CHAPTER 9
GROOVER
"ABSOLUTELY NOT," I say, staring at the whiteboard Becker has set up in Washington's living room. "Take it down. Now."
"Come on, Grooves," Becker whines, protectively standing in front of his creation. "It's tradition!"
"It's harassment," I counter, crossing my arms. "And if HR ever saw this, we'd all be in sensitivity training until retirement."
The whiteboard in question is labeled "Partner Power Ranking" in Becker's neat handwriting, with a list of all the significant others of team members ranked by various absurd criteria. Leila Washington is at the top with a near-perfect score, while Mateo—who hasn't even arrived yet—is at the bottom with notes like "Brings no snacks" and "Doesn't understand icing."
"It's just for fun," Wall argues from his spot on Washington's massive sectional. "We did it last year too."
"Yeah, and Devon nearly broke up with Ace over it," I remind them. "Remember the 'too high maintenance' comment?"
Ace winces from the kitchen where he's arranging beer bottles in the cooler. "Don't remind me. I was in the doghouse for a week."
Washington enters from the backyard where he's been manning the grill. "What are we arguing about now?" His eyes land on the whiteboard, and he sighs. "Becker, we talked about this. Leila will murder me in my sleep if she sees that thing again."
"Fine," Becker grumbles, erasing the board. "But for the record, Mateo was about to move up the rankings."
I roll my eyes, but secretly I'm relieved. The last thing I need is Mateo feeling judged by my teammates, especially when he's been making such an effort to fit in despite knowing nothing about hockey a month ago.
The doorbell rings, and Washington nods at me. "That's probably your boy. Let him in while I finish the steaks."
Your boy . The casual way he says it makes something twist in my chest. It's been happening more and more lately—these little moments where I forget, just for a second, that Mateo isn't actually mine.
I open the front door to find Mateo juggling a six-pack of beer and what looks like a homemade dish of some kind.
"Hey," he says, slightly breathless. "Sorry I'm late. I had to wait for this to cool enough to transport." He holds up the dish. "I brought something. Hopefully that makes up for it?"
"You didn't have to bring anything," I say, taking the beer from him.
"Actually, I did." He follows me inside. "It's rude to show up empty-handed to dinner at someone's house, my dad always says. It's an Italian thing. Well, actually, maybe that’s his thing."
He's rambling, which I've learned means he's nervous. It's oddly endearing.
"What'd you make?" I ask as we head toward the kitchen.
"Baked ziti. It's my nonna's recipe, but I simplified it because, well, you've seen me cook." He grimaces. "No kitchen fires were involved in the production of this pasta, I promise."
"I'm impressed." And I genuinely am. The fact that he went to the trouble of cooking something for my teammates makes that weird twisting feeling in my chest intensify.
"Mateo!" Becker calls from the living room. "Get in here. We need to settle a debate."
Mateo gives me a questioning look, and I shrug. "No idea. But it's Becker, so it's probably ridiculous."
We enter the living room where most of the team has gathered. Becker has repurposed his whiteboard to display what appears to be a complex diagram of... something.
"Mateo, as our resident academic, we need your expert opinion," Becker announces. "Is a hot dog a sandwich? Wall says yes, Petrov says no, and the future of team harmony depends on your ruling."
Mateo blinks, clearly not expecting this question. "Um... structurally speaking, a hot dog bun is a single piece of bread partially split but still connected on one side, so by the strictest definition, no, it's not a sandwich, which requires two separate pieces of bread."
The room goes quiet as everyone stares at him.
"However," he continues, warming to the topic, "from a cultural perspective, food classifications are social constructs that vary across cultures and time periods. So while a hot dog might not meet the technical definition of a sandwich, its cultural position and usage patterns align with how we use and think about sandwiches in American society."
More silence.
"So... yes and no?" Wall ventures.
"It exists in a liminal space between sandwich and non-sandwich," Mateo concludes with an academic flourish. "It's a quantum sandwich."
Becker throws up his hands. "This is why I love this guy!”
The tension breaks, and suddenly everyone is laughing, including Mateo, who looks slightly puzzled, but pleased.
"Quantum sandwich," Ace repeats, shaking his head. "That's going on a t-shirt."
Washington appears from the kitchen. "Food's ready. Everyone grab a plate and head to the dining room."
As we line up for the buffet-style spread of steaks, baked potatoes, and various sides, I notice how easily Mateo slips into conversation with my teammates. He's asking Petrov about growing up in Russia, listening intently as the rookie describes his hometown with obvious homesickness in his voice.
"That's fascinating," Mateo says. "The cultural adaptation process for international athletes is severely understudied. You should consider letting someone document your experience."
Petrov looks both flattered and confused. "Document? Like... a book?"
"Or an academic paper," Mateo suggests. "The intersection of cultural identity, professional athletics, and immigration is rich territory."
"See?" Becker nudges me as we fill our plates. "Your boyfriend is trying to turn Petrov into a research subject. Classic academic move."
"He's just interested in people," I defend. "It's his thing."
"Uh-huh." Becker gives me a knowing look. "And you're into that, huh? The whole curious intellectual vibe?"
I shrug, trying to seem casual. "It's different. Refreshing."
"Different from your usual type, that's for sure." Becker loads his plate with a second steak. "Remember that model you dated last year? Pretty sure he thought anthropology was a clothing brand."
I wince at the memory. Julian had been gorgeous, but conversations with him had the intellectual depth of a puddle. Not that looks and brains are mutually exclusive—Mateo proves that particular fallacy wrong.
Not that I'm thinking about Mateo's looks. Much.
We settle around Washington's massive dining table, and I find myself between Mateo and Ace. The conversation flows easily, jumping from hockey to movies to Becker's latest disastrous Tinder date.
"So there I am, trapped in this fancy restaurant with a guy who won't stop talking about his cryptocurrency investments," Becker recounts dramatically. "And then he asks if I want to see his NFT collection, and I'm like, 'Sorry, I left my microscope at home.'"
"You didn't!" Mateo gasps between laughs.
"I absolutely did," Becker confirms. "Worth it for the look on his face alone."
"Speaking of humiliating moments," Wall interjects, "can we talk about Mateo getting beaned by that puck last month? Because that clip still makes me laugh."
Mateo groans. "Are we still on that? It's been weeks!"
"Internet fame is forever, my friend," Wall says solemnly. "I had it as my phone background for days."
"The best part," Becker says, standing up, "was the face. It was like—" He proceeds to do an exaggerated recreation of Mateo's terrified expression, complete with flailing arms and a high-pitched yelp that sounds nothing like Mateo.
"I did not sound like that!" Mateo protests, but he's laughing too hard to be genuinely offended.
"No, no, it was more like this," Ace joins in, adding his own interpretation that somehow involves jazz hands.
Soon half the team is on their feet, each doing progressively more ridiculous impressions of "Mateo vs. The Puck," as the incident has apparently been named. Instead of being embarrassed, Mateo gets up and shows them "how it really happened," with a slow-motion reenactment that has everyone howling.
I watch from my seat, something warm unfurling in my chest. A month ago, Mateo was a stranger thrust into my life by PR machinations. Now he's in my captain's dining room, trading jokes with my teammates like he's always been part of this world.
"He's good for you," Washington says quietly, having taken Ace's empty seat beside me while the reenactment continues. "I haven't seen you this relaxed in a long time."
"What do you mean?" I ask, though I know exactly what he means.
Washington gives me a look that says he's not buying my obliviousness. "Since coming out, you've been... careful. Always watching what you say, how you act. Like you're carrying the weight of being The Gay Hockey Player."
I can't argue with that assessment. The pressure of being a representative, of knowing any misstep could affect future players who want to come out—it's exhausting.
"With him," Washington continues, nodding toward Mateo, who's now teaching Petrov some kind of elaborate handshake, "you're just Groover again. Not the poster boy, not the trailblazer. Just you."
Before I can respond to this uncomfortably accurate observation, Becker claps his hands for attention.
"Time for drinks on the deck! And Mateo, you're going to tell us all about the time you set Groover’s kitchen on fire."
"That was a dish towel, not the whole kitchen," I protest, but Mateo is already launching into the story, adding dramatic embellishments that have everyone captivated.
The party migrates to Washington's expansive deck overlooking a meticulously landscaped backyard. The early spring evening is cool but not cold, the sky clear and scattered with stars. Someone hooks up a Bluetooth speaker, and soon music mingles with conversation and laughter.
I find myself by the railing, nursing a beer and watching Mateo across the deck. He's deep in conversation with Devon, who arrived late after finishing a work project. They seem to be hitting it off, heads bent together, Devon occasionally touching Mateo's arm for emphasis.
A flare of something hot and unpleasant sparks in my chest. It takes me a moment to recognize it as jealousy, which is ridiculous. Devon is Ace's boyfriend, and Mateo is... not actually my boyfriend. He can talk to whoever he wants.
"You're scowling," Becker says, appearing beside me with fresh beers. "Not a good look on that pretty face."
"I'm not scowling," I lie, accepting the beer. "Just thinking."
"About how Devon's been monopolizing your man for the last twenty minutes?" Becker's tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp.
"They're just talking."
"Uh-huh." He takes a swig of beer. "You know, for someone in a fake relationship, you sure look like a jealous boyfriend right now."
I nearly choke, my eyes darting left and right. Then, I hiss, "Lower your voice, would you?"
Across the deck, Mateo laughs at something Devon says, his whole face lighting up. He glances over and catches my eye, his smile softening into something more private, just for me. He excuses himself from Devon and makes his way over.
"Hey," he says, slightly breathless. "Devon was just telling me about his cultural studies program. Did you know he's focusing on sports fandom as a form of modern tribalism? It's fascinating stuff."
"Sounds riveting," I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
Mateo tilts his head, studying me. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," I say, too quickly. "Just tired."
Becker makes a coughing sound that suspiciously resembles the word "jealous" before wandering off, leaving us alone.
"What was that about?" Mateo asks.
"Nothing. Becker being Becker." I take a long pull of my beer. "Having fun?"
"Yeah, actually. Your teammates are great." He leans against the railing beside me, our shoulders almost touching. "Thanks for inviting me."
"They invited you," I point out. "I just passed along the message."
"Still." He bumps his shoulder against mine. "It's nice to feel included."
Before I can respond, Wall shouts from across the deck: "Drinking game! Everyone inside!"
Mateo raises an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"
"Definitely," I confirm. "Wall's drinking games are legendary for their ability to destroy livers and dignity in equal measure."
"Sounds perfect," Mateo grins, grabbing my hand. "Let's go."
The simple touch—his warm fingers wrapped around mine—sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with our audience. I let him pull me inside, trying to ignore the knowing look from Becker.
Wall's game turns out to be a hockey-themed version of "Never Have I Ever," with increasingly specific and embarrassing prompts. Mateo is at a distinct advantage until Becker starts targeting him with prompts like "Never have I ever used the word 'anthropological' in hockey conversation" and "Never have I ever been hit by a hockey puck while standing safely behind the glass."
Several rounds in, the group has dwindled as people tap out to use the bathroom or get more drinks. During a particularly rowdy debate about whether Petrov's answer counts (the prompt involved ice baths, and apparently Russian definitions differ), Mateo ends up perched on the arm of my chair.
When Petrov gesticulates wildly to make his point, Mateo loses his balance and slides directly into my lap.
"Whoa!" he laughs, clearly feeling the effects of the alcohol. "Sorry about that."
I should help him up. I should make a joke and restore the appropriate distance between us. What I shouldn't do is notice how perfectly he fits against me, or how good his hair smells, or how the weight of him feels right somehow.
"You're fine," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Stay if you want."
He hesitates for a beat, then settles more comfortably, his back against my chest. "Okay. But only because I'm too lazy to find another seat."
The game resumes, but I'm barely paying attention. All my focus is on the points of contact between us—his weight on my thighs, his shoulder blade against my sternum, his hair occasionally tickling my chin when he turns his head to laugh.
I'm hyperaware of every movement, every shift of his body. When he reaches for his drink, the muscles in his back flex against my chest. When he laughs, I can feel the vibration through his body. It's torturous and wonderful at the same time.
"Never have I ever," Wall announces with drunken gravity, "fantasized about a teammate."
Several players drink, including Becker, who winks dramatically at no one in particular. Mateo, of course, doesn't drink—he's not on the team.
"Never have I ever," Ace continues, "hooked up with someone in this room."
He and Devon drink, as do Washington and Leila, who arrived halfway through the game. To my shock, Becker also takes a sip.
"Whoa, what?" Wall demands. "Who?"
Becker just taps his nose mysteriously. "A gentleman never tells."
The room erupts in speculation and demands for details, which Becker steadfastly refuses to provide. I'm grateful for the distraction, because it means no one notices how tense I've become with Mateo still in my lap.
"Never have I ever," Petrov says when the commotion dies down, "pretended to be someone I'm not."
The prompt seems innocent enough, but I freeze. Beside me, I feel Mateo stiffen slightly.
Everyone drinks to this one—it's universal enough—but when I raise my glass, I catch Becker watching me with that too-perceptive gaze of his.
The game continues, but the mood has shifted, at least for me. The reminder of our deception sits uneasily, especially with Mateo warm and solid against me in a way that feels anything but fake.
Eventually, the party begins to wind down. Mateo slips off my lap to help clean up, chatting easily with Leila as they gather empty bottles and plates. I watch him move around the space, fitting in seamlessly with the people who matter most to me.
"He's a keeper," Washington says, appearing beside me again. "Smart, funny, gets along with everyone. Even Petrov likes him, and Petrov doesn't like anybody."
"Yeah," I agree, not knowing what else to say.
"Just don't screw it up," he adds, clapping me on the shoulder before moving on to say goodbye to departing teammates.
Don't screw it up. As if there's something real here to ruin.
But as Mateo catches my eye across the room and smiles that soft, private smile again, I'm not so sure anymore where the acting ends and the truth begins.