CHAPTER 14
GROOVER
IN PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY, winning on the road is sweet. Winning on the road when your maybe-not-so-fake boyfriend is watching? Practically orgasmic.
Last night's third-period comeback against New York had the whole team buzzing. Two goals in the final five minutes (one of them mine, thank you very much) sent us back to the hotel riding high on adrenaline and victory beers. Now we've got a blessed day off before heading to Boston for the next game, and I've got plans.
"You want me to what?" Mateo stares at me over the room service breakfast I ordered for us, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.
"Skate," I repeat, helping myself to another piece of bacon. "The practice rink is empty today. I checked with management, and we can use it this afternoon."
"Let me get this straight," he says slowly. "You want to put me, a person with the natural grace of a newborn giraffe, on a slippery surface with knives strapped to my feet?"
I grin around my bacon. "That's the general idea, yes."
"Have you forgotten the puck incident? I got hit standing safely behind plexiglass. Imagine the damage I could do to myself with actual ice involved."
"I'll be there to catch you," I promise. "Besides, it's practically a crime that you've been dating a hockey player for two months and never been on the ice."
His expression shifts slightly at the word "dating," a quick flicker I might have missed if I wasn't watching for it. Since our middle-of-the-night talk, things have been easier between us—not quite back to normal, but less strained. We've achieved a fragile détente where we acknowledge something happened but don't directly address it.
It's cowardly, probably. But it's working for now.
"Fine," Mateo sighs dramatically. "But when I break something important, you're explaining to Dr. Winters why I can't finish my ethnographic analysis of urban foraging practices."
"Deal." I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. "I'll even throw in a signed jersey for her. She seems like the type who'd appreciate that."
"Throw in a signed jersey for me with padding sewn in, and we've got a deal."
Two hours later, we're entering the practice facility through a side door, the security guard nodding at me with recognition. The place is eerily quiet—no coaches shouting, no pucks slapping against boards, no players chirping each other. Just the low hum of the refrigeration system keeping the ice pristine.
"It's bigger than it looks from up there," Mateo observes, gazing around the empty rink. "And colder."
"Wait until you're on the ice," I warn him. "That's when it really gets cold."
I lead him to the equipment room where I've already arranged for skates in his size and some basic protective gear. The team PR department has apparently decided this outing is photo-worthy, because there's also a bundle of Wolves merch waiting for us.
"This is for you," I say, holding up a blue practice jersey. When Mateo turns it around, he bursts out laughing.
Instead of a player name on the back, someone has printed "GROOVER'S BF" above the number 69. Real subtle.
"This is... subtle," he echoes my thoughts, still laughing. "Who ordered these? Becker?"
"My money's on Sophia," I say. "She's got a twisted sense of humor beneath that professional exterior."
Mateo slips the jersey over his head, and something warm blooms in my chest at the sight of him in my team's colors, the words "GROOVER'S BF" stretching across his shoulders. It's silly and promotional and probably meant to generate social media buzz, but part of me—the part I try to keep firmly in check—really likes seeing him marked as mine, even in this jokey way.
"How do I look?" Mateo spreads his arms, doing a little turn that's more adorable than it has any right to be.
"Like you're about to fall on your ass repeatedly," I say instead of perfect or like someone I'd very much like to kiss again .
Helping Mateo into his skates is an exercise in patience and inappropriate thoughts. He sits on the bench while I kneel in front of him, showing him how to lace them properly.
"Too tight and you'll cut off circulation," I explain, fingers working efficiently. "Too loose and you won't have enough ankle support."
"There's ankle support in these medieval torture devices?" he asks dubiously.
"Trust me," I say, looking up to find his face closer than expected. "I've been doing this since I was three."
Our eyes lock for a moment, and there it is again—that charge in the air between us that we're both pretending doesn't exist. I clear my throat and finish with his laces, then stand to create some much-needed distance.
"Ready?" I ask, already in my own skates. I've kept it simple—practice pants, a light long-sleeve shirt, and gloves. No need for full gear when we're just messing around.
"As I'll ever be," Mateo says, standing cautiously. He immediately wobbles, arms pinwheeling. "Oh god, I'm going to die."
I laugh and take his elbow, steadying him. "You haven't even hit the ice yet."
Getting Mateo from the bench to the ice is a journey worthy of a documentary film. Each step is a negotiation with gravity, his hand clutching my arm with increasing desperation. When we finally reach the rink entrance, he stops and stares at the gleaming surface like it's a pool of lava.
"Second thoughts?" I ask.
"About seventeen of them," he confirms. "Along with several regrets and one last will and testament. I leave all my textbooks to Carlos, except for Theories of Modern Anthropology, which should be burned because Professor Jenkins is full of shit."
"Noted. Now step onto the ice. I've got you."
The moment Mateo's blades touch the ice, his knees lock and his entire body goes rigid. His fingernails dig into my forearm through my sleeve.
"I've made a terrible mistake," he whispers, not moving a muscle.
"Relax," I tell him, gently prying his death grip from my arm to hold his hand properly. "Bend your knees slightly. That's it. Now keep your weight centered."
His face is a mask of concentration, brows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It's ridiculously endearing.
"Good," I encourage as he manages to stand without toppling over. "Now we're going to try moving. Just a little push with your right foot, like you're scooting a penny across the floor."
He attempts the motion and promptly pitches forward. I catch him before he face-plants, my arms wrapping around his waist from behind.
"Whoa there," I say, my chest pressed against his back as I stabilize him. "Not quite that aggressive."
"This is impossible," he groans, but allows me to keep him upright. "How do small children do this?"
"Lower center of gravity. Less fear. More cartilage for the inevitable falls." I adjust my hold on him so that I'm supporting him from behind, my hands on his hips. "Try again, smaller push."
He makes another attempt, and we glide forward a few inches. "I did it!" he exclaims, then immediately wobbles again.
For the next half hour, I guide Mateo around the rink like this—my front to his back, hands steady on his hips, occasionally sliding up to his waist when he needs more support. It's both torture and delight, having him in my arms like this, all lean muscle and warmth despite the cold air around us.
Each small success is celebrated with enthusiasm disproportionate to the achievement. Each fall (and there are many) is met with laughter once I assure myself he's not actually hurt.
"I'm going to be one giant bruise tomorrow," Mateo predicts after his fifth tumble onto the ice. He's sitting where he fell, looking up at me with snowflakes of shaved ice clinging to the "GROOVER'S BF" lettering.
"Badge of honor," I say, extending a hand to help him up. "Every hockey player has intimate knowledge of ice temperature against their ass."
"Truly a detail I could have lived without experiencing firsthand," he grumbles, but his eyes are bright with humor.
Just as I pull him to his feet, the practice buzzer goes off—a sound designed to cut through chaos, loud enough to be heard over the noise of twenty men skating and shouting.
Mateo jumps like he's been electrocuted, his feet sliding out from under him as he grabs onto me in panic. We both go down in a tangle of limbs, me landing on my back with him sprawled on top of me, face pressed into my neck.
"What the fuck was that?" he gasps against my skin.
"Practice buzzer," I manage, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. "Sorry, I forgot to warn you. They're on an automatic timer."
He lifts his head to look at me, his face inches from mine. "A little warning would have been nice!"
"I'll add it to the Hockey Boyfriend Binder," I promise. "Section four: Unexpected Loud Noises and Where to Find Them."
He laughs, the movement vibrating through both our bodies, and suddenly the situation shifts from funny to something else entirely. His smile fades as awareness dawns. I can see the exact moment he realizes our position—his thighs bracketing mine, our chests pressed together, faces close enough to share breath.
Neither of us moves. His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, but long enough that I know I didn't imagine it. My hands, which somehow found their way to his hips during our fall, tighten instinctively.
The buzzer sounds again, and Mateo flinches so hard he practically levitates off me.
"Jesus Christ," he swears, rolling onto the ice beside me. "I'm going to have PTSD from that sound."
"Pavlov's hockey player," I joke, trying to lighten the tension as we both sit up. "By the end of the day, you'll be salivating every time the buzzer rings."
"I think you mean having a heart attack," he corrects, but he's smiling again.
I climb to my feet first, then help him up. "Ready to try on your own? No safety net?"
He eyes me skeptically. "You'll still catch me if I fall?"
"Always," I say, and it comes out more sincere than I intended.
I position him in the center of the ice, then skate backward a few feet, still close enough to grab him if needed.
"Remember what I showed you," I encourage. "Small pushes, weight centered, knees relaxed."
Mateo takes a deep breath, then pushes off as instructed. He glides forward a foot, then another. His arms are outstretched for balance, his face a portrait of concentration. He makes it three more feet before starting to wobble.
I dart forward and catch him before he falls, my hands finding his waist from behind.
"You did it!" I say, genuinely proud. "That was at least five feet on your own."
His face lights up with triumph. "Did you see that? I was like Wayne... what's his name?"
"Gretzky," I supply. "And yes, practically identical. He also had a habit of yelping ' please don't let me die ' while scoring goals."
"Shut up," he laughs, turning in my arms to face me. "Let me have this moment."
And then he's hugging me, arms wrapped around my neck, face buried in my shoulder. It's spontaneous and joyful, and I return the embrace without thinking, lifting him slightly off the ice in my enthusiasm.
The hug lasts longer than it should. What starts as celebration morphs into something quieter, more intimate. His body is warm against mine despite the cold air. I can feel his heartbeat, his breath against my neck. My eyes close, just for a moment, as I allow myself to enjoy the feel of him in my arms.
When we finally separate, neither of us speaks immediately. There's a new awareness between us, a tension that's been building since that first kiss but feels more urgent now.
"Groover," Mateo starts, then stops, seeming unsure what to say.
The moment is shattered by a sound from above—the press box door closing. We both look up to see a figure walking along the upper level.
"Is that...?" Mateo begins, squinting.
"Jason Miles," I confirm, recognizing the reporter instantly. "Looks like we have an audience."
"That guy is everywhere," Mateo says, shaking his head. "Does he live at the rink?"
"Sometimes I wonder," I mutter, irritation flaring. "Some of these guys are looking for any scandal they can find. One picture out of context can fuel a week's worth of clickbait."
The carefree mood of our skating lesson has evaporated. Mateo's body language has shifted, becoming more guarded.
"Should we go?" he asks quietly.
I consider it, but shake my head. "No. We're not doing anything wrong." I pause, then add with forced lightness, "Besides, this is probably great for our image. Devoted boyfriend learning to skate, supportive hockey player teaching him."
Mateo's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Right."
I hate the reminder of why we're really here, of the contractual nature of our relationship. But it's a reality we can't escape, especially with Jason Miles watching from above, no doubt looking for cracks in our story.
"Come on," I say, trying to salvage the afternoon. "Let's see if you can make it from here to the blue line. I'll buy you dinner anywhere you want if you make it without falling."
Mateo's competitive streak flares to life, as I knew it would. "Anywhere? Even that fancy sushi place Wall was talking about?"
"Even there," I confirm. "Though my wallet is already crying at the possibility."
He squares his shoulders, determination replacing the momentary awkwardness. "You're on, Williams."
I skate a few feet away, positioning myself near the blue line with arms outstretched, ready to catch him. "Your goal is right here. Think you can make it?"
"Prepare to buy me so much sushi," he says with exaggerated confidence that doesn't quite mask his nervousness.
He pushes off, wobbling immediately but correcting himself. Another push, stronger this time, sends him gliding toward me. His form is terrible, his balance precarious, but he's moving steadily in my direction.
Three feet from the blue line, his left skate catches on a rough patch of ice. He lurches forward, arms pinwheeling, a look of comical panic crossing his face.
I skate forward and catch him, our bodies colliding with enough force to knock us both backward. My ass hits the ice first, then my back, with Mateo landing on top of me for the second time today.
"Déjà vu," I manage, slightly winded.
"Did I make it?" he asks, lifting his head to look around. His body is still sprawled across mine, our legs tangled together.
I glance over at the blue line, which is about a foot away from where we landed. "Not quite."
"Damn it," he sighs dramatically. "I was so close to fancy sushi."
"Tell you what," I say, "I'll buy you dinner anyway. That was a valiant effort."
He props himself up on my chest, looking down at me with those bright hazel eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I confirm, hyper-aware of his weight on me, of how easy it would be to lift my head those few inches and kiss him again. "You earned it."
For a moment, I think he might be considering the same thing. His eyes drop to my mouth again, lingering this time. I feel his breath hitch, the subtle shift of his body against mine.
The damn buzzer blares again, shattering the moment like a puck through glass. Mateo jumps, as expected, and rolls off me with a groan.
"I swear that thing is sentient and malicious," he complains, lying flat on his back beside me.
I laugh, turning my head to look at him. "You should hear it from here during an actual game. Multiply that by about a thousand screaming fans."
"Hard pass," he says, making a face. "I'll stick to the soundproofed comfort of the VIP box, thank you very much."
As I help him to his feet again, I glance up at the press box. Jason Miles is still there, watching us with undisguised interest. I can practically see the gears turning in his reporter brain, looking for angles, searching for a story.
Let him look, I decide, putting an arm around Mateo's shoulders as we skate slowly toward the exit. If he wants a show, we'll give him one—the perfect hockey couple enjoying a day off together. It's what we're being paid for, after all.
But as Mateo leans into me, laughing about something ridiculous Becker said at breakfast, I have to remind myself that this is still just pretend. The touches, the laughter, the moments of tension—they're all part of an elaborate performance.
Aren't they?
I'm not so sure anymore. And judging by the way Mateo's hand lingers on my arm as I help him off the ice, I don't think he is either.
Thin ice, indeed.