Page 16 of Bad Pucking Roommate

Luca

Sitting side by side on the bed so we can easily see each other’s screens, Justus and I scour the Internet for information. How you get the yips out, how to cure them, even famous cases of people overcoming them. Unfortunately, the deeper we dig the further my hope fades.

“This says the yips are a twitch in the wrist due to overuse of certain muscles, not a mental thing.” I point to an article from the Mayo clinic on my phone.

Justus leans close enough to read the tiny print. “It also says they can be caused by anxiety, stress, and neurological disorders. Are you anxious or stressed?”

“Of course, I am. But not because my wrist is twitching.”

Justus reaches over to scroll through the text on my phone. “I think the order of things is feeling anxious or stressed and then getting twitchy, not the other way around. Could you be stressed about something besides your wrist?”

“My wrist isn’t the problem.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you don’t even realize it’s happening. But if your wrist was twitching that would explain why your passes and shotsare off, and if you just slightly change the mechanics of your shot, it could solve everything.”

I know he’s trying to help, and I get why he keeps coming back to a muscle spasm to explain my play. But everything I’m reading suggests that the yips can be attributed to either physical or mental ailments, not an imaginary line that connects one event to another in my mind.

“I’m sure that I’m physically fine. And the only thing I’m stressed about is whether I’ll be able to play if I can’t perform the same ridiculous pre-game ritual I’ve been practicing for over a decade.” My head falls back against the headboard with athunk, though I’m too distracted to register whether it’s hard enough to hurt. I actually like the sound it makes, so I do it again.

“Whoa.” Justus lays his hand on my arm, which takes some of the edge off my panic. “Okay, yips obviously aren’t the issue. We’ll figure it out.”

With a heavy exhale I close my eyes and come clean. “I know what’s going on. My brain is convinced I have to follow a certainprotocolto play well, and I don’t have access to it anymore. I was hoping to find another solution for it, like a substitute or something, or a way to get out of my head, but I don’t think that will work… I think I’m stuck.”

“You’re talking about a superstition? Like how Niko has to dress left to right even though he’s right-handed because the one time he put his left skate on first he scored a hat trick?”

God, why couldn’t I get that ritual?“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, now that I know what we’re working with, tell me why it’s not an option anymore. Maybe together we can figure out a way to get it back.”

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid by giving Justus only pieces of the whole story. Not just to keep him in the dark since my process isso fucked up, but to keep him from trying to help me himself, which I have a feeling he’ll offer if he learns the truth.

Honestly, I’m a little surprised he’s asking me to spell it out. I thought I’d given him enough hints to make an educated guess. Hell, he’s actuallybeenpart of the process already. Then again, he’s such an innocent, trusting—bordering on naïve—man, I guess I should’ve expected that I’d need to be explicit. No pun intended.

When it comes to hockey there’s nothing Justus doesn’t know. When it comes to anything off the ice… let’s just say it doesn’t take much to make him blush.

I don’t want to be the guy to corrupt someone as genuine as Justus. I’m still half-shocked he’s speaking to me, let alone acting normal after what happened the other night, and I don’t want to push it. But the look of patient concern in his brown eyes has me spilling my secrets.

“I need a release before a game. It helps me sleep better, I think.” I pull my eyes from Justus and focus on where his hand is still resting on my arm. “But only if it’s really satisfying—like wrings me out and leaves me boneless satisfying—and I’ve only ever been able to get to that point if I have an audience.”

His fingers flex around my arm, but they stay put. “So, the other night… That’s something you do before every game?”

“Ideally, yeah. That’s why Staci mentioned Noah. Usually, he’d be the one in the room, and since he’s loyal and discreet he was a convenient solution. But since he’s dating Tripp…no more audience.”

“And that…” He takes his hand off my arm and runs it through the mop of brown hair that falls haphazardly over his head. “How in the world did you stumble onto this…pregame ritual?”

Since most of us accidentally find any superstitions we latch onto, his question makes perfect sense. It’s just not the one I’m expectinghim to ask. I’m sort of grateful that’s where his mind went instead of assuming I plan to ask him to take Noah’s place.

“It’s a long story,” I chuff. “The short version is that my high school teammate Charlie planted the seed. Unintentionally of course, but here we are.”

“You’ve been doing this since high school?” Now he looks astonished, although I get the sense that’s more about the fact I was a teenager when I fell into this thing than anything else.

I guess I’ll have to give him the full story. Or close to it. “Charlie liked to fuck the night before a game. He said the release loosened him up, and since he and his girlfriend had a thing for including a third, they got me to join in.”

Justus still looks a bit stunned—probably his innocence talking—but I continue. “The first time we did it I scored a hat trick. I don’t think I would’ve connected the dots between the sex and the game if it weren’t for Charlie telling me that was his routine, but when I played such a great game, I got curious if it might be my routine too. I asked if we could do it again, and I played another great game. It just kept going.”

Aside from his initial shock, which I’m now positive is because of the age thing, Justus doesn’t seem bothered by that story. In a way, that makes sense. Hockey players have all sorts of weird pregame rituals, so the fact I have one wouldn’t necessarily phase him. It’s what my ritual entails that I’d expect him to find strange.

“Well, that is probably the most unique superstition I’ve heard of.” His brows draw together, more in confusion than anger. “But it seems like it was working up until Noah got with Tripp, so really, we only have to find you a new audience person. I know we aren’t supposed to bring the puck bunnies to our rooms, but lots of guys do. Could you do that?”

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