CHAPTER 11
GROOVER
"SO," MATEO SAYS, standing in the middle of my living room looking like he's about to give a doctoral dissertation on kissing. "Ground rules."
I try not to smile at how seriously he's taking this. It's been three days since our impromptu lip-lock outside the restaurant, three days of text messages about "scheduling practice sessions" as if we're discussing hockey drills instead of making out. Leave it to the anthropology student to turn kissing into a research project.
"Ground rules," I repeat, settling onto my couch. "Like what? No tongue on the first date?"
Mateo's cheeks flush—a reaction I'm becoming slightly addicted to causing—but he pushes on. "Like boundaries. Things we're comfortable with. Professional parameters."
Professional parameters. Jesus Christ, he’s adorable.
"Okay," I say, deciding to humor him. "What did you have in mind?"
He starts pacing, hands gesturing as he talks. "Well, first, this is purely educational. A skill acquisition exercise."
"Of course. I'll add it to my CV under 'professional development.'"
He shoots me a look. "I'm serious, Groover."
"Sorry." I'm not, really, but I school my features into something resembling seriousness. "Go on."
"Second, we stop if either of us gets uncomfortable. No questions asked."
This one feels less ridiculous. "Agreed."
"Third, what happens in practice stays in practice. No locker room talk."
I raise an eyebrow. "You think I'm going to tell Becker about our kissing technique?"
"I don't know what hockey players talk about!" he says defensively. "For all I know, you guys compare notes on everything."
"Trust me, if I started discussing your kissing ability, Becker would never let either of us hear the end of it."
Mateo nods, seemingly satisfied. "Okay, so we're agreed on the rules?"
"Educational purposes only. Stop if uncomfortable. No kiss and tell." I tick them off on my fingers. "Anything else, Professor Rossi, or can we begin the practical portion of today's lesson?"
That blush again. It starts at his neck and creeps upward, staining his golden skin with splotches of pink. Not that I'm cataloging his reactions or anything.
"Okay," he says, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."
He walks over and sits beside me on the couch, a careful foot of space between us. We turn to face each other, and suddenly the humor of the situation evaporates. His hazel eyes are serious, a little apprehensive, and fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"So," I say, voice noticeably lower. "How do you want to start?"
"Maybe just... the same as last time? To establish a baseline."
A baseline. Christ, he really is treating this like a scientific experiment.
"Okay," I agree. "Basic closed-mouth kiss, like outside the restaurant."
He nods, leaning slightly forward. I meet him halfway, and our lips press together in a repeat of that first kiss—brief, dry, and weirdly formal. We pull back after a moment, and Mateo's expression is analytical, like he's mentally taking notes.
"That was... fine," he says. "But doesn't look natural. Too stiff."
"Agreed," I say, fighting the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
"Right. So maybe we try again, but less... formal?"
I nod. "Less formal."
This time when he leans in, I reach up to cup his jaw, guiding him into a better angle. His skin is warm under my palm, the slight rasp of evening stubble an interesting texture against my fingers. Our lips meet again, and I apply a little more pressure, moving slightly to fit our mouths together more naturally.
When we separate, Mateo looks less analytical and more... curious.
"That was better," he says. "The hand thing helps."
"It's not that different from kissing women," I offer. "Just stronger pressure, usually. And the stubble, obviously."
He nods, processing this information. "Show me? I mean, what would look natural for a real gay couple?"
I hesitate for a moment. This whole arrangement was supposed to be hands-off, strictly business. But if we're going to sell this relationship to the world—and specifically to Jason Miles and his suspicious sources—we need to look authentic.
That's what I tell myself, anyway, as I shift closer to him on the couch.
"A real couple would be more familiar with each other," I explain, reaching for him again. "More comfortable."
This time, I let my hand slide around to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape. He inhales sharply but doesn't pull away. I guide him toward me, our faces inches apart.
"Relax," I murmur. "You're too tense."
His shoulders drop slightly, and he lets out a breath that fans across my lips. "Better?"
"Better."
I close the remaining distance, capturing his mouth with mine. This kiss is different from the start—more deliberate, more controlled. I keep it gentle but firm, showing him without words how to respond. After a moment of hesitation, he begins to mirror my movements, his lips softening and moving against mine.
I pull back slightly, our faces still close. "Good. Now try with a little more...intention."
"Intention?"
"Like you want to be kissing me. Not just going through the motions."
His eyes darken slightly, and before I can say anything else, he's leaning in again. This time, there's nothing mechanical about it. He presses his lips to mine with new confidence, one hand coming up to rest on my shoulder for balance. I respond in kind, tilting my head for a better angle, my fingers still tangled in his hair.
The kiss deepens naturally, mouths moving together with increasing synchronicity. When I gently catch his bottom lip between mine, he makes a soft sound that sends heat rushing through my body.
I pull back, needing a moment. This is getting dangerous fast.
"That was..." I clear my throat. "Much better."
Mateo's eyes are slightly glazed, his lips parted and darker than before. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Very convincing."
"What about with tongue?" he asks, and my brain short-circuits for a second. "That's how people usually kiss, right? At this stage in a relationship?"
Fuck me sideways. We're really doing this.
"Usually, yes," I manage, sounding mostly normal. "But only if you're comfortable with that."
He nods decisively. "I am. For authenticity."
Right. Authenticity. The sacred goal that absolutely justifies what we're doing right now.
"Okay," I say, and why does my voice sound so goddamn husky? "Just follow my lead."
I close the distance between us again, starting with the familiar pressure of lips on lips before gently tracing the seam of his mouth with my tongue. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then parts his lips, granting access. I keep it slow, exploratory, giving him time to adjust to the new sensation.
What I don't expect is how quickly he adapts.
After a few tentative moments, he's matching me stroke for stroke, his tongue sliding against mine with increasing confidence. His hand on my shoulder tightens, fingers digging in slightly, and the small display of intensity sends a jolt straight to my groin.
I should stop this. We've established the basics, mission accomplished, time to call it a day before things go too far. But then Mateo makes another one of those quiet sounds—halfway between a sigh and a moan—and rational thought evaporates like ice on a hot skillet.
The kiss deepens, turns hungry. I'm dimly aware of shifting positions, of Mateo's back hitting the couch cushions as I lean over him. My hand moves from his hair to his waist, feeling the lean muscle beneath his shirt. His arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer.
This has gone way beyond practice, but I can't seem to care. Not when he’s is kissing me back with equal fervor, his body arching slightly beneath mine.
What happens next catches me completely off guard.
Mateo surges upward, flipping our positions with unexpected strength until I'm the one with my back against the cushions and he's hovering over me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven. For a moment he just stares down at me, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
Then he's kissing me again, but this time he's in control. His mouth moves against mine with newfound authority, his tongue delving deep. One of his hands cradles my jaw while the other braces against the back of the couch. It's confident, commanding, and sexy as all hell.
I surrender completely, letting him set the pace, my hands finding his hips to steady him as he practically straddles my lap. The kiss turns molten, messy, all pretense of practice forgotten as we devour each other with mounting urgency.
That's when I feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against my stomach as Mateo shifts above me. He's getting turned on. The supposedly straight guy who's only doing this for money and experience is getting hard from kissing me.
Holy fuck.
The realization hits us both at the same moment. Mateo freezes, his lips still pressed to mine but no longer moving. I can feel the exact instant awareness crashes over him, tension flooding his body.
He pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with shock, face flushed. "I—" he starts, then stops, apparently at a loss for words.
I remain perfectly still, afraid any movement might spook him further. "It's okay," I say quietly. "Normal physical reaction."
He scrambles backward off my lap, smoothing his shirt down with shaking hands. "I should go."
"Mateo—"
"I just remembered I have an essay due tomorrow. For Phenomenological Approaches to Cultural Studies." The words tumble out in a rush. "It's a major part of my grade. I completely forgot about it until just now."
It's such a transparent lie that I almost laugh, but his face is so stricken that I swallow the impulse. "Okay," I say instead. "If you need to go, that's fine."
"Thanks for, um, the lesson." He's backing toward the door, grabbing his jacket from where he tossed it on a chair earlier. "Very educational. Super helpful for, you know, public appearances and stuff."
"Any time," I say, because what else am I supposed to say? Sorry my kissing gave you an inconvenient boner ?
He nods jerkily. "Great. Okay. I'll text you. About the next game. Or whatever."
And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence of my apartment.
I let out a long, slow breath, head falling back against the couch cushions. What the fuck just happened?
One minute we're having a clinical kissing lesson, and the next we're practically dry humping on my couch. And Mateo—supposedly straight Mateo who's only in this for the money—was the one who took control. Who got hard.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. This is bad. This is complicated in ways I didn't sign up for. Fake relationships are one thing, but real attraction? That wasn't part of the deal.
And I am attracted to him.
There's no point denying it anymore. I've been fighting it since that first night at the gala, telling myself it was just convenient fiction, just playing a part. But the way my body responded to him just now was anything but fake.
The question is: what do I do now? Pretend it never happened? Talk about it like adults? Terminate the agreement before things get messier?
My phone buzzes with a text. For a wild moment I think it might be Mateo, but it's just Becker.
Becker : Wall says you're coming to optional skate tomorrow. Please confirm so I can plan my mockery accordingly.
I stare at the screen, reality slowly reasserting itself. Right. Hockey. My actual job. The reason for this whole fake boyfriend scheme in the first place.
I type back a quick confirmation, then toss the phone aside, sighing.
Whatever just happened with Mateo, I'll have to figure it out later. For now, I've got a sponsorship deal on the line, a team counting on me, and a practice to prepare for. My complicated feelings for my fake boyfriend will have to wait.
But as I head to the shower—a cold one, obviously—I can't stop replaying those moments on the couch, the feel of Mateo's lips against mine, the surprising strength in his hands, the way he took control.
Well, fuck. This is going to be a problem.