he pulls on a pair of boxer briefs.
The towel drops, giving me a brief but memorable view of what can only be described as a hockey player's ass in its natural state—muscular, firm, and completely impossible to unsee.
I practically sprint the rest of the way to the exit, my face burning.
I just checked out my fake boyfriend's very real backside.
And worse—I liked what I saw.
This is fine , I tell myself as I wait by the exit. Totally normal to objectively appreciate the human form. I'm an anthropology student. It's practically academic research .
But the flutter in my stomach when Groover emerges, now fully dressed in dark jeans and a blue button-down that brings out his eyes, feels distinctly un-academic.
"Ready?" he asks, completely unaware of my internal crisis.
"Ready," I lie, following him toward the parking lot and wondering what the hell am I doing.