CHAPTER 31
GROOVER
I'VE BEEN CHECKED into the boards so hard my vision blurred. I've taken a puck to the face that left me with twelve stitches and a scar that's barely visible now unless you know where to look. I've had my heart broken before by guys who weren't worth the emotional bandwidth they consumed.
None of that prepared me for the gut-punch of watching Mateo drive away.
That was a week ago. Seven days of hell that have felt like seven years.
Seven days of ignoring calls from PR, from management, from fucking Kingsport representatives who officially pulled their sponsorship offer yesterday with a tersely worded email about "brand incompatibility" and "public trust concerns."
Seven days of playing the worst hockey of my professional career. Missing passes a rookie could make. Fumbling shots I could nail in my sleep. Watching our playoff chances circle the drain with each pathetic performance.
Seven days without Mateo.
I slam my locker shut with enough force to rattle the entire row, drawing startled looks from teammates who've been walking on eggshells around me all week.
"You trying to break that, or just making sure we all know you're still in a mood?" Becker asks from his spot on the bench, unlacing his skates after another disastrous practice.
"Fuck off," I mutter without heat. I'm too exhausted for real anger.
"Well-spoken as always." He tosses a balled-up sock in my direction, which I don't bother dodging. It hits my shoulder and falls sadly to the floor, much like my dignity this past week.
"Leave him alone," Wall says. "He's going through shit."
"We're all going through shit," Washington interjects, appearing from the coaches' office with a face like thunder. "The difference is, the rest of us aren't tanking our playoff chances because of it."
The locker room falls silent. Captain rarely raises his voice, which makes it all the more effective when he does.
"I don't want to hear it," I say, grabbing my bag. "I know I'm playing like ass."
"No," Washington says, blocking my path to the door. "You're playing like someone who's given up. And that's not the Groover I know."
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."
"Bullshit." He crosses his arms, immovable as a mountain. "The Groover I know fights for what he wants. On the ice and off."
"I tried!" The words explode out of me, echoing off the locker room walls. "I called him a hundred times. I went to his apartment. He doesn't want to hear it."
"So try harder," Washington says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "Because the whole thing was built on a lie, alright? Even if what came after was real, the foundation was rotten from the start."
"So what?" Becker chimes in, abandoning any pretense of not listening. "You think he cares how it started? He cares how you feel about him now."
"And how would you know that, relationship guru?" I snap.
"Because I have eyes," Becker says. "The way that guy looked at you—like you hung the fucking moon and stars—that wasn't acting. And the way you've been walking around like someone died this past week? That's not about some sponsorship deal."
I stare at him, momentarily speechless.
"He's right," Wall adds quietly. "For once."
"Hey!" Becker protests.
"Look," Washington says, his voice softening slightly. "You've got two choices here. You can let this break you—let Miles and his tabloid bullshit win, let Kingsport walk away, let Mateo go. Or you can fight."
"Fight how?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "He won't listen."
"Then make him listen," Ace says from his locker, speaking up for the first time.
"Go big or go home, right?" Becker says, looking thoughtful.
"I don't know..."
"What, you've got a better plan?" Washington asks. "Because your current strategy of moping and missing easy shots isn't exactly working out."
He's right. They're all right. And I hate it.
"Even if I wanted to do something... dramatic," I say carefully, "what exactly did you have in mind?"
The smiles that spread across their faces should terrify me. They absolutely do terrify me. But for the first time in seven days, I feel something other than despair.
Something that feels dangerously close to hope.
***
"THIS IS INSANE," I mutter, pacing the small office that serves as our makeshift command center. "He's going to think I've lost my mind."
"That ship sailed when you agreed to Becker's part of the plan," Wall says, not looking up from his phone where he's coordinating with the rest of the team.
"Hey!" Becker protests from his position by the window. "My contribution is inspired."
"Inspired by what, exactly? A fever dream?"
"Children, please," Washington interrupts, adjusting his tie. We're all dressed in full game-day suits, looking like we're heading to a funeral instead of a rescue mission. "Focus on the objective."
The objective. Right. Operation Win Back Mateo—a name I vetoed but was overruled on by unanimous team vote.
Step one: Locate target. (Mateo's in class, according to Carlos, who's been surprisingly helpful for someone who threatened to castrate me two days ago.)
Step two: Intercept target in non-threatening public location. (The anthropology department courtyard, where his class lets out in approximately seventeen minutes.)
Step three: Grand gesture. (This is where Becker's "inspiration" comes in, God help me.)
"It's time," Washington announces, checking his watch. "You ready?"
No. Absolutely not. I'm about to publicly humiliate myself in front of Mateo's entire academic department on the off-chance it might convince him to talk to me again.
"As I'll ever be," I say instead, straightening my tie one last time.
We move out in formation like we're heading onto the ice—Washington in the lead, me flanked by Becker and Wall, the rest of the team falling in behind us. The campus security guard who was supposed to stop us takes one look at fifteen professional hockey players in suits and wisely decides today isn't the day to be a hero.
The courtyard is bustling with students when we arrive, many doing double-takes as we pass. Phones come out, pictures being snapped, whispers following in our wake. Word spreads quickly—by the time we reach the fountain at the center of the courtyard, a small crowd has gathered, curious about why the Chicago Wolves are invading their campus.
"There," Becker says, nodding toward a building across the way. "That's his class, right?"
I follow his gaze to see students beginning to file out of the modern glass structure. My heart immediately kicks into overdrive, hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest and find Mateo on its own.
"What if he doesn't come this way?" I ask, sudden panic setting in. "What if he sees us and runs? What if—"
"Then we chase him," Washington says simply. "Whatever it takes."
"Within reason," Wall adds hastily. "Let's not get arrested for stalking."
"Speak for yourself," Becker mutters. "I'm ride or die for this."
I'm about to respond when I spot him—dark hair, messenger bag slung across his chest, head down as he talks with a girl I vaguely recognize from his department. He hasn't seen us yet.
"Mateo!" I call before I can lose my nerve.
His head snaps up, eyes widening as they lock with mine across the courtyard. He freezes mid-step, the girl beside him following his gaze and letting out an audible gasp when she spots our assembled team.
For one terrible moment, I think he might bolt. His body tenses, weight shifting like he's preparing to flee.
But then something changes in his expression—resignation, maybe, or curiosity—and he says something to his companion before slowly approaching. He stops several feet away, wariness radiating from every line of his body.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, voice carefully neutral.
Now or never.
"I'm here because I have something to say," I begin, acutely aware of the growing crowd around us. "And you wouldn't answer my calls, so I had to get creative."
"So you brought the entire team?"
"They've supported each of us through everything," I say, gesturing to my teammates. "Now they're supporting me."
"Plus, we need to win these last games, and he's useless without you," Becker adds helpfully.
Mateo's eyes dart between us, confusion evident. "I don't understand what this is."
"It's an apology," I say. "And an explanation. And maybe, if I'm very lucky, a new beginning?"
The crowd has grown larger, students and faculty gathering at a respectful distance, phones recording what is either going to be the most romantic moment of my life or my most spectacular public failure.
No pressure.
"You heard Becker and Wall talking about the contract," I continue when Mateo doesn't respond. "About how it was only supposed to be for three months. And they were right—that's how it started."
Mateo flinches slightly, confirmation that I've hit the mark.
"Management approached me about the Kingsport deal. They suggested a stable relationship would help my image. Sophia found you through Carlos." The words come faster now, tumbling out like I'm afraid he'll walk away before I can finish. "It was a business arrangement. A PR stunt. A fake relationship for the cameras."
His expression shutters further with each admission, and I realize I'm doing this all wrong. I take a step closer, heart in my throat.
"But somewhere between your backward jerseys and anthropology lectures, between your coffee addiction and the way you stress-bake at 2 AM, between every real moment we shared when no one was watching—it stopped being fake for me."
His eyes widen slightly, the first crack in his careful facade.
"I don't care about the Kingsport," I continue, voice growing stronger. "They officially pulled their offer yesterday, and you know what? I'm fucking relieved. Because I'd rather lose every endorsement, every sponsorship, every dollar I could ever make from this sport than lose you."
A murmur runs through the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Washington nod encouragingly.
"The contract might have brought us together, but it's not what kept me coming back. It's not why I memorized your coffee order or learned what the hell a 'cultural signifier' is or spent hours listening to you talk about sports rituals in societies I can't even pronounce."
I take another step forward, close enough now that I could touch him if I dared.
"I fell in love with you, Mateo. Completely. Irrevocably. The contract be damned."
The words hang in the air between us, the most terrifying truth I've ever spoken aloud. Mateo stares at me, eyes wide and impossibly vulnerable.
"How do I know?" he asks finally, voice barely above a whisper. "How do I know what's real and what's for show?"
Before I can answer, a voice calls from the edge of the crowd.
"If I may offer an anthropological perspective?"
We both turn to see Dr. Winters approaching, tweed jacket and all, looking like she's stumbled into the most fascinating field study of his career.
"Professor," Mateo acknowledges, cheeks flushing.
"In anthropological terms," Dr. Winters begins, adjusting her glasses, "what we're witnessing is the evolution from performative partnership to authentic pair bonding."
I blink, not entirely sure what's happening.
"The initial contract," she continues, warming to her subject, "created a framework of expected behaviors—a script, if you will. But genuine emotional attachment cannot be sustained through performance alone. It requires authentic connection."
"Exactly," I say, seizing on this unexpected ally. "What she said."
Mateo's lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through.
"Furthermore," Dr. Winters adds, "the public nature of this declaration suggests a willingness to risk social status for emotional fulfillment—a hallmark of genuine romantic attachment across cultures."
"Are you... academically validating my grand gesture?" I ask, bemused.
"Merely providing contextual analysis," Dr. Winters replies with dignity. "The interpretation, Mr. Rossi, is entirely up to you."
All eyes turn to Mateo, whose carefully constructed walls seem to be crumbling before our eyes.
"I came out to my family for you," he says finally, voice quiet but steady. "That wasn't in any contract."
Hope flares in my chest, bright and terrifying. "No, it wasn't."
"I let you teach me to skate even though I knew I'd fall on my ass a hundred times."
"Ninety-seven, actually. I counted."
A real smile this time, brief but beautiful. "I wore your jersey backward because your superstitious teammates thought it would help you win."
"And it did."
"I made love with you," he continues, voice dropping so only I can hear. "That definitely wasn't in the contract."
"No," I agree, heart pounding. "That was just us. The real us."
He takes a deep breath, eyes never leaving mine. "I think I've been in love with you since that first kiss. The one for the cameras that felt too real to be fake."
The world narrows to just his face, everything else fading to background noise. "Mateo—"
"I love you," he says, the words simple and devastating in their honesty. "Contract or no contract. Sponsorship or no sponsorship. I love you, Ansel Williams."
I close the remaining distance between us in two steps, hands coming up to frame his face. "I love you too. So fucking much."
And then I'm kissing him—not for the cameras, not for the crowd, not for anyone but us. His arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer as he kisses me back with equal fervor, equal certainty.
Someone—Becker, definitely Becker—lets out a whoop that breaks the spell. Mateo pulls back slightly, laughing against my lips as applause erupts around us.
"So," I whisper, keeping him close. "Does this mean you forgive me?"
"I'm thinking about it," he teases, though his smile gives him away. "You did bring the entire team. That's worth at least partial forgiveness."
"What would get me full forgiveness?"
He pretends to consider. "Dinner might be a good start. At that Italian place I like."
"Done."
"And maybe..." His eyes dance with mischief. "Maybe we could renegotiate our contract. New terms."
"What did you have in mind?"
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. "Exclusive rights. Long-term commitment. No PR department involvement whatsoever."
My heart feels too big for my chest, joy threatening to overflow. "Those terms are acceptable, Mr. Rossi."
"Glad to hear it, Mr. Williams." He pulls back, eyes bright with happiness and something that looks suspiciously like tears. "Because I'm not letting you go either."
I kiss him again, sealing our new agreement in front of teammates, professors, students, and anyone else who cares to witness. This time, there's nothing fake about it.
This time, it's our real debut.