Page 35 of Bad Pucking Roommate

Vicious hits, even dirty ones, are part of the game, and while they often get both teams riled up enough to start swinging, punches aren’t usually thrown in a blind rage like the one I felt tonight. The fact I didn’t finish the game on the ice means Coach knows something’s up, so it’s no surprise when I’m called into his office right after our win. Before I can check on Justus.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?” he barks after I close the door.

“Retaliation for a dirty hit.” I hold my ground since that’s the only way to come out of this without unnecessary scrutiny on myself or Justus.

“Retaliation would be checking the guy into the boards. Maybe a sloppy punch. You went on the attack.” He points an accusatory finger at me. “You’re damn lucky the refs didn’t see it that way or you might’ve been tossed, and you better believe there’ll be a fine headed your way.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you have to say to explain yourself?” He crosses his arms in front of his broad chest, a clear message that I’m not going anywhere until I start talking, so I relent with a huff.

“Justus and I have been damn near unstoppable together, and I take offense to guys who can’t keep up trying to take us out. Especially, when that could ruin our shot at the cup or end someone’s career.”

“As you should.” Coach nods his head. “But taking offense and going on the attack are two very different things, and the latter could do just as much damage to our season and your career. I know you know that. Attacking another player isn’t like you, so what’s the real reason you flew off the handle?”

I’m not even sure I can answer that, but the answer I’m starting to suspect is the right one is something I can’t say.Fucking Noah, putting ideas in my head.

In a last-ditch attempt to placate him I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I can see the end, Coach. Not tomorrow or the end of this season, I don’t think, but after that… How much more time do I have? I want another cup before it’s over, and this team has a real shot at it. Justus is key to that. He went down and I saw it slipping away, and I panicked. I took it out on the guy I thought ruined it all.”

The line between Coach’s brows softens a little, though it doesn’t disappear completely. “You’ve always played with passion, Luca, and I love that about your game. But you have to keep your wits about you. Going balls to the wall could backfire if you let it take your thoughts in a negative direction. You get that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Coach.” I try to sound contrite.

The last trace of his frown line disappears. “Get cleaned up and head home. Take the next few days to cool down; no practice or workouts, just clear your head before our next road trip. I need your mind right before you get on the ice.”

“What about Justus? Is he okay?”

“The doctor says it’s a minor concussion.” Coach walks behind the desk and takes a seat in his plush leather chair. “I’m making arrangements for someone to check on him daily until he’s healed.”

“Why have someone make a special trip when he can just stay with me? I have an extra room, and I can look in on him, especially if you’rebanning me from practice. I’ll have the extra time on my hands. At least I’d be contributing in some way.”

Coach leans back in his chair, head tilted to the side as he considers me. For a second, I panic that I’ve crossed a line with my offer and given him a new lens from which to view my earlier actions. Then he shrugs and leans forward to rest his arms on the mahogany surface. “Make sure that’s okay with the physicians.”

I nod and back away with measured steps, picking up the pace only after I’ve closed the office door behind me.

The training room is adjacent to the locker room, but fortunately it has its own entrance so I can duck in there without having to pass by Niko or Noah and the suspicious glances they’ll no doubt throw my way after my outburst on the ice. Hopefully, if I can hide in the training room long enough, they’ll take off for interviews before they can corner me with questions like the ones Coach asked, and I won’t have to repeat the story I gave him, which I suspect they’ll see right through.

Cowardly? Maybe. But it also protects them from any fallout.

Not that I think there will be any fallout. Like I told Justus before, what we’re doing doesn’t break any rules as long as there’s a clear purpose behind it, and we’ve got one. The events of the evening may suggest I’m getting a little more attached to that purpose—to him—than I should be, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s a specific objective behind everything we do. As long as that’s in place, we shouldn’t have any reason to worry.

Justus is sitting on a training table, reclined against the wall, when I slip into the room. His eyes are closed, and with his pads off I can see his chest rising and falling rhythmically. It reminds me of the second time we slept in the same bed, and I woke briefly in the middle of the night to find myself facing him.

He looked so peaceful, his long, dark lashes resting comfortably against his fair skin. Full lips pressed together in a sort of dreamy half-smile. I’m not sure how long I watched him before falling back asleep, but I found my arm draped over his waist when we woke the next morning.

I’ve done my best not to think about that in the week since it happened. I deliberately made an effort to distance myself a bit, too by nonchalantly saying goodbye and leaving Justus to let himself out after we stroked each other to release last night in preparation for the game we just finished. But seeing him now, resting comfortably, the memory comes back, and it makes my chest feel sort of warm. Content in a way I’m not familiar with. Then the door clicks shut, echoing in the otherwise silent room, and a slight wince mars his smooth features. I feel myself mirroring his expression, since I don’t like the idea of him in pain.

Crossing the room, I take a seat on the chair next to the table, lifting my eyes to the doctor in silent inquiry.

“A grade two concussion,” he says. “He’s got a headache and some sensitivity to light, but he isn’t nauseas and hasn’t vomited.”

“How long will he be out for?”

“Two weeks, depending on his recovery.”

“Coach says he needs to stay with someone. I’ve got a spare room.”

“You know how to monitor concussion symptoms?” the doctor asks.

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