CHAPTER 25
MATEO
I'M WEARING THE wrong fucking thing.
Scratch that.
I’m wearing the right thing. What’s wrong is, I'm wearing it backward.
The number 17 that should be prominently displayed on my back is currently stretched across my chest like some kind of dyslexic hockey fashion statement.
And I didn't even notice until I saw myself on the fucking JumboTron.
Let me backtrack. It's Thursday night, and I'm running late because Professor Winters decided our seminar discussion on cultural determinism was more important than my boyfriend's hockey game. By the time I arrived at the arena, puck drop was fifteen minutes away.
Groover’s jersey has somehow become a regular part of my attire. (Yes, I sleep in it sometimes. No, we're not discussing that.) In my frantic rush to not miss opening face-off, I grabbed it from my laundry pile, threw it over my head while sprinting for the Uber, and apparently failed to notice it was backward.
Now I'm sitting in the VIP family section beside Leila, whose expression falls somewhere between amused and concerned as she points out my wardrobe malfunction.
"Sooo…are you sure this isn’t intentional?" she asks, perfectly manicured nail indicating the number plastered across my chest.
I groan, Devon joining Leila in torturing me before I can respond.
"Oh my god, you're trending." He leans over from the seat behind us, phone extended to show me a Twitter feed filled with pictures of me, #BackwardBoyfriend already gathering thousands of impressions.
"Kill me now," I mutter, sinking lower in my seat as the ambient chatter in our section increases noticeably.
"You can't fix it now," Leila says, patting my knee sympathetically. "The boys have already seen you on the pre-game feed."
"Besides," Devon adds cheerfully, "it's kind of adorable. Like you're so excited about your man you can't even dress yourself properly."
I'm contemplating the feasibility of climbing over the glass and disappearing into the penalty box when the arena lights dim. Saved by the starting lineup.
The crowd roars as the players skate out, spotlights dancing across the ice. When Groover emerges, he scans the family section immediately, eyes landing on me with laser precision. His double-take when he notices my backward jersey is subtle but unmistakable.
Then he grins. Not his media smile or his polite-in-public smile. The full, gap-toothed, crinkly-eyed grin that usually only appears in private moments. Even from this distance, I can see him shake with silent laughter as he takes his position for the anthem.
Great. I've amused my professional athlete boyfriend with my inability to dress myself. Add it to my list of accomplishments, right under "can name every bone in the human foot" and "once ate an entire pizza in under ten minutes."
The game starts, and I try to forget about my embarrassment by focusing on the action. The Wolves are playing Montreal, who—according to the stats Becker drilled into my head—are currently leading the conference. The odds are not in Chicago's favor.
Yet something strange happens. The Wolves come out flying. Groover scores in the first three minutes, a beautiful end-to-end rush that has the crowd on their feet. By the end of the first period, Chicago is up 3-0, with Groover factoring in on all three goals.
"He's playing out of his mind tonight," Devon comments during intermission. "Whatever you did to him before the game, keep doing it."
I choke on my overpriced beer. "I didn't—we haven't—I was running late!"
Devon winks. "Well, being late clearly works for him."
The second period is tighter, with Montreal clawing back two goals. The tension in the arena ratchets up as the visitors press for the equalizer. During a TV timeout, I notice Washington on the bench, scanning the crowd until he spots me. He points directly at my chest, then gives a thumbs up before returning to the game.
"Did he just... acknowledge my fashion disaster?" I ask Leila.
She laughs. "Hockey players are the most superstitious creatures on the planet. If they think something is bringing luck, they'll latch onto it like barnacles on a whale."
"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.
"The man of the hour!" Devon declares, high-fiving me.
Coach Martin actually stops me in the hallway before I reach my seat.
"Rossi," he says, face as stern as always. "Jersey backward?"
I turn in a small circle to demonstrate, feeling ridiculous.
He nods once, satisfied. "Carry on."
The Wolves win 4-1, with Groover scoring again. His second goal—a power play beauty in the third period—is followed by him skating to the family section and pointing directly at me. The crowd around me goes wild.
By Tuesday's game against Dallas, I'm fielding texts from Leila if I'm running late.
Leila : Where are you? Puck drop in 20. Devon says you're not in the seats yet .
Me : Traffic. Almost there. Jersey is backward, I swear .
Leila : Thank god. Wall is pacing the hallway muttering about "disrupted energy ."
This is my life now. A grown man, anthropology major with a 3.8 GPA, reduced to a glorified rabbit's foot for professional athletes.
The ridiculous part? It's working. The Wolves win again, 3-0 shutout. They climb in the standings, firmly securing a playoff position with ten games left in the regular season. Groover's playing the best hockey of his career. And all anyone can talk about is the "Backward Boyfriend Phenomenon."
ESPN does a segment on hockey superstitions, featuring me as Exhibit A. Sports blogs debate whether I should be considered for a front-office position. The Wolves' social media team creates a compilation video of all nine goals scored over these three games.
It's absurd, embarrassing, and strangely addictive.