EPILOGUE
GROOVER
Three months later
THE GALA THIS time around feels like a different universe. Same hotel ballroom, same pretentious ice sculpture slowly melting in the corner, same uncomfortable bow tie trying to strangle me—but everything else has changed.
"Stop fidgeting," Mateo murmurs, reaching up to straighten my bow tie for the third time in fifteen minutes. "You look perfect."
"Easy for you to say. Your tie isn't plotting your demise." I tug at my collar, earning a light slap on my hand.
"My tie is actually behaving because I don't antagonize it." He smooths his hands over my lapels, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "Besides, I have insider information that your boyfriend thinks you look extremely fuckable in formal wear."
Heat flashes through me at his words—not just from their content, but from the casual confidence with which he delivers them. Just a few months ago, he would have stumbled and blushed. Now he just grins wickedly, fully aware of exactly what he's doing to me.
"Is that so?" I lean down, lips brushing his ear. "Well, I have it on good authority that said boyfriend is getting thoroughly ravished the second we get home."
His sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.
"Jesus, you two," Becker groans from behind us. "Can you keep it in your pants for five minutes? There are sponsors present."
"Sponsors who specifically asked for me to bring my boyfriend," I remind him, sliding an arm around Mateo's waist. "So technically, this is just good business."
It still feels surreal saying it— boyfriend —even though it's been our reality for months now. The aftermath of Operation Win Back Mateo (still hate the name, still got outvoted) had been chaotic: press conferences, team statements, a very uncomfortable meeting with management where I may have told GM Donaldson exactly where he could shove his concerns about my "image problem."
But from the ashes of the Kingsport deal rose something better: Valor Athletic, an up-and-coming equipment company specifically looking to sponsor diverse athletes. Their CEO, a former college player who'd never felt comfortable coming out during his career, had reached out personally.
"We don't want you despite who you are," he'd said during our first meeting. "We want you because of it."
The contract they offered was smaller than Kingsport's would have been, but it came with creative control over my endorsement campaign and a pledge to donate a percentage of profits to LGBTQ+ youth sports programs. It was a no-brainer.
"Earth to Groover," Mateo says, waving a hand in front of my face.
"Sorry." I press a quick kiss to his forehead. "Just thinking about how different things are from the last time we were here."
His eyes soften, understanding immediately. "Better or worse?"
"Better. Infinitely better."
And it is. The team made playoffs—we lost in the second round to fucking Boston, but still, not bad considering our mid-season slump. Mateo moved into my apartment last month after his semester ended, bringing with him an alarming number of books and a coffee maker that requires an engineering degree to operate. My family adores him—Mom sends him recipes he'll never successfully make, and Maya texts him more than she texts me.
Best of all, he's here tonight as himself—not as a contractual obligation or a PR stunt, but as the man I love. The man who loves me back.
"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "Let's make the rounds before Washington sends out a search party."
We weave through the crowd, stopping to chat with teammates, management (who've been walking on eggshells around me since I threatened to go public with the whole scheme being their idea), and various team sponsors. Mateo, no longer the bundle of nerves out of his depth, discusses hockey with the confidence of someone who's spent countless hours learning the game.
"...and that's why the power play percentage improved in the second half of the season," he explains to a fascinated Valor representative, who's hanging on his every word. "The modified zone entry created more high-danger scoring chances."
I stare at him in amazement. "When did you become a hockey analyst?"
He shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I may have been paying attention during all those games. Besides, Wall has been tutoring me. Says I need to 'pull my weight in hockey conversations since I'm team family now.'"
Team family. The words warm me from the inside out.
"What?" he asks, noticing my expression.
"Nothing." I squeeze his hand. "Just love you."
His smile could power the entire city. "Love you too."
Later, as the evening winds down and we're preparing to leave, Mateo excuses himself to use the restroom. I'm checking my phone when Becker sidles up beside me, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.
"So," he says, rocking back on his heels. "I've been thinking."
"Always dangerous."
He ignores the jab. "The whole Groover-and-Mateo situation worked out pretty well, all things considered."
"If by 'worked out well' you mean 'nearly imploded before miraculously coming together against all odds,' then sure."
"Details." He waves dismissively. "The point is, I've got expertise now. Experience. Wisdom to share with the world."
I eye him warily. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm starting a podcast," he announces with the gravitas of someone revealing a cure for cancer. "'Hockey Relationship Advice with Riley Becker.' What do you think?"
I blink at him. "I think you've been hit in the head one too many times."
"It's genius! I'll interview you guys, other players with partners, give tips on dating while famous—"
"You're single," I point out.
"That's just temporary," he says with a wink that can only be described as disturbing. "Trust me, I've got prospects."
"Becker," Washington says, appearing beside us like a disapproving apparition. "Stop harassing Groover and help Wall with the car service. He's trying to organize rides and you're on the list."
"Fine, fine." Becker sighs dramatically. "But remember my podcast when it tops the charts."
As he walks away, Washington shakes his head. "That man needs professional help."
"Or a relationship of his own," I suggest. "Might keep him occupied."
Washington's lips twitch. "God help whoever takes on that project." He claps me on the shoulder. "Good season, Grooves. Even with all the drama."
"Thanks, Cap."
"Mateo's good for you," he adds, unexpectedly serious. "Hold onto that."
"Planning to," I assure him.
Washington nods, satisfied, and moves off to herd the remaining players toward the exit. Moments later, Mateo returns, sliding his arm around my waist.
"Ready to go home?" he asks.
Home. Not my apartment— our home. The thought still gives me a little thrill.
"More than ready."
As we wait for our car, Mateo leans into my side, a perfect fit. "Oh, I forgot to tell you—I have a surprise."
"Yeah?"
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of fabric. When he shakes it out, I recognize it as a custom jersey—but instead of my name and number, it reads "GROOVER'S REAL BF" across the back.
"For the first home game next season," he explains, eyes dancing with humor. "I figured it was time to update my wardrobe."
I laugh, pulling him closer. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
"Not perfect," he corrects. "But real. And that's better."
He's right, of course. What we have now—the arguments over whose turn it is to do dishes, the way he steals all the blankets, the late-night discussions about everything and nothing—it's messy and complicated and absolutely real.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
"Let's go home," I say, pressing a kiss to his temple as our car arrives.
As we slide into the backseat, Mateo's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. Outside the window, Chicago lights blur into streams of gold and silver, but all I can see is his reflection—the man who started as a contract and became the center of my world.
The man who taught me that sometimes, the most real things begin with a lie.
THE END