CHAPTER 19
GROOVER
SUNLIGHT CREEPS THROUGH the gap in my curtains like an unwelcome houseguest, landing right across my eyes because the universe hates sleep and loves irony. I groan and turn my face into the pillow, hoping to salvage at least a few more minutes of unconsciousness.
That's when I register the warm weight pressed against my side, the unfamiliar rhythm of someone else's breathing, and the events of last night come flooding back in vivid, X-rated detail.
He stayed.
I crack one eye open, confirming that yes, this is really happening. Mateo Rossi, my fake-boyfriend-turned-something-else, is indeed sprawled across my California king, one arm flung over my chest, his face smooshed against my shoulder, dark hair sticking up at impossible angles.
Something tight and warm expands in my chest at the sight, and I quickly slam the lid on whatever that feeling might be. Too early. Way too early for... that.
For several minutes, I just watch him sleep, cataloging details I haven't had permission to study before. The fan of his eyelashes against casting shadows on his cheeks. The small scar at the edge of his left eyebrow. The slight pout of his lower lip. Christ, I'm turning into a creeper straight out of a Twilight movie.
He stirs, mumbling something incomprehensible, then his eyes flutter open. Awareness filters in gradually—first confusion, then recognition, then a flash of what might be panic before settling into cautious warmth.
"Hey," he says, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I aim for casual but end up somewhere closer to reverent. Smooth, Williams.
He squints at the window. "What time is it?"
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. "Just after eight."
"Shit." He sits bolt upright, sheet pooling around his waist. "I have class at nine-thirty."
"Plenty of time," I assure him, trying not to stare too obviously at the expanse of golden skin now on display. "You want breakfast?"
The offer hangs in the air for a beat too long. This is delicate ground, I realize. Offering breakfast could seem presumptuous, like I'm pushing for more than he's ready to give.
"I mean, you don't have to," I backpedal. "Just thought you might be hungry."
"No, breakfast sounds good," he says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Thought you might be trying to get rid of me."
"If I wanted to get rid of you, I'd have set the fire alarm off at 6 AM like Becker does when he has regrettable one-night stands."
This startles a laugh out of him, breaking the tension. "Does he really?"
"How do you think he got that noise complaint record from the condo board? His hockey skills?"
Mateo shakes his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You're terrible."
"So I've been told." I sit up, aware we're both still naked under the sheets. "Shower's all yours if you want it. Clean towels in the cabinet. I'll start coffee."
"Thanks," he says, then hesitates. "Do you have a spare toothbrush?"
"Drawer under the sink. Still in the package."
He raises an eyebrow. "You keep spare toothbrushes for overnight guests?"
"My mom stocked my bathroom last time she visited. She's still in the 'my gay son must be promiscuous' phase of acceptance." I roll my eyes. "Little does she know I'm practically a monk."
"A monk," he repeats skeptically, gaze dropping to the impressive morning wood tenting the sheet over my lap. "Right."
I grin, unashamed. "A monk with excellent circulation."
He laughs again, gathering the sheet around his waist as he slides out of bed. The flash of self-consciousness surprises me—last night, he'd been anything but shy—but I respect it, pointedly looking away as he makes his way to the bathroom.
"I'll just..." I gesture vaguely toward the kitchen. "Coffee. Food. Things."
The bathroom door clicks shut, and I flop back on the bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. What the actual fuck am I doing? This is not how the fake boyfriend arrangement was supposed to go. This is not keeping a professional distance. This is not smart or cautious or sensible.
But apparently my dick doesn't care about smart or cautious or sensible, because it's still standing at attention, eager for a round two that may or may not be on the menu.
The sound of the shower starting forces me into motion. I throw on basketball shorts and a t-shirt, then head to the kitchen to make good on my breakfast promise.
By the time Mateo emerges, hair damp and wearing yesterday's clothes, I've got coffee brewed and I’m in the process of not completely destroying an omelet.
"Smells good," he says, accepting the mug I offer. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied noise that does terrible things to my concentration. "Perfect. How'd you know how I take it?"
I flip the omelet with more focus than strictly necessary. "You put the same ungodly amount of sugar in your coffee every time. It's not exactly a state secret."
"You noticed," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes me look up.
He's watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher. Surprise? Pleasure? Wariness? Maybe all three.
"I notice a lot of things about you," I admit, then immediately want to punch myself in the face. Could I sound more like a serial killer? "I mean, not in a creepy way. Just... y'know."
"I know," he says, biting his lip to suppress a smile. "It's nice."
We settle at the breakfast bar, me determinedly focusing on my food while hyperaware of every movement he makes beside me. The domesticity of the scene isn't lost on me—sharing coffee and breakfast, him in yesterday's rumpled clothes, the lingering memory of the night before still hanging in the air between us.
"Umm," he says finally, setting down his mug. "About last night."
Here we go. The morning-after conversation. My least favorite sport.
"What about it?" I ask, striving for nonchalance.
"I just want to be clear about... what this is." He gestures between us.
I set my fork down carefully. "What do you want it to be?"
Real mature, Williams. Answer a question with a question. Next level avoidance technique.
Mateo takes a deep breath. "I don't know. That's the thing. This is all new territory for me."
"I know," I say softly. "No pressure, remember? We can figure this out as we go."
"But where are we going?" he persists. "Does this change the arrangement? Are we still fake dating for PR purposes, but also... whatever this is? Or does the contract not matter anymore?"
Ah. The contract. Reality intrudes with all the subtlety of a freight train.
"The contract still matters," I say carefully. "At least from a professional standpoint. We signed paperwork. The team is expecting certain appearances, certain social media content."
"Right." He nods, some of the light dimming in his eyes.
"But," I continue quickly, "what happens between us in private doesn't have to be defined by that. It can be separate. Whatever we both want it to be."
"So we're fake dating for the cameras, but really dating in private?" he asks, forehead creasing in confusion.
"Not necessarily dating," I clarify, though the word sends an unexpected pang through my chest. "Just... exploring. No labels, no pressure. Just two people who enjoy each other's company and happen to have spectacular sexual chemistry."
The corner of his mouth ticks up. "Spectacular, huh?"
"Did I overstate it?" I tease, relieved to see the tension leaving his shoulders. "I mean, I can downgrade to 'pretty decent' if your ego needs managing."
"Fuck you," he laughs, shoving my shoulder.
"I mean, if you're offering..."
His cheeks flush, but he doesn't look away. "Maybe next time."
Next time. The promise in those two words sends heat coursing through me.
"I'd like that," I say, voice rougher than intended.
He glances at his watch and sighs. "I should go. Need to stop at my place before class."
I nod, tamping down the ridiculous urge to ask him to skip class, to stay here in our bubble for a little longer. "Need a ride?"
He shakes his head. “Uber’s faster.” At the door, he hesitates, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. "So... I'll see you later?"
"Definitely," I confirm. "There's a team thing Friday night. You still up for it?"
"Yeah, of course. Part of the job description, right?" There's a hint of something wistful in his smile.
"Right. But maybe we could do something before then? Just us?"
His face brightens. "I'd like that."
"Great. I'll text you."
He nods, then leans in and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that starts as a quick goodbye but rapidly evolves into something hungrier. My hands find his waist, pulling him closer as he makes a soft sound into my mouth.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing harder than a simple goodbye kiss warrants.
"I really have to go," he says, though he doesn't move away.
"I know." I steal one more quick kiss. "Go be smart and anthropological."
He rolls his eyes but backs toward the elevator with a grin. "Text me."
"I will."
I watch until the elevator doors close, then head back inside, shutting the door and leaning against it like a teenager after prom night. My apartment feels different somehow—emptier without his presence, yet filled with traces of him. His coffee mug on the counter. The faint scent of my shampoo in his hair. The ghost impression of his body in my sheets.
Fuck. I am so screwed.
It's one thing to have mind-blowing sex with your fake boyfriend. It's entirely another to wake up the next morning and realize you want him to stay. Not just for more sex, but for coffee and breakfast and lazy Sunday mornings. For conversations about anthropology and hockey. For his laugh and his rambling tangents about cultural relativism and the way his eyes light up when he's excited about something.
This isn't in the contract. This isn't what I signed up for. This is messy and complicated and potentially disastrous for both of us.
And I want it anyway.
My phone chimes from the bedroom, and I retrieve it to find a text from Sophia.
Sophia : Meeting today to discuss contract progress. 2 PM at the practice facility. Don't be late .
Perfect. Because what I really need right now is a reminder of the professional arrangement underlying whatever the hell is happening between Mateo and me.
I shoot back a quick confirmation, then hop in the shower, trying unsuccessfully not to think about Mateo standing in this same spot less than an hour ago.
***
BY THE TIME I reach the practice facility, I've almost convinced myself I'm overreacting. So we hooked up. So it was fantastic. So what? Doesn't mean I'm catching feelings. Doesn't mean this has to be complicated. We're both adults. We can handle this.
Sophia is waiting in one of the small conference rooms, tablet already open, perfectly coiffed and professional as always.
"Ansel," she greets me, gesturing to the chair across from her. "Right on time."
"You know me," I say, dropping into the seat. "Mr. Punctuality."
She gives me a look that says she knows better. "We're halfway through the contract period. I wanted to check in, see how things are progressing."
"Aren't you the one keeping tabs on our social media engagement and press coverage?" I counter. "You tell me how it's progressing."
"The numbers are excellent," she confirms, swiping through some charts on her tablet. "Social media engagement up 47% since the relationship went public. Positive press mentions increased by 33%. The Mateo Puck Incident game created a viral moment that generated more positive engagement than anything else this season."
I can’t contain the bark of laughter that escapes me at the memory.
"The point is," Sophia continues, "from a PR perspective, the arrangement is working exactly as intended. Kingsport representatives have indicated they're increasingly comfortable with your public image. Things are on track for the sponsorship to be finalized after playoffs."
"Great," I say, though the reminder of the impending contract end date sits like a stone in my gut. "That's... great."
Sophia narrows her eyes at me. "Is there something I should know? Any problems between you two?"
"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. "No problem. Things are fine. Good, even."
"Good," she repeats skeptically. "You don't sound convinced."
I shift in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "It's nothing. Just... what if... what if things have changed between us?"
"Changed how?" Her expression sharpens. "The deal depends on stability, Ansel. We need—"
"I know that," I assure her. "I'm not saying we're breaking up or anything. Just... it's complicated."
"Complicated how?" she presses.
How do I explain that the fake relationship doesn't feel fake anymore? That whatever is happening between Mateo and me has crossed some invisible line from professional arrangement to something real and raw and terrifying?
"Never mind," I say finally. "Everything's fine. We're fine."
She studies me for a long moment, clearly not believing me but apparently deciding not to push. "Alright. Just remember, we're in the home stretch now. Stay focused, keep up the appearances, and everyone gets what they want."
Everyone except me , I think but don't say. Because what I really want—what I'm increasingly afraid I want—isn't part of this deal.
"Will do," I promise hollowly. "Anything else?"
"Just the usual social media schedule," she says, sending a calendar invite to my phone. "Tag Mateo in at least three posts this week. Make sure one shows the two of you at Friday's team event."
"Got it," I say, standing to leave.
"And Ansel?" she calls as I reach the door. "Whatever's going on... be careful. For both your sakes."
The warning follows me all the way to the locker room, where I find Becker, Wall, and Petrov hanging out before optional skate.
"There he is!" Becker announces when I walk in. "The man of the hour. How was your night after our little truth or dare game?"
"None of your fucking business," I reply pleasantly, dropping my bag on the bench.
"Oooh, tetchy," Becker grins. "Must have been good then."
I flip him off as I start changing into workout gear, but apparently my face gives something away because Wall whistles low.
"Shit, it was good," he says, eyes widening. "You finally sealed the deal with Professor Boyfriend, didn't you?"
"He's not a professor," I correct automatically. "He's a student. And I'm not discussing this with you animals."
"He's not denying it!" Petrov exclaims, high-fiving Becker. "Pay up, Wall. I told you they wouldn't make it two months without fucking."
"You had a bet?" I demand, outraged but not surprised. "What is wrong with you degenerates?"
"Ohhh, so many things," Becker says cheerfully. "But right now, our main concern is making sure you don't fuck this up. You've got that look."
"What look?" I narrow my eyes.
"The 'I just had mindblowing sex and now I'm freaking out about feelings' look," Wall explains. "Classic rookie mistake."
"I don't have feelings," I lie blatantly. "And I'm definitely not freaking out about them."
"Sure, buddy," Becker pats my shoulder condescendingly. "That's why you're strangling your socks right now."
I look down to find I'm indeed twisting my athletic socks into a mangled rope. I drop them like they're on fire.
"This calls for intervention," Becker announces, pulling out his phone. "Emergency relationship support protocol initiated."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask, but he's already typing furiously.
My phone pings with a notification. Then another. And another.
Becker created group "Operation Don't Let Groover Fuck This Up".
Becker added you, Wall, Petrov, Washington, Ace, Devon.
Becker : CODE RED. Groover got laid and now has feelings. Need all hands on deck with relationship advice STAT .
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I growl, just as my phone explodes with responses.
And then, everyone’s nose is in their screen.
Devon : Called it. Was it the thing I told you about? With the thing?
Petrov : Did you try the move I showed you from Russian ballet?
Washington : For fuck's sake. Muting this immediately .
Devon : As the only reasonable gay man in this chat, I feel uniquely qualified to help. What's the issue, Groover?
Ace : Devon, don't encourage them. Groover, ignore everything Becker says on principle .
Becker : BETRAYAL. My relationship advice is gold. Platinum. DIAMOND .
Wall : Didn't your last girlfriend block you on all social media and move to Alaska ?
Becker : IRRELEVANT. This is about Groover, not my commitment issues .
I groan. "I'm not discussing my love life in a group chat, you psychopaths."
"Love life!" Becker crows triumphantly. "He said love! Type it so we can screenshot for evidence!"
"I'm going to murder you," I inform him calmly. "They'll never find your body."
"Death threats, the last refuge of the emotionally constipated," Becker sighs dramatically. "Look, Grooves, we're just trying to help. You clearly like this guy. More than the usual hit-it-and-quit-it situation."
"There is no usual situation," I protest. "And I don't need help."
Becker : Update: Groover in full denial mode. Recommending immediate intervention. All personal experiences with catching feelings welcome .
Devon : Communication is key. Tell him how you feel .
Wall : NO. Never tell them how you feel. Play it cool. Act like you don't care .
Petrov : In Russia, we write poetry about beloved's eyes. Very romantic .
Ace : Devon's right. Just be honest. Worked for us .
Wall : COUNTERPOINT: Devon fell for Ace because Ace is fucking hot and scored three goals while concussed. Groover can't rely on that strategy .
Becker : I say go big or go home. Grand gesture. Roses. Flash mob. Jumbotron proposal .
Washington : For the love of god, do NOT listen to Becker. Ever. About anything .
My phone continues to blow up as I finish changing, their increasingly ridiculous advice pinging in at a rate that suggests this group chat is going to be the bane of my existence for the foreseeable future.
"I hate all of you," I announce to the room at large. "Every single one of you."
"You love us," Becker corrects. "Just like you loooove Mateo."
I throw my wadded-up t-shirt at his head, but he ducks, laughing.
"Try writing him a love poem about his butt!" he calls after me as I stalk toward the gym. "Works sixty percent of the time, every time!"
I flip him off without looking back, but as I push through the doors to the workout area, I can't help the smile tugging at my lips.