CHAPTER 7
GROOVER
"YOUR PLACE IS fine, but we need more couple content in a domestic setting," Sophia declares over the phone, crushing my Monday morning peace faster than a blindside hit. "The gala photos are great, but the Kingsport wants to see stability, remember? Nothing says stable like matching coffee mugs and arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes."
I glance around my apartment, mentally cataloging the embarrassing shit I'd need to hide before letting a camera crew in for a proper shoot. "Can't we just photoshop ourselves into some stock photos of happy couples making pancakes?"
"Very funny." Sophia's voice drips with the special brand of sarcasm reserved for PR people dealing with difficult athletes. "We're not talking magazine spread here. Just some casual shots for social media. Make it look like Mateo spends time at your place."
"Fine," I concede, knowing resistance is futile. "When?"
"Tonight. I'll be there at seven with the photographer."
I hang up and immediately start panic-cleaning. It's not that my place is dirty, but there's a difference between "clean enough for me to live in" and "clean enough for photographic evidence that will live on the internet forever."
By six, I've vacuumed, dusted, and hidden anything potentially embarrassing (goodbye, Captain America boxers hanging in the bathroom). I've even changed my sheets, though I'm not sure why since I doubt we'll be taking photos in my bedroom.
The thought of Mateo in my bedroom sends a jolt through me that I quickly suppress. That's not part of our arrangement, and besides, he's straight. Probably. We haven't actually discussed it explicitly, but he mentioned an ex-girlfriend once, so I'm operating under that assumption.
Not that it matters. This is business, not pleasure.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mateo:
Mateo : On my way. Should I bring anything?
Me : Just yourself. And maybe a convincing boyfriend face.
Mateo : I'll practice my adoring gaze in the Uber. See you soon.
I smile despite myself. Over the past couple weeks, we've developed an easy rapport that makes this whole charade less awkward than it could be. After that first game and the team celebration that followed (where Mateo surprised everyone by keeping up with Becker drink for drink), he's attended two more home games and three night outings.
He's fitting in better than I expected, charming my teammates with his random anthropological observations and genuine curiosity about hockey. Even Coach has taken a liking to him, constantly asking when "that smart boyfriend of yours" is coming to the next game.
The doorbell rings precisely at 6:30, and I open it to find Mateo balancing a takeout bag from my favorite Thai place.
"I know you said not to bring anything," he says, "but I figured we'd need sustenance to survive the photo shoot."
"You're a lifesaver," I say, taking the bag. "I was so busy cleaning I forgot about food entirely."
He steps inside, glancing around. "Wow, it's even cleaner than last time. I didn't think that was possible."
"I may have stress-cleaned," I admit. "Sophia has that effect on me."
Mateo laughs, shrugging off his jacket. He's wearing a simple blue sweater that brings out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. Not that I'm noticing things like that.
"So, what's the plan?" he asks, following me to the kitchen. "Sophia just said something about 'domestic couple photos' and to dress casual but nice."
"Your guess is as good as mine." I start unpacking the food. "Probably wants shots of us doing stereotypical couple things. Cooking together, watching TV, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes over coffee."
"Ah yes, the three pillars of modern romance," Mateo says. "Food, Netflix, and caffeine."
We're halfway through our pad thai when the doorbell rings again. Sophia enters like a tiny hurricane, followed by the same photographer from our previous shoot.
"Perfect, you're already eating," she says by way of greeting. "Zach, get some shots of this. Natural, candid moments."
Zach starts circling us like a documentary filmmaker tracking rare wildlife, the camera clicking rapidly.
"Could you maybe feed each other a bite?" Sophia suggests. "That always plays well on Instagram."
I stare at her. "No one does that in real life."
"I do," Mateo pipes up, the traitor. "But only because I want to try what the other person ordered without committing to a full plate."
"See?" Sophia gestures triumphantly. "Totally natural."
Before I can protest further, Mateo is holding out his fork with a piece of chicken. "Say 'aah,'" he teases.
I roll my eyes but open my mouth, accepting the bite while Zach captures the moment for posterity and my future embarrassment.
"Great!" Sophia claps her hands. "Now let's move to the living room. Casual couple relaxation vibes."
The next hour is a blur of increasingly ridiculous poses disguised as "natural moments." Mateo and I on the couch, pretending to watch TV. Mateo reading a book while I rest my head in his lap. Both of us laughing over something on my phone.
"Now let's get some in the kitchen," Sophia directs. "Cooking together is very domestic."
"I should warn you," I say, "I'm a terrible cook."
"Me too," Mateo admits. "I once set off the dorm fire alarm making ramen."
"Perfect," Sophia says brightly. "Just pretend you're making something simple. Pancakes or whatever."
And so we find ourselves at my rarely-used stove, surrounded by hastily gathered ingredients for pancakes we have no intention of actually making.
"Do you even know how to turn this on?" Mateo whispers as we pose with mixing bowls.
"In theory," I mutter back. "I mostly use the microwave."
"Professional athlete," he teases. "Shouldn't you be all about nutrition and home-cooked meals?"
"That's what meal prep services are for," I defend. "Besides, not all of us can cook like your Italian family probably does."
"Half-Italian," he corrects. "And the cooking gene definitely skipped me. My nonna is still recovering from the trauma of watching me attempt her lasagna recipe."
The mental image of Mateo covered in flour and tomato sauce, desperately trying to impress his grandmother, makes me laugh. It's a genuine laugh, not the forced one I've been using for photos, and Zach immediately starts capturing it.
"This is great," Sophia says. "The chemistry is really coming through."
Chemistry? Is that what this is? The easy way Mateo fits into my space, the natural rhythm we've fallen into despite the artificial circumstances?
I'm saved from examining that thought too closely when Mateo accidentally turns on the wrong burner, setting a dish towel on fire.
"Shit!" I grab the flaming towel and toss it into the sink, dousing it with water while Mateo frantically opens windows to clear the smoke.
"Got it!" Zach says enthusiastically, still snapping photos. "Real couple moment!"
"Are you serious right now?" I glare at him. "We could have burned the place down!"
"But you didn't," Sophia points out. "And now we have authentic action shots."
Mateo is doubled over laughing, which is not helping my irritation. "I'm sorry," he gasps between laughs. "But your face when that towel went up—"
His laughter is infectious, and despite my best efforts, I find myself chuckling too. "I told you I don't cook for a reason."
"Clearly it's a safety issue," he agrees, wiping tears from his eyes. "For the good of the community, we should never attempt this again."
Once the smoke clears and we've established that no actual damage was done, Sophia pulls me aside while Mateo helps Zach review some of the shots.
"I've been monitoring social media mentions," she says, all business again. "That reporter, Jason Miles, has been asking questions."
I tense. "What kind of questions?"
"The suspicious kind. Wanting to know when you two first appeared together, who knew about the relationship before the gala." She gives me a pointed look. "He's always looking for controversy."
"Let him look," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "There's nothing to find."
Except, of course, a signed contract and direct payments to Mateo, but those are buried under enough NDAs and legal jargon to withstand a nuclear blast.
"Just be careful what you say to media," Sophia warns. "Stick to the script."
After another half hour of photos—this time safely away from any heat sources—Sophia and Zach finally pack up to leave.
"These turned out great," Sophia says, scrolling through Zach's camera roll. "We'll edit them and start rolling them out over the next few weeks. Makes it look like an established relationship."
"Glad we could provide such convincing fake domestic bliss," I say dryly.
She gives me a look. "You know, for someone who claims to be faking it, you two look pretty comfortable together."
With that parting shot, she and Zach leave us standing in my kitchen, surrounded by the aftermath of our "cooking" adventure—flour dusting the countertops, egg shells scattered about, and the distinct smell of burnt dish towel still lingering in the air.
"Well," Mateo says after a moment, "that was..."
"A disaster?" I suggest.
"I was going to say 'an experience,' but disaster works too." He grins, brushing flour from his sleeve. "At least we got dinner in before the chaos."
I glance at the clock. It's nearly 9:30. "It's getting late. Do you want me to call you an Uber?"
"Actually..." Mateo hesitates. "Sophia mentioned something about me needing to be seen leaving your place in the morning. For the whole 'spending the night' implication."
My brain glitches momentarily. "She wants you to stay over?"
"Apparently there's a gossip blogger who lives in your building," he explains. "She thinks catching me doing the 'walk of shame' tomorrow would add authenticity."
Of course Sophia would think of that. She probably has a flowchart of relationship milestones we need to hit for maximum sponsorship appeal.
"Right," I say, trying to sound casual. "That makes sense."
An awkward silence stretches between us as we both contemplate the logistics of this new development.
"I can take the couch," I offer finally.
"No way," Mateo protests. "It's your apartment. I'll take the couch."
"My bed is more comfortable."
"Exactly why you should sleep in it."
We stare at each other, at an impasse.
"This is ridiculous," I say finally. "My bed is king-sized. We can share it and still maintain a demilitarized zone in the middle."
Mateo's eyebrows shoot up. "Are you sure?"
"It's just sleeping," I point out. "We're both adults. Unless you kick in your sleep or something?"
"Not that I'm aware of," he says. "But I've been told I sometimes talk."
"I can live with that." I start cleaning up the kitchen mess. "I have spare toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet. And I can lend you something to sleep in."
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen is clean, and we've established a bathroom usage order that would make military strategists proud. I find Mateo a t-shirt and sweatpants that will inevitably be too big on him, and we dance around each other with careful politeness that wasn't there an hour ago.
It's weird how the prospect of sharing a bed—even platonically—changes the dynamic.
When we finally turn in, I'm hyperaware of every movement, every shift of weight on the mattress. We're both lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling, with at least two feet of space between us.
"This is awkward, isn't it?" Mateo says into the darkness.
"Little bit," I admit.
"Should I tell you a bedtime story to break the tension? Once upon a time, there was a hockey player who couldn't cook..."
I snort. "Don't start. I've seen you nearly burn down my kitchen, so you have zero culinary high ground."
"Fair point." He yawns. "For what it's worth, I think we're doing a good job. At the fake relationship thing, I mean."
"Yeah?" I turn my head to look at his profile in the dim light filtering through the blinds.
"Yeah." He turns too, meeting my gaze. "Your teammates seem convinced. Wall keeps giving me relationship advice."
"God, I hope you're not taking it. Wall's longest relationship was with a houseplant, and even that died of neglect."
Mateo laughs softly. "Don't worry. I'm filtering his wisdom appropriately."
A comfortable silence falls between us, and I feel myself starting to relax.
"Groover?" Mateo's voice is quiet, already thick with approaching sleep.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for not being weird about this. The whole situation, I mean."
"Back at you," I murmur. "Get some sleep, Mateo."
"Night," he mumbles, already drifting off.
I lie awake a little longer, listening to his breathing even out. There's something strangely intimate about sharing a space like this, even without any physical contact. I can smell the mint of his borrowed toothpaste, feel the slight dip in the mattress from his weight, hear the soft sounds of his sleep-deepened breaths.
It's been a long time since I've had anyone in my bed, even just to sleep. My lifestyle doesn't exactly lend itself to long-term relationships, and hookups usually don't involve overnight stays. There's something nice about not being alone, even if it's all for show.
As I finally drift toward sleep, Sophia's words echo in my mind: For someone who claims to be faking it, you two look pretty comfortable together.
The thought should probably worry me more than it does.