Page 10 of The Puck Contract

After the quickest shower in human history and a frantic search for clothes that don't scream "broke college student," I'm in an Uber headed to an address in one of those luxury high-rises downtown that I usually only see from the outside.

The doorman actually calls up to announce me, which makes me feel simultaneously important and completely out of place. When I step out of the elevator on the 17th floor, Groover is waiting in his doorway.

"Morning," he says, looking unfairly good for someone who was at the same party I was last night. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a blue Wolves t-shirt.

"Morning," I reply, suddenly aware I'm staring at his arms. For anthropological reasons., obviously.

He gestures me inside, and I step into an apartment that makes me want to cry about my life choices. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a panoramic view of the city. The furniture is sleek and modern but still looks comfortable. Everything is in shades of blue, gray, and white, with splashes of color from art on the walls.

Either he has a cleaning service or hockey players are neater than college guys, because there's not a dirty sock or empty pizza box in sight.

"Nice place," I say, which is like calling the Grand Canyon "a pretty big hole."

"Thanks." He leads me to the kitchen area, which is all gleaming stainless steel and marble countertops. "Coffee?"

"God, yes. Black, please."

He raises an eyebrow. "Rough night?"

"I had stress dreams about hockey rules," I admit, accepting the mug he hands me. "I kept trying to explain icing but it came out as something about frozen cakes."

Groover laughs. "Don't worry about the rules. No one's expecting you to be an expert."

"Your teammates seemed to expect it," I point out, taking a sip of what turns out to be excellent coffee. "That Becker guy was practically quizzing me."

"Becker's an ass," Groover says fondly. "He just likes messing with people. Come on, let's sit."

I follow him to the living room, where we settle on opposite ends of a ridiculously comfortable sectional. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to check.

A banking notification. A deposit of $3,333.33 has just hit my account.

The first payment from the team. A third of the total.

I stare at the screen, a weird mix of emotions washing over me. Relief, because now I can pay my tuition balance with money to spare. And something else—something that feels uncomfortably like guilt as I glance at Groover.

He's scrolling through his own phone, oblivious to my moral crisis. He seems like a genuinely nice guy, and here I am literally being paid to pretend to like him.

But then I think about my looming tuition deadline and the notice of academic hold that would come if I didn't pay. About how hard my parents worked to help me get this far, and how I promised I wouldn't drop out.

The guilt fades a bit. This is just a job. A weird, ethically ambiguous job, but still—just a job.

"So," Groover says, setting his phone down. "I figured we should go over some basics. Make sure we're on the same page with our story, schedule, expectations, all that."

"Right." I put my phone away. "Good idea."

"Sophia sent over a calendar of team events you'd need to attend. Mostly home games, a few charity things, maybe an away game or two if you're up for it."

"I can work with that," I say. "As long as it doesn't conflict with my classes or exams."

"Of course." He nods. "Education comes first. I'm not trying to mess up your future for a hockey stick endorsement."

There's that guilt again, poking at me with its pointy little fingers.

Groover's phone rings, and he glances at it with a frown. "Sorry, I need to take this. It's the team nutritionist."

He answers, and I half-listen to his side of the conversation, gathering that some special protein order has arrived at a nearby store and needs to be picked up urgently.

"I have to run out," he says after hanging up. "Protein business. Very important.” He rolls his eyes. “Should only take20 minutes. Make yourself at home. Remote's on the coffee table if you want to watch something."

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