CHAPTER 10
MATEO
"YOU'RE TELLING ME that humanity's greatest achievement isn't the iPhone or space travel, but ice cream?" Groover leans back in his chair, that crooked smile doing unfair things to his face.
"Absolutely." I stab my spoon into the last of my tiramisu. "Think about it—we figured out how to take cow juice, freeze it while simultaneously whipping in air, and create a substance that releases dopamine more effectively than most illegal drugs. And we did this before electricity was even a thing."
Groover laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. "When you put it like that, it's hard to argue."
We're at Bella Notte, a cozy Italian place downtown that Groover insisted has "the best tiramisu outside of actual Italy." He wasn't wrong. The meal has been incredible—handmade pasta, wine that costs more per bottle than my textbooks, and dessert that made me briefly consider proposing marriage to the pastry chef.
It's our third "date" this week, which seems excessive for the contractual requirements, but Sophia insisted we needed more public outings. At least, that's what Groover told me when he texted about dinner. I didn't question it because, well, free food. And the company isn't terrible either.
Okay, fine, the company is actually pretty great. Over the past few weeks, I've discovered that behind Groover's reserved exterior is a wickedly smart, surprisingly funny guy who listens like what I'm saying actually matters. Not what I expected from a professional athlete.
"Ready to head out?" Groover asks, signaling for the check. "Early practice tomorrow."
"Sure. Though I'm going to need to be rolled to the car. I think I just consumed my body weight in carbonara."
Groover pays—another perk of fake-dating a guy with an NHL salary—and we head toward the exit. He places his hand on my lower back as we navigate between tables, a gesture that's become familiar over the past weeks. It's just part of the act, I remind myself, ignoring the way my skin warms under his touch.
The ma?tre d' holds the door open with a flourish. "Thank you for dining with us, Mr. Williams. Please visit again soon."
"Thanks, Marco. Tell your mother the tiramisu was perfect as always."
And then we're outside in the cool evening air, and holy shit, there are people with cameras waiting for us.
"Groover! Over here!"
"Ansel, look this way!"
"Can we get a shot of you two together?"
The sudden barrage of flashbulbs makes me freeze like a startled rabbit. I've gotten somewhat used to being recognized when I'm with Groover—a hazard of dating (fake-dating) a celebrity—but this is different. These aren't just random fans with cell phones; these are actual photographers with professional equipment.
Groover's hand moves from my back to my waist, pulling me closer to his side. "Just smile and keep walking," he murmurs close to my ear. "Car's just down the block."
I manage what I hope is a natural-looking smile and not a grimace of panic as we start walking. Groover seems unfazed, nodding politely at the photographers but not stopping. Years of media training, I guess.
"Groover! How about a kiss for the cameras?"
The shout comes from a guy with a particularly massive lens, and I feel Groover tense beside me.
"Ignore him," Groover says quietly.
But the damage is done. The other photographers pick up the chant.
"Give us a kiss!"
"Just one shot!"
"Come on, lovebirds!"
Fuck. This wasn't in the contract. Well, not explicitly, though there was some vague language about "typical couple behavior in public." Is kissing typical? For real couples, sure, but we've never discussed this particular aspect of our arrangement.
Groover stops walking and turns to me, his expression a mix of apology and question. "We don't have to," he says, low enough that only I can hear.
But I can see the photographers closing in, smell the desperation for a money shot that'll end up on every hockey blog by morning. If we refuse now, it'll seem weird. Suspicious. The opposite of what this whole charade is supposed to accomplish.
"It's fine," I say, trying for nonchalance. "It's just a kiss, right? Not like I haven't done it before."
With girls, my brain helpfully adds. Not with guys. Not with Groover.
"Right," Groover says, still looking uncertain. "Just a quick one."
He shifts to face me fully, one hand coming up to rest lightly on my jaw. I'm suddenly intensely aware of our height difference, the way I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes. Those expressive brown eyes that are currently studying me with an unfamiliar intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. Absolutely not. I'm having a minor existential crisis here, thanks for asking.
"Yep," I lie.
And then he's leaning down, and I'm rising slightly on my toes, and our lips meet.
It's... weird. Not bad-weird, just different-weird. His lips are firmer than I expected, and there's the slight scratch of stubble against my skin. The kiss itself is brief and closed-mouth, barely more than a peck, but it sends a jolt through my system like touching a live wire.
We pull apart after what couldn't have been more than two seconds, but it's enough for the photographers to erupt in a frenzy of clicking shutters and shouted questions.
I'm still trying to process what just happened—why my heart is racing and my lips are tingling—when a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.
"Well, if it isn't hockey's favorite couple!"
I turn to find Jason Miles approaching, digital recorder already extended. I recognize him immediately from the game—the persistent reporter who cornered me in the VIP box a few weeks ago. The one who'd already asked suspiciously pointed questions about the timing of our relationship.
Great. Just what we need.
"Mr. Miles," I say, attempting civility while my heart's still doing Olympic-level gymnastics from the kiss. "Fancy running into you outside a restaurant nowhere near the arena."
He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "I go where the stories are, Mateo. And right now, you two are quite the story." He gestures to the photographers still clicking away. "Especially with that little display of affection."
"We were just leaving," Groover says firmly, his arm tightening around my waist.
"Just a quick follow-up from our chat at the game," Miles persists, stepping directly into our path. "Mateo, how does it feel dating someone in the spotlight? Is the public scrutiny becoming easier to handle?"
The question catches me off guard with its seeming sincerity. "It's strange," I admit, finding honesty easier than fabrication in the moment. "Having my personal life become public property wasn't something I ever expected."
Miles nods, pressing the recorder closer. "At the game, you mentioned you and Groover had been friends for months before dating. Some of my sources suggest your relationship began much more recently—convenient timing with the Kingsport negotiations heating up."
There it is again—the Kingsport connection. Last time, Leila had rescued me from this line of questioning. Now, there's no buffer.
"I don't know what sources you're talking to," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "but they seem weirdly invested in my love life."
"Just doing my job," Miles says with a shrug that's anything but casual. "It's interesting that no one had heard of you until the deal was almost finalized. Almost like you appeared right when Groover needed a stable image for his sponsors."
I feel Groover stiffen beside me. Miles is getting dangerously close to the truth, and we both know it.
"That's enough," Groover says, voice low but firm. "We're done here."
He guides me around Miles toward a black SUV parked at the curb that I recognize as his. The driver's door opens, and a large man in a suit emerges—security detail, I realize. The team must have arranged it when they saw the photographers gathered.
"This way, Mr. Williams," the security guy says, opening the passenger door. Groover ushers me in first, then slides in beside me.
As soon as the doors close and we pull away from the curb, the atmosphere in the car shifts from tense to downright awkward. Neither of us speaks for a long moment. I stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, hyperaware of Groover's presence beside me, the lingering sensation of his lips on mine, the strange flutter in my stomach that won't settle.
"I'm sorry about that," Groover finally says, breaking the silence. "I should have warned you the paps might be there. Someone must have tipped them off."
"It's fine," I say automatically. "Part of the gig, right?"
"The kiss wasn't part of the deal. I shouldn't have put you in that position."
I turn to look at him. In the dim light of the car, his features are shadowed, but I can see the genuine concern in his eyes. He's worried he crossed a line.
"You didn't put me in any position," I say. "I agreed to it. And it was just a kiss, no big deal."
Except it kind of feels like a big deal, and I don't know why. I've kissed plenty of people before. Granted, all women, but still—it's just pressing lips together. Basic human interaction. So why am I obsessing over it?
"Still," Groover says, "it wasn't something we discussed beforehand. And Miles—he's getting more persistent."
"You think he knows something?" I ask, anxiety spiking. "About the… arrangement?"
Groover sighs, running a hand through his short hair. "Sports reporters have sources everywhere. He might not know details, but he clearly suspects the timing isn't coincidental."
"Is that bad? I mean, for the deal?"
"It could be if it starts looking like our relationship is just for show." His gaze shifts to the window. "Which it is, but no one's supposed to know that."
Right. Because I'm not actually his boyfriend. I'm an employee, essentially. A prop for his public image.
The reminder stings more than it should.
"We should probably work on making it look more convincing," I hear myself say. "The kiss, I mean. It was pretty awkward."
Groover turns back to me, eyebrow raised. "Awkward?"
"Well, yeah. We looked like middle schoolers at their first dance. That can't be great for your 'stable relationship' image."
He considers this, head tilted slightly. "You're probably right. We should at least look like we know what we're doing."
"Exactly. It's like..." I search for an analogy that will make sense to him. "Do hockey players practice checking? It's the same concept, right? You practice so it looks natural in the game."
Groover's lips twitch, almost a smile. "Are you comparing kissing me to body-checking an opponent?"
"I mean, the physics are completely different, obviously , but the principle is the same. Practice makes perfect."
Now he does smile, that crooked grin that makes the gap between his front teeth visible. "So you're suggesting we practice kissing? For authenticity."
Put like that, it sounds ridiculous. And vaguely like the plot of every rom-com ever made. But also... not the worst idea I've ever had?
"Unless you have a better suggestion," I challenge.
Groover studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nods, just once. "Okay. For authenticity."
"For authenticity," I echo, ignoring the way my heart rate picks up.
The car pulls up in front of my apartment building, engine idling as we sit in strangely charged silence. Groover makes no move to get out, and I realize he's waiting for me to exit.
"Well," I say, hand on the door handle. "Good night, then."
"Good night, Mateo." His voice is softer than usual, almost pensive.
As I climb the stairs to my apartment, I can't stop thinking about that brief kiss, about the strange electricity it generated, about the agreement we just made.
Practice kissing. For authenticity.
Carlos is sprawled on the couch when I walk in, textbooks open but clearly forgotten in favor of the video game on the screen.
"How was date night with Hockey Boy?" he asks without looking away from his game.
"Fine," I say, heading straight for the refrigerator and the leftover coffee I know is in there. I need caffeine. Or maybe alcohol. Or both.
"Just fine? You're usually more verbose after these fancy outings. Did something happen?"
I pop the coffee in the microwave, watching it rotate while I consider how to answer. Did something happen? Yes. I kissed a guy for the first time and didn't hate it. In fact, I kind of want to do it again. For practice, obviously.
"We kissed," I say finally. "In front of photographers."
The game pauses and Carlos appears in the kitchen doorway. "Well, well, well. Details, please."
"It wasn't a big deal. Just a quick kiss for the cameras. Very PG."
"And?" Carlos prompts.
"And what?"
"And how was it? Kissing your fake boyfriend who you definitely have no real feelings for whatsoever?"
I scowl at him. "It was fine. Different."
"Different how?"
The microwave beeps, saving me from answering immediately. I take my time retrieving the coffee, adding sugar, stirring longer than necessary.
"I don't know," I finally say. "Just more... solid?"
Carlos leans against the doorframe, looking far too amused. "Solid. Wow. Such poetry. Shakespeare would weep."
"Shut up," I mutter, taking a sip of coffee that's too hot and trying not to wince. "It's not like I have a frame of reference here."
"But you're going to get one, right? Since you 'need practice for authenticity'?" He does air quotes around the words, and I freeze.
"How did you—"
"Dude, you just mumbled that phrase like three times while staring into the fridge. Not exactly CIA-level secrecy."
Great. Apparently, I talk to myself now. Another delightful development in the ongoing saga of my unraveling sanity.
"It's not what it sounds like," I insist. "It's just for the job. The kiss looked awkward, which could raise questions about the legitimacy of our relationship, which could jeopardize the Kingsport deal," I robotically recite.
"Uh-huh." Carlos doesn't look convinced. "And it has nothing to do with the fact that you might actually want to kiss him again?"
"No!"
Yes?
I don't know.
"Whatever you say, man." Carlos returns to the couch, unpausing his game. "But just so you know, if you're having a sexual identity crisis, I'm here for you. As long as it doesn't involve detailed descriptions of Groover's body parts, because there are boundaries in friendship."
"I'm not having a crisis," I protest, following him to the living room. "And there are no body parts involved. It's just kissing."
"For now," Carlos says ominously, eyes back on his game.
I retreat to my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. Alone at last, I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, my mind replaying those few seconds outside the restaurant on loop.
It was just a kiss. Lips touching lips. Physical contact that's been happening between humans for thousands of years. Anthropologically speaking, it's a universal behavior with cultural variations but generally consistent meaning across societies.
I shake my head and turn to my side, trying to convince myself that this strange, fluttery feeling is just nerves about crossing a new boundary, nothing more.
It's not working.