Page 52 of Bad Pucking Roommate

Please don’t let them suspect the truth we’re both desperately trying to avoid.

Justus formally introduces me to his parents, Mark and Claire, and the Collie named Maggie. I offer a lame apology about meeting under these circumstances—another thing I didn’t quite think through before inviting myself along—and stand around awkwardly as Justus hugs his parents again, his mom’s soft cries still audible despite her trying to muffle them against his shoulder.

After a few minutes she straightens and wipes her eyes, morphing from sad to focused. “Let’s get you both settled.” I’m pretty sure the task is meant to be a distraction for her tears, and while I feel bad myintrusion is forcing her to play hostess, I get the sense she’s the type of woman who’d rather do something than mope about. So, we follow her inside and head upstairs to unpack.

I’m led to a modest guest room with what appears to be a handmade quilt draped over a queen mattress that rests on a sturdy wooden frame. One of those you’d picture in a log cabin with thick, lacquered branches for slats on the headboard. I set my bag on the matching dresser as Justus ducks into a room across the hall, but after hanging my suit in the closet there’s nothing but a change of clothes and some toiletries left in my bag. It seems silly to put them in drawers for a night, so instead of bothering with that chore I go looking for Justus.

I find him sitting on the double bed I presume was his growing up, surrounded by hockey posters and memorabilia. There’s one of Gretzky—obviously—and a few other notable players from over the years, but most of it is of me and the Bulldogs. My individual poster, team photos, one of me holding the cup, cut from a magazine and framed with an article about the game. At first, it’s nostalgic, seeing the highlights of my career on display, but it quickly turns overwhelming. And confusing.

I pull my gaze from the Central division team photo from my first All-Star game to meet his. “Why me?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” His face turns predictably red as he sucks in a breath of air.

“If we were in Colorado and the Bulldogs were your home team it’d make more sense for you to be a fan, but we’re not. We’re in the midwest. How did you end up picking me for your favorite player?”

Justus licks his full, soft lips and blinks back tears as he offers me a wary smile. “Grandpa, actually. He thought you were magic on the ice. That you had a head for the game, as if you could see it unfolding faster than everyone else, and always knew where to beto make the play. We’d pick apart how you moved and try to recreate it ourselves.” He tilts his head toward the window, and when I step closer, I see the small, frozen pond in the backyard.

“Grandpa would play the defender and I’d try to get around him doing what I’d seen you do. Over and over and over again, we’d skate around until I could make the same moves you did, and eventually moving like you became second nature. And before you ask, yes. I’m pretty sure a lot of our initial chemistry is due to the way I studied you, but the rest… Not just how we’ve been playing recently but everything else… It’s separate from you being the athlete I wanted to emulate. I know the Luca shrine might suggest otherwise, but I promise that’s just a coincidence.”

I cross the room and sit next to him on the bed, close enough our thighs are touching. “Was my concern that obvious?”

“I’d probably worry I picked up a stalker if I walked into someone’s childhood bedroom and saw pictures of myself plastered all over.”

“Stalker, huh?” I nudge his shoulder playfully with mine, getting a bashful smile in return. “For the record, that’s not what I was thinking. But it does make me feel better to hear you say you can separate Justus the fan from Justus the teammate and friend. I thought you could, but it’s nice to know for sure.”

“I can, which makes it all the more embarrassing to have you sitting here right now. Remind me why I thought it was a good idea for you to come?” Justus lowers his gaze to where our legs touch.

“You didn’t. I did, and I didn’t give you much of a choice.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. I know my family is here and all but having you here… Sharing him with you—”

Justus’s eyes snap to mine as I wrap my hand around his neck and pull him toward me, resting our foreheads together. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now.”

I feel Justus nod his head, but he makes no move to pull away, and neither do I. Instead, we hold still, chests heaving as we breathe each other’s air, simultaneously giving in to and fighting the pull between us.

As has become habit, no words are spoken. No truths admitted. We just hold still, existing together yet separately. Feeling whole and yet, incomplete. And somehow, despite not touching each other intimately, I can’t help feeling this is the most intimate moment I’ve had with another person. The most beautiful experience I’ve shared with another soul. And I don’t want it to end.

That realization is as foreign to me as the farm I’m sitting on, but it’s absolutely true. I’ve never desired a deep connection with anyone else since I knew my dedication to hockey would make me unworthy of it, yet here I am, not just having found it but wanting more. Wanting it as much as I’ve wanted success on the ice.

But I can’t have it.

I can’t encourage it.

So, while I want nothing more than for time to stand still so Justus and I can linger in this little bubble, I pull away before I do something irrevocable. “Show me around? I’ve never been to a dairy farm.”

Looking as broken as I feel inside, a sensation I’d compare to getting knocked out of the playoffs in the second round last year, Justus nods his head, and the two of us bundle up before heading outside to make our way to the barn.

The trek is about a hundred yards, give or take, over soggy grass peppered with clumps of dirt. At least I hope it’s dirt. In case it’s not, I hop from green spot to green spot, carefully avoiding anything that might want to attach itself to my shoes, and exhaling a puff of white air each time I land.

Justus, who walks bravely through the yard without a second thought, sniggers at my choppy gait. “How are you so suave on the ice and so uncoordinated on two legs?”

“These are Air Jordan’s.” I point to my feet. “Special edition. White and black with varsity red. They’re a collector’s item. I’m trying not to get them dirty.”

“If they’re for collecting, why are they on your feet?”

“I have one pair on display and one to wear.”

“And you chose to wear them to a farm?” Justus’s brow disappears under the disheveled brown hair that’s partially covered by a gray beanie, which I find sort of cute even though I know it’s meant to imply I’m an idiot.

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