CHAPTER 16
MATEO
THERE ARE THREE certainties in life: death, taxes, and the crippling anxiety that comes with academic presentations.
I'm currently experiencing the third with the intensity of someone facing the first. It's 7:56 AM on Thursday morning, and I'm pacing outside Room 305 of the Humanities building, muttering key points about "spatial semiotics in community gardens" under my breath like a man reciting emergency exorcism rites.
"Urban spaces become texts through which communities articulate resistance narratives..." I mumble, adjusting my collar for the seventeenth time. "The reclamation of abandoned lots represents a physical manifestation of subaltern discourse..."
I sound like I swallowed a textbook and it's trying to escape through word vomit. Dr. Winters is going to see right through me. My classmates are going to laugh. I'm going to forget everything the moment I open my mouth and just stand there making dolphin noises for twenty minutes.
And Groover isn't here.
Not that I expected him to be. Who voluntarily shows up for an 8 AM presentation about anthropological theory? He was probably just being nice when he offered. Or maybe he realized how boring it would be and decided sleep was the better option. I don't blame him. If I had a choice, I'd be in bed too, preferably under the covers in a blanket cocoon of denial.
"Mr. Rossi," Dr. Winters calls from the doorway, peering at me over her wire-rimmed glasses. "We're ready for you."
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
I nod, plaster on a smile as artificial as the sweetener in the vending machine coffee I just chugged, and follow her into the classroom. It's a small seminar room, maybe twenty-five seats arranged in a horseshoe around a central presentation area. Most of my classmates are already there, in various states of consciousness. Aisha, my sometimes-study partner, gives me an encouraging thumbs up from her front row seat.
I set up my laptop with shaking hands, connecting it to the projector. As I pull up my presentation, I scan the room one more time, a final hopeful sweep for a certain broad-shouldered hockey player.
No Groover.
Of course. It's fine. Totally fine. I'm not disappointed at all.
I take a deep breath and face the class. "Good morning. Today I'll be presenting my research on spatial semiotics and community resistance through urban gardening initiatives in Chicago's South Side."
Just as I'm about to launch into my introduction, the door at the back of the room opens quietly. Every head turns to see Ansel Williams—professional hockey player, six-foot-two of morning sunshine in human form—attempting to sneak in like he isn't the most conspicuous person on campus.
"Sorry I'm late," he whispers (though in the silent classroom, he might as well have shouted). "Traffic."
Dr. Winters blinks rapidly behind her glasses, clearly recognizing him despite the fact that he's dressed down in jeans and a simple gray henley that does criminal things for his shoulders. "That's... quite alright. Please, take a seat."
Groover slides into an empty chair in the back row, giving me a small wave and a smile that's somehow both apologetic and encouraging. My heart does an Olympic-level gymnastics routine in my chest.
He came. He actually came.
"Mr. Rossi?" Dr. Winters prompts. "Your presentation?"
Right. The presentation. The reason we're all here at this ungodly hour. I drag my gaze away from Groover and back to my slides.
"As I was saying..." I restart, voice steadier now. "Urban spaces function as texts through which marginalized communities articulate resistance to dominant power structures..."
Once I get going, the nerves fade to background static. I fall into the rhythm of my research, explaining how community gardens in underserved neighborhoods represent both practical food sovereignty and symbolic reclamation of space. I gesture to maps and photographs, quote theorists, and even manage a joke about Foucault that gets a genuine laugh from three people (a record for anthropology humor).
Throughout the presentation, I find my eyes repeatedly drifting to Groover. Each time, he's watching me with complete attention, nodding at key points like what I'm saying is actually fascinating rather than academic jargon. Once, when I stumble over a complicated theoretical framework, he gives me a subtle thumbs up that somehow steadies me instantly.
By the time I reach my conclusion, I'm actually enjoying myself. "...and so, through these seemingly simple acts of cultivation, communities transform neglected spaces into sites of resistance, identity formation, and cultural sustainability. Thank you."
The applause is polite but genuine. Dr. Winters steps forward, adjusting her glasses with that particular movement that signals she's about to deliver a critical assessment. I brace myself.
"Mr. Rossi," she begins, "your thesis defense demonstrates significant potential, but you need stronger offensive strategies to capitalize on your theoretical framework."
I blink, thrown by the unusual phrasing.
"Your methodology section was solid, a real power play of qualitative analysis," she continues, warming to her theme. "But your literature review was caught in the neutral zone, neither advancing the argument nor providing defensive depth."
Is she... is she using hockey metaphors?
"In your final paper, I expect you to take more shots on goal with your original analysis. Don't just pass the puck around established theorists." She gestures emphatically. "And your conclusion needs to avoid the penalty box of oversimplification."
From the back of the room, I hear a distinctive cough that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter. I don't dare look at Groover, afraid I'll lose my composure entirely.
"Overall," Dr. Winters concludes, "a B-plus effort with playoff potential. Questions from the class?"
Several hands go up, and I field questions about methodology and theoretical frameworks. Throughout the Q&A, Dr. Winters continues her sports commentary, telling one student his question was "skating on thin intellectual ice" and praising another for "going top shelf with that theoretical contradiction."
When the session finally ends, Dr. Winters dismisses the class but makes a beeline for the back row where Groover is gathering his things.
"Mr. Williams," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Eleanor Winters. I must say, it's not often we have professional athletes attend our humble anthropology seminars."
Groover shakes her hand, all charm and politeness. "Please call me Ansel. Or Groover, most people do. It's fascinating stuff. Mateo's been teaching me about anthropology."
"Has he now?" Dr. Winters looks practically giddy, a complete departure from her usual stern academic demeanor. "Well, I've been following your career with interest. That hat trick against Boston last season was particularly impressive."
I stand frozen by the projector, watching my sixty-year-old professor, who once spent a forty-five minute lecture railing against the commercialization of education, chatting animatedly with Groover about zone defense strategies.
"Dr. Winters," I interrupt, desperate to extract Groover before she invites him to guest lecture. "I need to disconnect my laptop..."
"Oh, of course, of course." She turns back to Groover. "Perhaps you'd consider speaking to my Sports and Society seminar sometime? The cultural dynamics of professional athletics would make a fascinating case study."
"I'd be happy to," Groover agrees, because apparently he's physically incapable of saying no to academic requests. "Just have Mateo coordinate with my schedule."
Aisha appears at my side as I pack up, her eyes fixed on Groover with undisguised interest. "So that's the boyfriend," she says in a stage whisper that's probably audible in the next building. "You've been holding out on us, Mateo. The Instagram pictures don't do him justice."
"He's just here for support," I mumble, suddenly self-conscious.
"Support, right." Aisha smirks. "The kind of support that involves biceps like that? Sign me up."
I feel an unexpected flash of heat in my chest—not embarrassment, but something sharper, more territorial. The realization hits me with the subtlety of a freight train: I'm jealous. Actually, possessively jealous.
When did that happen? When did I start thinking of Groover as mine in any capacity beyond our contractual arrangement?
"We're going for lunch to celebrate if you want to join," I offer, because I'm a glutton for punishment apparently.
"Lunch with you and the hot hockey player?" Aisha's eyes gleam. "Absolutely. Let me just grab my things."
By the time we extract Groover from Dr. Winters' clutches (she's somehow gotten him to agree to sign a jersey for her grandson), half the class has lingered, pretending to pack up while obviously eavesdropping. Groover handles it with practiced ease, being friendly but not encouraging, until we're finally able to escape the Humanities building.
"Sorry about that," I say as we walk toward the campus café I'd picked for lunch. "I didn't expect Dr. Winters to go full fangirl."
"Are you kidding? That was amazing." Groover laughs. “'Skating on thin intellectual ice' is my new favorite phrase."
"Your presentation was really good," Aisha chimes in, walking a little too close to Groover for my comfort. "I especially liked your application of Lefebvre's spatial triad to community gardens."
"Thanks," I say, fighting the urge to step between them. "It's still a work in progress."
"He's being modest," Groover tells Aisha. "He's been working on this research for months. Sometimes I find him taking pictures of abandoned lots at weird hours. Once I had to talk him out of climbing a fence to examine a community garden that was closed for the night."
The fact that Groover knows this about me—that he's paid enough attention to remember these details—makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
At the café, we snag a corner table. Groover insists on paying, brushing off my protests with a casual "You can get the next one" that makes my heart stutter because it implies there will be a next one.
"So how did you two meet?" Aisha asks once we've ordered, leaning forward with undisguised curiosity. "Mateo's been impressively tight-lipped about the whole thing."
Groover glances at me, a silent question in his eyes. We have a rehearsed story—the "mutual friends" narrative we agreed on that first night in the hotel room. It's simple, plausible, and most importantly, forgettable enough that we won't get tripped up on details.
But suddenly, I don't want to tell that story. It feels thin, inadequate for the complex reality of what's developed between us.
"We met through a mutual friend," I begin, sticking to the script. "Carlos's cousin Sophia works for the team, and she thought we might hit it off."
"That's the official version," Groover adds, playing along.
"But really," I continue, veering off-script, "we first talked at this charity event. I was there helping Carlos, who was photographing it for his portfolio." This is completely made up, but I can't seem to stop myself. "Groover was by the bar, looking absolutely miserable in his suit."
Groover's eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't contradict me.
"I was definitely not miserable," he protests with a smile that says he's willing to follow my lead. "Uncomfortable, maybe. Those events always feel so artificial."
"Exactly," I nod, warming to my fabrication. "So I went over and asked if he was having as terrible a time as he looked. Which, in retrospect, wasn't the smoothest opening line."
"It worked though," Groover says, his eyes never leaving mine. "Most people at those events are busy kissing up or pretending everything's amazing. Mateo just cut through the bullshit."
My heart is racing now. This imaginary meet-cute feels more real with every word, like we're creating a past we both wish we had.
"We ended up talking for almost an hour," I continue, embellishing freely. "About everything except hockey, which I think was a relief for him. I didn't even know who he was at first."
"He thought I was a waiter," Groover adds, improvising now too, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"I did not!" I laugh, genuinely delighted by his addition. "Especially everyone kept interrupting our conversation to take pictures with you."
"When he finally figured it out, he wasn't impressed at all," Groover tells Aisha. "Just asked if being famous meant I got free drinks, and if so, could he have one."
Aisha laughs, looking between us. "That does sound like Mateo."
"Anyway," I continue, "we exchanged numbers, and he texted me that same night."
"I couldn't wait," Groover says softly, and the sincerity in his voice makes my breath catch.
Are we still acting? It doesn't feel like it anymore.
"That's... actually really romantic," Aisha says, looking slightly deflated, like she's finally registering that Groover is genuinely off the market. "How long ago was this?"
"Almost three months," I say, the reminder of our contract timeline ending soon rearing its ugly head.
"Two months and seventeen days," Groover corrects, then looks embarrassed, like he didn't mean to reveal he's been counting.
Aisha glances at her watch and sighs. "I hate to eat and run, but I've got another class in fifteen minutes. Thanks for letting me crash your celebration lunch."
After she leaves, a comfortable silence falls between us. I pick at my sandwich, trying to process what just happened.
"So," Groover says finally, a hint of teasing in his voice. "A charity event, huh? That's quite a creative revision to Are you my boyfriend, then ?"
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "God, don't remind me. I don't know what came over me just now. I just started talking and couldn't stop."
"I liked it," he says simply. "It's a good story. Better than ' My team bought me a boyfriend for corporate sponsorship purposes .'"
I peek through my fingers at him. "You're not mad I went off-script?"
"Mad? Why would I be mad?" He reaches across the table and gently pulls my hands away from my face. "It was a nice story. And the part about not being able to wait to text you?" His expression softens. "That wouldn't have been a lie."
My heart does a somersault. "No?"
"No." He holds my gaze, his fingers still wrapped loosely around my wrists. "You knocked me off balance from the first moment, Mateo. Fake relationship or not."
I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hands and the intensity in his eyes. "Your presentation was really good," he says, changing the subject but not letting go of my wrists. "I mean, I understood maybe forty percent of it, but that forty percent was fascinating."
"You actually came," I say, still slightly amazed by this fact. "At 8 AM. Voluntarily."
"I said I would," he shrugs, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "I wanted to see you in your element. And it was worth every early minute, especially for Dr. Winters' antics."
I laugh, turning my hands in his so our palms meet. "She was pretty star-struck. I've never seen her so excited about anything, including the time the department got a research grant for actual field work."
"Apparently her grandson plays hockey," Groover says. "She made me promise to record a video encouragement for him. I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I'm getting invited to guest lecture."
"You're not actually going to do that, are you? Guest lecture?"
"Why not?" he asks. "It could be fun. I could talk about ritualistic behaviors in locker rooms. Did you know some guys refuse to wash their playoff beards or change their underwear during winning streaks?"
"That's disgusting," I inform him. "And also perfect for a Sports and Society lecture."
"See? Academic anthropology and hockey, a match made in heaven." His thumbs trace light circles on my palms, sending shivers up my arms. "Kind of like us."
The casual comment hits me with unexpected force. Us. Such a simple word for something that feels increasingly complex.
"Hockey player and anthropologist," I say lightly, trying to mask how much his touch is affecting me. "Not exactly a combination people would expect."
"The best things rarely are." His eyes are warm, serious despite his smile. "Speaking of unexpected combinations, I have an away game this weekend, but I was thinking when I get back... maybe we could have that rain check?"
The rain check.
My mouth goes dry at the memory.
"I'd like that," I manage to say, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite my racing heart.
"Good." He gives my hands a gentle squeeze before releasing them. "That's good."
As we gather our things to leave, Groover casually drapes his arm across my shoulders. It's a gesture that could be interpreted as part of our act—the devoted boyfriend after a successful presentation—but the way his fingers lightly stroke the side of my neck feels like something else entirely. Something real.
And as we walk across campus, his solid presence beside me, I'm struck by the realization that I don't want our story to be made up anymore. I want the charity event meet-cute to be real. I want the texting-the-same-night eagerness to be genuine. I want us to be authentic.
But with the contract end date looming and my own identity still in flux, I have no idea how to make that happen. Or even if Groover wants the same thing.
All I know is that when he looks at me the way he did in that café, everything else—the contract, the sponsorship, my confusion—fades into background noise. And for now, maybe that's enough.