CHAPTER 13
GROOVER
"NO."
I stare at the three-ring binder thrust in my face, complete with a professionally printed cover page reading "Operation Boyfriend Education: Making Mateo a Hockey Expert." There's even clip art of a hockey stick and a mortarboard. "What the actual fuck, Becker?"
Becker clutches the binder to his chest like I've insulted his firstborn child. "Do you have any idea how much time Wall and I spent on this? We stayed up until 2 AM making flowcharts of playoff scenarios!"
We're standing in the private terminal of Chicago O'Hare, waiting for the team charter to New York. Most of the guys are already settled in the waiting area, some napping, others buried in headphones or playing cards. Mateo is due to arrive any minute, and apparently, my teammates have prepared... whatever this monstrosity is.
"Flowcharts," I repeat flatly. For my fake boyfriend who's barely speaking to me after our practice kissing session turned into softcore porn .
Okay, I didn't actually say that last part out loud, but the sentiment stands.
"Think of it as a peace offering," Wall suggests, appearing beside Becker with his own copy of the binder. "Something to break the ice, since you two have been weird lately."
"We haven't been weird," I protest automatically.
Both of them give me identical looks of disbelief.
"Dude," Becker says, "he sat three seats away from you at film review yesterday and jumped like a startled cat when you passed him a water bottle."
"And you've been staring at him like a sad puppy whenever he's not looking," Wall adds helpfully.
"I do not—" I start to argue, but I'm cut off by Captain Washington's approach.
"Mateo's car just pulled up," he says. "Whatever you three are plotting, wrap it up."
"We're not plotting," I grumble. "These idiots made Mateo a 'Hockey Boyfriend' binder like we're in middle school."
Washington peers at the binder in Becker's hands. "Is that a statistical breakdown of our penalty kill effectiveness by opponent?"
"With color-coding," Becker confirms proudly.
Washington nods approvingly. "Good work. Any mention of my turnover percentage?"
"Page 27," Wall says. "We were diplomatic."
I throw up my hands in defeat. "You're all insane. He's going to think the entire team has lost their minds."
"Too late for that," Washington says mildly. "Here he comes."
I turn to see Mateo entering the terminal, looking sleep-rumpled and nervous in jeans and a hoodie, a weekend bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is doing that thing where it falls across his forehead because he hasn't had time to style it properly, and despite everything, my stupid heart does a stupid little flip.
Fuck. I'm in deeper than I thought.
"Hi," he says, approaching our group with visible caution. "Sorry if I'm late."
"Right on time," Washington assures him. "We're boarding in five."
"Mateo!" Becker says with all the subtlety of an air horn. "We made you something!"
Mateo blinks as the binder is thrust into his hands. "Um, thank you? What is—"
"Operation Boyfriend Education," Wall explains. "Everything you need to know about hockey, the team, and the playoff race."
Mateo opens the binder, eyes widening as he flips through pages of stats, diagrams, and what appears to be unauthorized childhood photos of me. "This is... comprehensive."
"We stayed up late making it," Becker says proudly. "Now you won't have to pretend to understand what's happening on the ice."
I wait for Mateo to laugh it off or make a joke, but instead, something soft passes over his face. "That's actually really thoughtful. Thank you."
And just like that, Becker and Wall are preening like they've won the Stanley Cup, each trying to point out their favorite sections of the binder. I watch, slightly stunned, as Mateo listens to their explanations with genuine interest, his initial nervousness fading.
"Boarding now," the flight attendant calls, and the team begins gathering their carry-ons.
Mateo closes the binder and glances at me, a hint of uncertainty returning. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," I say, attempting normalcy. "Sleep okay?"
"Not really." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "You?"
"Like garbage. Ready for a thrilling flight watching Ace throw up because he's afraid of flying?"
That gets a small smile. "Is that why he looks so green?"
"Yep. Two-hundred-pound professional athlete, terrified of commercial air travel. We're not allowed to mention it, but feel free to enjoy the show."
The smile widens slightly, and for a moment it feels like us again, before The Kiss That Shall Not Be Named. Then Washington calls for us to board, and the moment passes.
The flight itself is mercifully uneventful, except for Ace's white-knuckled grip on the armrests during takeoff. Mateo sits beside me, but we don't talk much—him buried in the Hockey Boyfriend binder, me pretending to nap while actually hyper-aware of every time his elbow brushes mine.
By the time we land, I've rehearsed about fifteen different versions of "so about that kiss" conversations in my head, all of them terrible.
The real challenge comes when we check into the hotel. Usually on road trips, players room together by assigned pairs, but the "significant others" get to stay with their players. Which means Mateo and I are sharing a room. A room with two queen beds and a whole lot of unresolved tension.
"This is nice," Mateo says as we enter our room, both of us carefully circling each other like wary animals. "Better than my dorm freshman year."
"One of the perks of professional sports," I agree, setting my bag on the bed farthest from the window. "Mediocre hotels in exciting cities we barely see."
Mateo claims the other bed, carefully placing the Hockey Boyfriend binder on the nightstand. "So what's the schedule?"
"Team dinner in an hour, then free time. Practice tomorrow morning, game tomorrow night."
He nods, and we lapse into silence, the elephant in the room doing jumping jacks between us.
"Mateo—" I start, just as he says, "Groover—"
We both stop, then share a small laugh that breaks a fraction of the tension.
"You first," I offer.
He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry for avoiding you after... you know."
"It's okay."
"It's not," he insists. "It was immature and probably made you feel like you did something wrong, which you didn't."
"I appreciate that." I sit on the edge of my bed, facing him. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have let things go so far."
"It wasn't just you," he says quietly. "I was pretty enthusiastically participating."
The memory of him taking control, pushing me back against the couch cushions, flashes vividly in my mind. Yeah, "enthusiastic" is one word for it.
"Still," I say, "I know this is just a job for you. I shouldn't have complicated things."
Something flickers across his face that I can't quite read. "Right. The job."
More awkward silence. This is going great.
"Anyway," I say, standing up, "we should probably head down soon. The team gets cranky when they're hungry."
"Sure. I just need to freshen up a bit." He grabs his toiletry bag and retreats to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which are primarily variations on: You're so fucked, Williams.
Dinner is in a private room at an upscale steakhouse near the hotel. The team is rowdy as usual, riding the high of a good flight and the anticipation of tomorrow's game. Mateo is seated beside me, putting on a good show of being the attentive boyfriend despite our earlier awkwardness.
"So, Mateo," Leila asks from across the table, "how are you enjoying your first road trip with the team?"
"It's interesting," Mateo says diplomatically. "Everyone's been very welcoming."
"Especially Groover, I bet," Becker waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I briefly contemplate whether I could get away with stabbing him with my salad fork.
"Actually," Mateo says smoothly, "Groover's been a perfect gentleman. Unlike some people at this table."
There's a chorus of "Ooooohs" as the team reacts to Becker getting burned. Ace slaps him on the back consolingly.
"You walked into that one, man."
Becker clutches his chest in mock pain. "Wound me deeper, why don't you?"
The conversation shifts to tomorrow's game, predictions and strategies flying across the table. I'm surprised when Mateo joins in, asking Petrov about his thoughts on the opposing team's defense.
"You've been studying," I observe quietly as the others debate a controversial call from last season.
Mateo shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. "The binder is actually pretty helpful. And I've been watching game footage."
"Game footage? Voluntarily?" I'm genuinely surprised. "You hate sports."
"I don't hate sports," he corrects. "I just don't usually find them anthropologically interesting. But this is different."
"How so?"
He considers for a moment. "It's like being dropped into a foreign culture with its own language, customs, and social hierarchies. The anthropologist in me can't help but be fascinated."
"So we're your research subjects now?" I tease.
"Maybe." He smiles, and for the first time since The Incident , it reaches his eyes. "Or maybe I just want to understand your world better."
The simple statement hits me harder than it should. Before I can respond, Washington stands and taps his glass for attention.
"Early night, everyone. Bus leaves for practice at eight sharp tomorrow."
As dinner breaks up, Becker approaches with a suspiciously innocent expression. "A bunch of us are watching the league highlights in the lobby if you two want to join. They're doing a special on the playoff race."
Mateo looks at me questioningly. "Up to you," I say. "I'm used to Becker's schemes by now."
"It'll be educational," Mateo decides. "Lead the way."
The hotel lobby has a comfortable seating area with a large TV, currently showing sports highlights. About half the team is already sprawled across the couches, arguing over whether baseball or golf is more boring to watch.
"Move over," Becker commands, shoving Wall's legs off a couch to make room for us. "The lovebirds need seats."
Mateo takes the teasing in stride, settling beside me on the couch. Our thighs press together in the limited space, and I try very hard to act like this isn't affecting me at all.
The sports channel cuts to a hockey segment, the announcer's voice rising with excitement: "As we enter the final stretch of the regular season, the playoff picture is starting to take shape. Let's look at where things stand in the Central Division."
Graphics appear showing team standings. The Wolves are currently in the second wild card position—not comfortable, but not dire either.
"The Chicago Wolves have been showing real momentum lately," the announcer continues. "If they maintain this pace through the final stretch, they should secure their playoff berth. But with only fifteen games left in the regular season, every point counts."
More graphics display the remaining schedule, highlighting key matchups. The announcer emphasizes that the real pressure starts in April when the playoffs begin.
I feel Mateo stiffen beside me. "April," he repeats quietly, almost to himself.
It takes me a second to realize why that date matters. April. Playoffs. The end of our three-month contract. The timeline when Kingsport will make their final sponsorship decision.
"Yeah," I confirm, keeping my voice low. "Regular season ends early April, then playoffs if we make it."
He nods, eyes still fixed on the screen but looking far away. "Right. That makes sense."
The mood between us shifts again, the reminder of our arrangement's temporary nature hanging in the air like a bad smell.
Becker, oblivious to the tension or perhaps intentionally breaking it, bounces up from his spot across from us. "Time for couples trivia!"
"What?" I blink at him. "No, absolutely not."
"Too late!" Becker produces a stack of index cards with a flourish. "I've prepared questions for all our lovely couples to test how well they know each other."
Wall groans. "I thought we were here to watch highlights."
"This is a highlight," Becker insists. "Of my creativity and your patience."
Washington sighs from his armchair. "Let him get it out of his system or he'll be unbearable all night."
And so begins an excruciating round of couples trivia, with Becker asking increasingly personal questions that reveal exactly how little Mateo and I actually know about each other. What's my favorite color? No idea. What's his dream vacation destination? Complete mystery. Favorite food? Childhood pet's name? Most embarrassing moment?
Leila and Washington are crushing the competition, as expected from a couple married for eight years. Devon and Ace are holding their own, though they bicker over every answer. Mateo and I are floundering spectacularly.
"Favorite book?" Becker asks me.
"Um." I search Mateo's face for a clue. "Something academic? With a really long title?"
"The Social Construction of Reality by Berger and Luckmann," Mateo supplies, looking amused. "Close enough."
Becker turns to Mateo. "Groover's pregame ritual?"
This one he actually knows. "Peanut butter toast for breakfast, gear arranged in exact same pattern, right skate always before left skate, and he touches the logo on his jersey last before heading out."
"Correct!" Becker seems genuinely impressed. "Someone's been paying attention."
I stare at Mateo. "How did you know all that?"
"Page 42 of the binder," he admits. "There's a whole section on player superstitions."
Despite our overall poor showing, Mateo plays his part perfectly—looking appropriately disappointed when we get answers wrong, celebrating the few we get right, leaning into me with comfortable familiarity. To anyone watching, we're just another couple who's still learning each other's quirks.
Only I can feel the slight tension in his shoulders, see the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when Becker makes jokes about "the honeymoon phase."
Eventually, Washington calls an end to the torture, citing the need for sleep before practice. The group disperses, and Mateo and I walk back to our room in comfortable silence.
Once inside, the awkwardness returns in full force. We take turns in the bathroom, going through our nighttime routines with careful politeness, like strangers sharing a train compartment.
I climb into my bed and switch off the lamp on my side, plunging the room into darkness except for Mateo's reading light. "Goodnight," I offer.
"Night," he responds, still sitting up against his headboard, the Hockey Boyfriend binder open in his lap.
I roll onto my side, facing away from him, and try to quiet my mind enough to sleep. It's not working. I'm too aware of his presence across the room, of all the words unsaid between us.
An hour passes. I hear Mateo's light click off, the rustle of sheets as he settles in his bed. But the pattern of his breathing tells me he's as awake as I am.
"Groover?" His voice is soft in the darkness. "You awake?"
I roll over to face his direction, though I can only make out his silhouette. "Yeah."
"Can I ask you something? Something personal?"
I prop myself up on one elbow. "Sure."
Silence stretches for a moment, then: "What was it like? Coming out?"
The question catches me off guard. It's not what I expected him to ask.
"It was... complicated," I answer honestly. "Scary. Liberating. Sometimes both in the same minute."
"Were you always sure? About being gay?"
I think about it. "Not always. I dated girls in high school, convinced myself I was just 'focusing on hockey' when it didn't feel right. But I think I always knew, deep down."
"When did you decide to come out publicly?" His voice is careful, measured, like he's conducting an interview rather than having a middle-of-the-night conversation.
"After my second year in the league. I'd already told my family and close friends during my rookie season, but going public was different." I pause, remembering. "I'd established myself enough that I hoped they couldn't just brush me aside, but not so much that I couldn't rebuild if it all went south."
"Were you scared?"
"Terrified," I admit. "Professional sports isn't exactly known for being progressive, especially hockey. I knew I'd be the first active NHL player to come out. There was no roadmap."
"But you did it anyway."
"Yeah." I shift to get more comfortable. "I got tired of hiding, of calculating every word, every action. It was exhausting."
The sheets rustle as Mateo turns toward me. "How did people react?"
"Mixed bag. My teammates were mostly great—awkward at first, but supportive. Management was concerned about 'distractions' but eventually came around. Fans were split—got some hate mail, but also a lot of support, especially from LGBTQ+ hockey fans who finally saw someone like them in the game."
"And your family?"
"My sister was just annoyed I waited so long to tell her. Dad needed time to adjust his vision of my future, but he came around. Mom cried, then immediately started sending me articles about gay marriage laws and adoption options."
Mateo laughs softly. "That's sweet."
"It's mortifying," I correct, but I'm smiling in the dark. "But yeah, I got lucky with my family."
Silence falls again, comfortable this time. I can almost hear Mateo thinking.
"Can I ask why you're asking?" I venture. "Is this for anthropological research, or...?"
"No," he says quickly. "I just... I've been thinking a lot. About labels and stuff."
My heart kicks against my ribs. "Because of what happened? Between us?"
"Partly." His voice is barely audible now. "I never questioned this part of myself before. It's... destabilizing."
I want to reach across the space between our beds, offer some physical comfort, but I'm not sure it would be welcome. "Identity stuff is complicated," I say instead. "You don't have to figure it all out at once."
"That's what Carlos said too."
"Smart guy, your roommate."
"Don't tell him that. His ego is big enough already."
We both laugh softly, and something in the air between us eases. The tense awkwardness that's been following us since The Incident dissipates, replaced by something gentler, more understanding.
"Groover?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For talking about this. For not making it weird."
"Anytime," I say, meaning it. "And Mateo? Whatever you figure out about yourself—it's all good. Really."
He exhales, a long, slow breath like he's releasing something heavy. "Goodnight, Groover."
"Goodnight, Mateo."
As I drift toward sleep, I realize something has shifted between us. Not back to what we were before—we can't un-kiss, can't un-feel what happened on my couch—but forward into something new. Something that feels a lot like trust.
And for tonight, that's enough.