CHAPTER 29
GROOVER
HOT WATER POUNDS against my shoulders, steam rising around me in a thick cloud that muffles the sounds of the nearly empty locker room. Most of the team has already cleared out, rushing to celebrate our win against the Bruins.
My goal in the second period was pure luck—a deflection off a defender's skate that just happened to find the back of the net. But that assist to Petrov in the third? That was fucking beautiful, if I do say so myself.
I grin, tilting my face up to the spray. Coach called it "textbook perfection." The crowd went wild. And Mateo—
My grin widens. Mateo was in the stands wearing my jersey. Backward.
I let out a satisfied sigh.
I've never been happier.
The sound of the locker room door opening pulls me from my thoughts. I assume it's one of the equipment guys coming back for something, until I hear familiar voices echoing off the tiles.
"I'm telling you, that was the cleanest one-timer I've seen all season." Becker's voice, slightly slurred already. Must have started celebrating early.
"You say that every game." Wall's response is dry as dust.
"Because I'm consistently amazed by my own talent."
I'm about to call out to them when Wall's next words freeze me in place.
"So what's the deal with Grooves? Contract's almost up, right?"
My stomach drops so fast I'm surprised it doesn't hit the shower drain. I hold perfectly still, water cascading over my shoulders.
"Yeah, it was a three-month thing, I think," Becker replies. "That was Sophia's timeframe."
Three-month thing. Contract. My mind races, trying to make sense of what I'm hearing.
Do they all know?
Has the whole team been in on it this entire time?
"These things always get messy," Wall continues. "Remember when Petrov had that model girlfriend?"
"Ugh. That was a disaster, wasn't it?"
I clench my jaw, anger flaring at the comparison. This is different. This has become different. Mateo and I might have started as a contract, but what we have now is real. Last night proved that beyond any doubt.
The locker room door opens again, then closes with a metallic clang.
"Who was that?" Becker asks, voice dropping.
"Didn't see," Wall replies. "Coming or going?"
I shut off the water with more force than necessary. Grabbing my towel, I wrap it around my waist before stepping out of the shower area.
Becker and Wall stand by their lockers, both freezing like deer in headlights when they see me. The guilt on their faces would be comical under different circumstances.
"How long were you...?" Becker starts, then trails off.
"Long enough," I say, the chill of the locker room raising goosebumps on my damp skin—or maybe that's the cold dread seeping into my bones. "What the fuck are you two talking about?"
They exchange a glance that confirms my fears.
"Look, man," Wall begins, hands raised placatingly. "It's not what you—"
"How long have you known?" I demand, stalking to my locker. The towel around my waist feels like inadequate armor for this conversation.
"I overheard Sophia on the phone a few weeks ago," Wall admits.
"Who else knows?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears.
"Just us." Becker mumbles. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him apologetic before. "We didn't spread it around, I swear."
I grab my underwear from my locker, pulling it on under my towel before dropping the damp terry cloth. The familiar ritual of dressing gives me something to focus on besides the roaring in my ears.
"It doesn't matter anyway, right?" Becker continues, voice hopeful. "I mean, it's obvious you guys are actually into each other now. The contract thing is just a technicality at this point."
I don't answer, focusing on buttoning my shirt with fingers that feel numb.
I dig out my phone from my bag to find three missed calls from Mateo from about ten minutes ago.
"Fuck," I mutter, quickly calling him back.
It rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail. Either he's in a dead zone or he's sending me to voicemail. Neither option feels good.
I try again with the same result.
"Everything okay?" Wall asks, concern etched on his face.
"Mateo called while you two were running your mouths," I snap. "And now he's not answering."
A text notification pops up on my screen.
Mateo : Something came up. Can't make dinner .
Six words that feel like a punch to the gut. Short. Impersonal. Nothing like the emoji-laden, rambling texts I've grown accustomed to receiving from him.
"Fuck," I repeat with feeling, shoving the phone in my pocket.
"Maybe… Maybe he’s just busy," Becker offers weakly.
I give him a withering look as I grab my bag. "Yeah, and maybe I'll grow wings and fly to our next away game."
"Groover, wait—" Wall calls after me, but I'm already pushing through the locker room door, desperate to find Mateo and explain.
Explain what, exactly?
That yes, we started as a contract, but it's real now? That I've been lying to him for months about who knows what? That I'm in—
I stop mid-stride in the hallway, the thought hitting me like a freight train.
That I'm in love with him.
Fuck.
I am. I'm in love with Mateo Rossi, with his endless enthusiasm and his backward jersey and his anthropological factoids and the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at my jokes.
I try calling him again as I stride toward the parking garage. Straight to voicemail again.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm pounding on the door of his apartment, heart in my throat. Carlos opens it, expression wary.
"Is he here?" I ask without preamble.
Carlos shifts uncomfortably. "He... isn't home right now."
"Bullshit. His car's outside."
"Look, man," Carlos sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know what to tell you."
I want to argue, to push past him and find Mateo, to make him listen. But the rational part of my brain holds my body in check. Brute-forcing this now would only make things worse.
"Tell him to call me," I finally say. "Please. When he's ready."
Carlos nods. "I will. For what it's worth, I think you should keep trying. He's crazy about you."
The words offer a small comfort as I trudge back to my car. He's crazy about me. Present tense. Not past. Not yet.
I try calling one more time before I drive away. Straight to voicemail again.
***
THE NEXT FEW days pass in a blur of unanswered calls, one-word text responses, and mounting frustration. Mateo shows up to the next game—backward jersey and all—but sits with Carlos instead of in the usual partners' section. He leaves immediately after, ignoring my attempts to catch his eye.
My game performance tanks spectacularly. I miss passes, fumble shots, and get checked so hard in the third period that Coach benches me for the rest of the game.
"Whatever's going on with you and Mateo, fix it," Washington tells me bluntly in the locker room afterward. "You're playing like someone stole your skates."
I just nod, too exhausted to explain that I'm trying, that I've left dozens of messages Mateo won't answer, that I've nearly worn a path to his door only to be turned away by Carlos each time.
By the third day, I've progressed from desperation to resignation. Maybe this is it. Maybe I've lost him for good. The thought makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the bruising hit I took during the game.
"I'm in love with him," I admit to Washington during an extra practice session he insisted on. We're the only ones on the ice, running basic drills like I'm a rookie again.
Washington stops mid-stride, puck forgotten as he stares at me. "You're just figuring this out now?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know." I skate in a frustrated circle. "Does it matter? He won't even talk to me."
"So make him listen." Washington retrieves the puck, sending it my way with perfect precision. "You're Ansel fucking Williams. Since when do you give up on something you want?"
"It's not that simple."
"It never is." He blocks my shot easily. "But sitting around feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to fix anything. You want him back? Fight for him."
"How?"
Washington shrugs. "That's for you to figure out. But whatever you do, do it soon. We need you focused for these last games."
He's right, of course. Captain is always right—it's annoyingly consistent.
As I shower after practice, an idea begins to form. A terrible, wonderful, potentially disastrous idea that might just be crazy enough to work.
It's time to go all in.