Page 90 of The Puck Contract

"My jersey's not bringing luck," I protest. "That's ridiculous."

The words have barely left my mouth when Groover intercepts a pass at center ice, splits the defense, and scores a highlight-reel goal that brings the entire arena to its feet. As he celebrates with his teammates, he skates to the glass nearest our section and taps his chest, right where the number would be if his jersey were on backward like mine.

"You were saying?" Devon asks with a smirk.

The Wolves win 6-2, their most decisive victory in weeks. Groover is named first star with two goals and two assists. His postgame interview plays on the arena screens as fans file out.

"Seems like your luck has changed lately," the interviewer observes. "That's four points tonight. Anything different in your preparation?"

Groover's eyes flit toward the family section, a smile tugging at his lips. "Just getting great support. The whole team is clicking right now."

"And your boyfriend's unique jersey style? Fans are calling it the backward charm."

I want to melt into the floor as the camera cuts to a shot of me trying to become one with my seat. Groover laughs, a genuine sound that echoes through the arena.

"No comment on that. But I will say I'm not changing anything in my routine if we keep winning."

That's how it starts. One accidental wardrobe malfunction. One unexpectedly dominant win. And suddenly, I'm trapped in a superstition of my own making.

***

"YOU HAVE TO wear it backward again on Saturday," Becker informs me the next morning, cornering me in Groover's kitchen where I'm trying to make coffee in peace. His expression is deadly serious. "Exactly like last night."

"That's insane," I say, wondering how he even got into the apartment. "It's a coincidence. You guys were due for a big win."

Becker looks at me like I've suggested the ice is made of lava. "Mateo. There's no such thing as coincidence. Only juju."

"Juju," I repeat flatly.

"Hockey karma. Puck luck. The cosmic forces that determine whether a shot goes post-and-in or post-and-out." He slings an arm around my shoulders, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Look, all I'm saying is, why tempt fate?"

I think of the screenshot Carlos sent me last night—me on Twitter's trending page, sandwiched between a political scandal and a celebrity breakup—and sigh. "Do I have a say in this?"

Becker's beaming smile is answer enough.

Groover emerges from the bedroom, hair still damp from his shower, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips. "Why is Becker in my kitchen at eight in the morning?"

"Ensuring the cosmic balance remains intact," Becker saya. "Your boyfriend has agreed to maintain the backward jersey tradition for the next game."

"I didn't agree to anything," I protest. "And how did you even get in here?"

"I have a key for emergencies," Becker says, as if this is perfectly normal.

"A jersey superstition is an emergency?" Groover asks, stealing my coffee mug.

"Hockey gods, Grooves. Don't tempt them." Becker makes a complicated gesture that might be warding off evil spirits or might be a seizure. "See you at practice."

After he lets himself out, Groover presses a kiss to my temple. "You don't actually have to do it, you know."

But the thing is, I kind of do. Because as ridiculous as it sounds, watching him play like that—dominant, confident, unstoppable—while knowing I might have contributed even in some tiny superstitious way? It felt amazing.

"What if I want to?" I ask. "For, you know, team solidarity."

His slow smile makes my heart skip. "Then I'd say you're the best boyfriend a superstitious hockey player could ask for."

***

SATURDAY'S GAME AGAINST Nashville follows the same pattern. I arrive wearing Groover's jersey backward, now intentionally, and the entire VIP section erupts in applause when I take my seat.

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