CHAPTER 8
MATEO
I WAKE UP to the sound of someone talking softly and the smell of coffee. For a disorienting moment, I forget where I am—this isn't my lumpy twin bed in the apartment I share with Carlos, and that's definitely not Carlos's voice I'm hearing.
Last night comes rushing back. The photo shoot. The kitchen fire. The awkward negotiation over sleeping arrangements.
I'm in Groover's apartment. In Groover's bed. Wearing Groover's clothes.
I sit up, blinking in the morning light streaming through unfamiliar blinds. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. I check my phone: 7:43 AM. Early for a college student on a Saturday, but probably normal hours for a professional athlete.
The voice continues from somewhere in the apartment, too low to make out the words but clear enough to recognize as Groover's. I stretch, wincing at the slight stiffness in my neck— apparently I slept in one position all night, probably too nervous about invading Groover's space to move naturally.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to look around the room I was too preoccupied to properly observe last night. Like the rest of the apartment, it's neat and minimalist, but with personal touches that make it feel lived-in. A framed photo of what must be his family sits on the dresser. A stack of books on the nightstand—mostly biographies and historical fiction. A hoodie draped over a chair.
It's intimate, seeing these glimpses of his private life. More intimate, somehow, than sharing a bed.
I follow the voice and coffee smell to the kitchen, where I find Groover leaning against the counter, phone pressed to his ear. He's already dressed in workout clothes—a fitted gray t-shirt and black athletic shorts that show off his hockey-toned legs. His hair is slightly damp, like he's already showered.
He looks up when I enter, offering a small smile and mouthing "sorry" as he gestures to the phone. I wave it off and head for the coffee maker, which has a full pot waiting.
"No, Mom, he's not from Chicago," Groover is saying, rolling his eyes at me in a universal "parents, am I right?" expression. "He's from Florida... Yes, I know that's far... No, I haven't met his parents yet, we've only been dating a couple months..."
I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. Apparently Groover's mother has heard about me, which makes sense—our "relationship" has been splashed across hockey blogs and social media for weeks now.
"Yes, he's in college... Anthropology... No, that's not 'digging up dinosaurs,' that's paleontology." Groover pinches the bridge of his nose. "Mom, I gotta go... Yes, I'll tell him you said hi... Love you too."
He hangs up with a sigh. "Sorry about that. My mom's been blowing up my phone all week wanting details about you."
"No problem," I say, sipping the perfectly brewed coffee. "What's the verdict? Does she approve of her son's boyfriend?"
"She's already sent me three articles about gay marriage laws and the adoption process, so I'd say she's on board." He grabs a mug and pours himself coffee. "Fair warning, if she ever meets you, she'll try to feed you until you explode. It's her love language."
"Sounds like my mom," I laugh. "Italian mothers and Midwestern mothers have that in common."
"Speaking of which, have your parents seen the, uh, news about us?"
It's a reasonable question, but it makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. "Yeah. My sister texted me a link to some hockey blog with our picture. I told them it was new and I was waiting for the right time to mention it."
"And how did they take it?"
I shrug, aiming for casual. "They were surprised, but supportive. My sister thinks it's cool I'm dating an athlete."
What I don't mention is how the conversation actually went—my mom's careful questions about when I "knew," my dad's loaded silence, my sister's excited barrage of texts asking for details. I've been avoiding a follow-up call, letting them process while I figure out how to explain that I'm not actually dating a man, just pretending to for money.
God, that sounds so much worse when I phrase it that way.
"That's good," Groover says, seemingly accepting my sanitized version. "Hungry? I can make breakfast."
"After last night's cooking demonstration? I value my life too much."
He laughs. "I can handle breakfast. It's literally the only meal I can make without setting something on fire."
"In that case, I accept. What's on the menu?"
"Peanut butter toast," he says with such seriousness that I can't help but laugh.
"That's it? That's your specialty?"
"Hey, don't knock it. It's a perfectly balanced pre-workout meal. Carbs, protein, healthy fats." He's already pulling bread from a drawer. "I've had the same breakfast every morning since I was fifteen."
"Wow. And I thought I was the one with rigid routines." I watch as he meticulously spreads peanut butter on whole grain toast. "Is that a hockey player thing or a Groover thing?"
"Both? Athletes are creatures of habit." He hands me a plate with two perfectly prepared pieces of toast. "Routines help us feel in control when so much of our careers depend on factors we can't control."
It's a surprisingly introspective answer, and I find myself nodding. "That makes sense from an anthropological perspective. Ritual behaviors often emerge as responses to environmental uncertainty."
"See? You get it." He takes a bite of his own toast. "Though I'm pretty sure my teammates would die if they heard me being psychoanalyzed over peanut butter toast at 8 AM."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the initial awkwardness of the morning-after situation fading into something that feels strangely... normal. Like we've done this before. Like we could do it again.
The thought catches me off guard, and I focus intently on my toast to avoid examining it too closely.
"I should probably head out soon," I say after finishing. "I've got a ton of reading to catch up on."
"Sure," Groover says. "But, uh, don't forget the whole reason you stayed was for the gossip blogger to see you leaving."
"Right." I'd almost forgotten the actual purpose of this sleepover. "So I should, what, mess up my hair and wear yesterday's clothes?"
He laughs. "I don't think we need to go full walk of shame. Just looking like you spent the night is probably enough."
I glance down at my borrowed clothes—his t-shirt hanging loosely on my smaller frame, the sweatpants I had to roll at the waist to keep from tripping. "I think this makes it pretty obvious."
"True." His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary, then he clears his throat. "You can change if you want, though. No need to be uncomfortable."
"I'm good. These are actually really soft." I pluck at the t-shirt. "Much nicer than my cheap Target specials."
"The perks of an NHL salary," he says dryly. "Luxury sleepwear."
I help him clear the breakfast dishes, and there's a moment of domestic synchronicity as we move around each other in the kitchen—him rinsing plates, me wiping down the counter—that feels so natural it's almost disconcerting.
When it's time for me to leave, Groover walks me to the door. There's an awkward pause as we both seem to realize we don't have an established goodbye ritual.
"So," I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
"So," he echoes, looking equally uncertain.
"Thanks for breakfast. And for not hogging the blankets."
He smiles. "Thanks for not setting anything else on fire."
"One time!" I protest, laughing. "And technically, you're the one who put out the fire, so I didn't actually burn anything."
"A technicality I'm sure my insurance company would appreciate."
Another pause, less awkward but still charged with something I can't quite name.
"I should—" I gesture vaguely toward the door.
"Right, yeah." He steps forward, and for a wild second I think he might hug me, but he just reaches past me to open the door. "Let me know when you get home safe."
"It's a fifteen-minute Uber ride, not an Arctic expedition," I tease.
"Humor me. It's the boyfriend thing to do."
The reminder of our arrangement snaps me back to reality. Right. This is all for show—the domesticity, the shared breakfast, the concern for my safety. Just playing parts in an elaborate performance for the benefit of sponsorship deals and tuition payments.
"Sure," I say, my smile feeling slightly less natural. "I'll text you."
In the elevator down to the lobby, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall. Groover's clothes hang loose on my frame, making me look smaller than I am. My hair is mussed from sleep, and there's a faint pillow crease on my cheek.
I look exactly like someone who spent the night with their boyfriend. The irony isn't lost on me.
As predicted, there's a woman in the lobby who does a double-take when she sees me, her eyes widening in recognition. She quickly pretends to be absorbed in her phone, but I can practically see the social media post being composed in her head: "Just saw Groover's boyfriend leaving his apartment in morning walk of shame! #hockeyboyfriend #couplesighting"
Mission accomplished, I guess.
The Uber ride home gives me too much time to think. About the strange intimacy of sharing sleep space with someone. About how comfortable it felt to move around Groover's kitchen like I belonged there. About the way his t-shirt smells faintly like him and how I don't hate it.
By the time I reach my apartment, I've convinced myself it's all just method acting—I'm getting into the role, that's all. Daniel Day-Lewis would be proud.
Carlos is sprawled on our sagging couch when I walk in, textbook open but clearly abandoned in favor of the video game on our ancient TV.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, pausing his game. "Look what the cat dragged in. Nice outfit."
I roll my eyes. "It's not what it looks like."
"So you're not wearing your hot hockey boyfriend's clothes after spending the night at his place?"
"Okay, it's exactly what it looks like, but not for the reasons you think."
Carlos raises an eyebrow. "You mean you didn't have wild, athletic sex with Chicago's most eligible bachelor?"
"No!" I feel my face heating up. "It’s the PR thing. Sophia wanted me to be seen leaving his place in the morning for the optics."
"Uh-huh." Carlos looks supremely unconvinced. "And the sleepover was, what, a business meeting?"
"We slept. That's it." I head to the kitchen to avoid his knowing gaze. "Separately. Well, in the same bed, but with a respectful distance maintained at all times."
"Right," Carlos says, drawing out the word. "Very professional."
"It was!" I grab a water bottle from our perpetually empty fridge. "This is all just part of the job."
"The job where you pretend to date a hot guy who makes you breakfast and lends you his clothes."
Put like that, it does sound ridiculous. "It's complicated."
"Doesn't seem complicated to me," Carlos says, turning back to his game. "Seems like you're enjoying playing boyfriend a little too much."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs without looking away from the screen. "Just that I've never seen you this invested in a job before. You talk about him all the time, you know."
"I do not!"
"Dude, yesterday you spent fifteen minutes telling me about how he organizes his hockey gear in a specific pattern before games. Fifteen minutes. About someone else's sock arrangement."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Did I really do that?
"Whatever," I mutter, retreating toward my bedroom. "I'm going to shower and change."
"Into your own clothes, or are you keeping the boyfriend uniform?" Carlos calls after me. "Because it's a good look on you!"
I slam my door a little harder than necessary, then immediately feel bad about it. Carlos isn't wrong—I have been talking about Groover a lot. But that's just because this whole situation is so bizarre, right? Anyone would want to process it by talking it through.
As I change out of Groover's clothes, my phone buzzes with a text.
Groover : Did you make it home alive, or should I alert the authorities?
I smile despite myself.
Me : Survived the treacherous journey. Your clothes made it safely too.
Groover : Keep them if you want. They look better on you anyway.
I stare at the text, unsure how to interpret it. Is he just being nice? Is this part of the boyfriend act?
Before I can overthink it further, another text comes through.
Groover : Team dinner tomorrow, Cap’s house. The guys asked if you're coming. No pressure, but Becker said he'd teach you the secret hockey handshake if you do.
Me : There's a secret hockey handshake?
Groover : No. That's the joke. But Leila’s cooking is legitimately worth the trip.
I hesitate only briefly before replying.
Me : Count me in. But only for the food.
Groover : Sure, the food. Not the charming company at all.
Me : The food doesn't try to convince me that blue lines represent tears.
Groover : Fair point. See you tomorrow, 6:30?
Me : It's a date.
I freeze as soon as I hit send. A date? Why did I phrase it like that?
Groover : :thumb_up_emoji:
Just a thumbs up. No acknowledgment of my poor word choice. Thank god.
I toss my phone onto my bed and flop down beside it, staring at the ceiling. Carlos's words echo in my head: You're enjoying playing boyfriend a little too much .
Maybe he's right. Maybe I am getting too comfortable in this role. But it's just temporary, I remind myself. A means to an end. In a couple months, once the Kingsport deal is finalized, Groover and I will "break up" amicably, and life will go back to normal.
So what's the harm in enjoying the ride while it lasts?