CHAPTER 30
MATEO
" CONTRACT'S ALMOST UP, right ?"
" Yeah, it was a three-month thing ."
" These things always get messy ."
The words have been looping through my brain on repeat for three days, a sadistic earworm that won't die. I've tried drowning it out with music—blasting everything from death metal to classical until Carlos threatened to move out. I've tried burying it under academic jargon—reading the driest research papers I could find until my eyes crossed. I've even tried the old-fashioned method of alcohol-induced amnesia, though all that got me was a hangover that felt like tiny demons were using my frontal lobe as a mosh pit.
Nothing works. The words just keep playing, a broken record of my own stupidity.
"You look like shit." Carlos stands in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between concern and exasperation. "Are you planning to leave this cave anytime soon?"
I burrow deeper under my comforter, which smells like three days of unwashed anthropology student. "No."
"That wasn't actually a question." He yanks the covers off me with the ruthless efficiency of someone who's dealt with my dramatic ass for three years. "Up. Shower. Food. In that order."
"I'm not hungry." My stomach immediately betrays me with a growl that could rival a dying whale.
"Your body disagrees." Carlos tosses clean clothes at my face. "Look, I get that you're heartbroken or whatever, but this isn't healthy."
I sit up, running a hand through hair that's gone beyond bedhead into something that could qualify as modern art. "I'm not heartbroken. I'm...processing."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Carlos raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like wallowing."
"I'm allowed to wallow," I mutter, examining a t-shirt that may or may not have been on my floor for a week. "I just found out my entire relationship was a sham."
"Was it though?"
I look up. "What?"
Carlos sighs, dropping onto the edge of my bed. "Look, I'm going to say something, and you're not going to like it, but as your best friend, it's my sacred duty to call you on your bullshit."
"This should be good."
"You're hiding."
I blink. "I'm what?"
"Hiding." He gestures around my disaster zone of a room. "In here. From having an actual conversation with Groover about what you heard."
"I know what I heard," I protest, anger flaring. "It was pretty fucking clear."
"Uh-huh. And did you hear Groover's side of it? Or did you just assume the worst and run away?"
The accusation hits too close to home. "I didn't run away. I'm being... strategic."
Carlos snorts. "Strategic. Right. That's why you've been watching The Notebook on repeat and eating ice cream straight from the carton."
"It was Call Me By Your Name , and that was only once," I mutter, though we both know it was three times. "Look, what am I supposed to do? Go up to him and say, 'Hey, I accidentally overheard your teammates talking about our fake relationship contract, wanna explain?'"
"Yes!" Carlos throws his hands up. "That's exactly what you should do. Because right now, you're making assumptions based on fragments of a conversation you weren't even part of."
"He's called me twenty-seven times," I admit quietly.
"And have you answered once?"
I pick at a loose thread on my comforter. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because..." I trail off, the real answer too raw to voice.
"Because you're scared," Carlos finishes for me, voice gentler now.
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. When did my roommate turn into Dr. Phil?
"That's not—I'm not—" I sputter, but the protest dies on my lips. Because he's right. Of course he's right.
"I'm staging an intervention," Carlos announces, yanking open my curtains. Actual sunlight pours in, and I hiss like a vampire caught at noon. "You're going to talk to him."
"I'm not ready," I protest, shielding my eyes from the offensive daylight.
"You've been not ready for three days." Carlos tosses my phone onto the bed. "Text him. Tell him to meet you at the practice facility this afternoon."
"Why there?"
"Because it's neutral ground. Because you'll have to wear actual clothes. Because I know for a fact he has practice until four, and you need a deadline or you'll keep finding excuses."
I glare at him. "When did you get so bossy?"
"When my best friend started acting like the protagonist in a bad rom-com." He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Text him. Or I will, from your phone, and I'll be way less dignified about it."
After he leaves, I stare at my phone like it might bite me. The screen shows seventeen missed calls from Groover, plus a dozen texts I've only half-read, too afraid of what they might say.
With a resigned sigh, I unlock the phone and type out a message so brief it barely qualifies as communication.
Me : Practice facility. 4:30. We need to talk .
The response comes almost immediately, like he's been waiting with his phone in hand.
Groover : I'll be there. Thank you .
Those two words— thank you —punch through my defenses in a way I wasn't prepared for. Like I'm doing him some huge favor by finally agreeing to hear him out.
Maybe I am.
***
THE PARKING LOT is nearly empty when I arrive. I'm fifteen minutes early, a habit ingrained by a mother who considered "on time" to be borderline rude. I sit in my car, engine off, trying to calm the riot in my chest.
What am I going to say to him? What is he going to say to me?
I've rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in my head, but each scenario feels more implausible than the last. In one version, he confesses it was all a lie and he never cared about me. In another, he declares his undying love and we ride off into the sunset. Neither seems particularly realistic.
The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere in the murky middle.
The venue’s back door opens and a familiar figure steps outside, eyes scanning the area.
Followed by several more familiar figures.
Great. An audience. Just what this awkward conversation needs.
I take a deep breath and exit my car, trying to project confidence I absolutely do not feel. Groover spots me immediately, breaking away from the group with a muttered word to Washington.
He looks... terrible. Good-terrible, because the man could wear a garbage bag and still be unfairly attractive, but definitely not his usual put-together self. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble a day past intentional, hair a mess like he's been running his hands through it constantly.
"Hi," he says as he approaches, stopping a few feet away like he's afraid to come closer.
"Hi," I reply.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we need to say. I open my mouth, not even sure what's going to come out, when a commotion from the facility entrance draws both our attention.
A small crowd of reporters has gathered, cameras and microphones at the ready.
At the front stands Jason Miles.
"What the hell?" Groover mutters, instinctively stepping closer to me.
Becker breaks out of the small group of teammates and jogs over to us, phone in hand and expression grim. "Guys, we've got a problem."
He holds out his phone, screen displaying a tweet that makes my blood run cold.
Jason Miles @JasonMilesHockey
brEAKING: Sources confirm Chicago Wolves forward Ansel "Groover" Williams' relationship with college student Mateo Rossi was orchestrated by team PR as image rehabilitation for Kingsport sponsorship deal. Full story: hockeydaily.com/fake-romance
The accompanying photo is from the gala—our first public appearance together. Me looking terrified, Groover protective beside me. The beginning of a lie that somehow became... what, exactly?
"Fuck," Groover breathes, the word heavy with dread.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket—texts, calls, app notifications all flooding in at once. The reporters are moving toward us now, Jason Miles at the front with a predatory gleam in his eye.
"Mateo," Groover starts, reaching for me. "We need to—"
But I'm already backing away, fight-or-flight instinct kicking in with a vengeance. And right now, flight is winning by a landslide.
"I can't do this," I manage, keys clutched so tightly in my palm they're leaving imprints. "Not here. Not with them watching."
"Please," he says, and the raw desperation in that single word nearly breaks my resolve. "Don't go. Not like this."
But the hyenas are closing in, cameras already flashing, questions being shouted over each other in a cacophony of journalistic vulturism.
"Mr. Rossi! Were you aware the relationship was fake?"
"Groover! Was this your idea or management's?"
"Mateo! How much were you paid?"
It's too much. Too loud. Too public. Too raw.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, backing toward my car. "I can't."
I slip behind the wheel before he can respond, before the reporters can reach us. Through the windshield, I see Groover's teammates form a protective barrier around him, Washington physically blocking Jason Miles's approach.
The last thing I see as I pull away is Groover's face, a mixture of devastation and resignation that will haunt me for days to come.
Maybe even forever.