Page 13 of Bad Pucking Roommate

“You didn’t?” Noah snorts.

“I mean, he mentioned studying my film, I just didn’t know he mentioned it to you, too.”

“He didn’t have to. It’s evident in the way he watches you on the ice, like he still can’t believe he gets to play with you. Plus, he’s always asking you to help with his game.”

Well, fuck. I guess the childhood hero thing still applies. Now I really feel like an ass.

“Are you sure that’s not an,I made it to the NHLthing? It’s only his second season, so he might still be pinching himself a little bit.” That sounds sillier out loud than it did in my head, but the idea he might idolize me now the same way he did as a kid is a heavy burden. I’d like to find another explanation—any explanation—that doesn’t put me in the idol role. Especially after what transpired the other night, and my temptation to do it again for purely selfish reasons.

“I think it’s a living out his dream thing. He’s sharing the ice with the person he wanted to be growing up, and even if he’s more of an equal now he still thinks he can learn from you. So, you can see why there’s a conflict, right?” Noah presses. “I don’t think he’s capable of saying no to you, so don’t put him in a position where he can’t do that, even if he wants to.”

“I won’t,” I promise. And true to my word, I don’t seek Justus out. I call an old acquaintance, who as luck would have it has a boyfriend who’s open to letting me join them. Problem solved.

Only it’s not.

Even as he watches from the corner of the room, just like Charlie did all those years, something feels off. Yeah, he’s looking at me, but he’s not seeing me. Or rather, he’s seeing the pro hockey player, feeling proud that he’s dating the girl I like to fuck. He’s getting off on it, because sharing her is the closest he’ll get tobeingme.

That should do the trick in my fucked-up mind. Make me believe this guy is picturing himself as me so when I take the ice it’s with the cocky swagger that I’m the best, and I’ll play that way. Instead, my mind is blank. Bored. Annoyed.

I don’t want him to see the hockey player. To envision himself as me. I want him to see the man under the pads, like Justus seemed to.

That errant thought makes me lose my rhythm, and I grunt with the effort of trying to get it back, mostly so I can finish and end this. Except I can’t shake out of it.

EvenIsee just a hockey player when I look in the mirror, so there can’t be any way Justus saw something different. I mean, what else is there to see, other than a guy who pretends to have his shit together? Still, the way he looked at me was vastly different than the way I’m being looked at now, and it’s messing with my head. Both of them, apparently, since my guests are done and I’m not.

For the first time in years, I can’t get there. Not the way I usually do, and it’s only by conjuring an image of Justus looking at me that I limp over the finish line.

The fact that I did finish gives me hope I’ll play a good game.

Spoiler alert—I don’t. And we add another loss to our record.

Chapter six

Justus

Energy is low for the final stop on this road trip, which isn’t unusual, but given our loss last night it’s lower than what it should be. For everyone. But for Luca in particular, I think.

He played a truly horrible game. The worst since I joined the team, and maybe even of his career. It was that bad. And even though I tried to help him counter it by pointing at my stick and then my wrist, a silent signal he was holding onto the puck too long again, he couldn’t seem to correct it.

It wasn’t just his timing that was off either. He seemed to move sluggishly, his passes and shots missed the mark by wide margins, and he damn near scored a goal for the other team when he made an ill-timed pass to Gauthier, who wasn’t expecting it, yet managed to get a glove on it before it slipped past him.

Coach Nydek actually benched Luca in the third and made a lame excuse to the press about how he was trying to play through a stomach bug. Then he practically ripped Luca a new one for not having his head in the game.

To be fair, Luca wasn’t the only one who was off. Jace missed at least two shots that should’ve gone in, I had a pass go wild that resulted in agoal for the other team and even Niko didn’t stop a fast break that their forward ultimately snuck past Gauthier. Still, having Luca benched pretty much killed morale.

Now, once again, he’s still as a statue on the plane even though he’s got his air pods in and is presumably listening to music. And just like in Seattle, I can’t stop myself from swinging by his room to check on him.

“Niko needs some alone time again?” he asks when he opens the door.

“Something like that. Are you expecting company?” I only want to make sure I’m not intruding, but I swear the question puts a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and I have a feeling I’ll stay regardless of the answer.

“I’m not sure yet.” He opens the door all the way and I follow as he walks further into the room. “Drink?” He holds up a tiny whiskey bottle.

“Isn’t booze off-limits the night before a game?”

“Getting drunk is off-limits.” He pours the amber liquid over the cubes of ice in an empty glass. “And I’d need a lot more than one of these to get drunk.” He lifts the tumbler like he’s toasting me even though I’m not drinking and swallows at least half of what’s in the glass. His head jerks quickly to the left before it stills—that must’ve burned going down—then turns his detached gaze to me. “Why are you really here?”

I’m prepared to double down on the story about Niko needing the room, but the purple circles under Luca’s eyes and the pallor of his skin traps the lie in my throat. “I thought maybe after the last game you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

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