Page 102 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I make a few final tweaks, send a quick reply to Evelyn, then check the score again.

SteelClaws: 2Outlaws: 1

I grin, fist-bump the air, and whisper, “You’ve got this.”

I try to return to my notes, but my phone buzzes. Jenna.

Third period. Your boyfriend’s killing it. Drinks after gala. Don’t argue.

I laugh under my breath as I text her back.

He is. I hate missing this one. Drinks soon. Promise.

I set the phone down, but not for long. I swipe to the live feed, just in time to see a close shot of Jackson on the bench. Helmet off. Jaw set. Blue eyes laser-focused.

The steadiness in his expression anchors something deep in me.

With Jackson, nothing’s for show. Not on the ice. Not in how he looks at me. I trust him completely. And lately, that trust has started to feel like something I can lean on.

I lose track of time between calls and final notes.

By the time I glance at the clock again, it’s pitch black outside.

I grab my phone and swipe to check the final score.

SteelClaws 3, Outlaws 2.

A breath I didn’t realize I was holding eases out of me.

They did it.

I head to bed early, knowing tomorrow is a big day. Jackson is leaving for Boston.

The house is already in motion when I come downstairs the next morning.

Sunlight pours through the kitchen windows, warming the floor in golden stripes. At the table, the boys are mid-debate, spoons clinking as they shovel cereal into their mouths between animated bursts of logic.

“But it needs wings, Liam!”

“It’s a car. Cars don’t fly.”

“Why not? It’s my car.”

Miss Taylor sips her coffee with the patient expression of someone who’s already refereed three arguments before eight a.m.

Jackson moves around the kitchen in joggers and a hoodie, barefoot, focused as he slices apples with calm precision. His travel duffel is already parked by the stairs.

“Morning,” he says when he spots me, voice warm and just a little rough.

“Morning.” I walk to the counter where he’s pouring coffee. He hands me a mug without asking, and I wrap both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.

This morning should feel ordinary, but it doesn’t.

It feels like something I’ll miss.

The next fifteen minutes move in a blur of backpack checks, toothbrush reminders, and Liam trying to zip his jacket without putting down the toy car he insists on bringing. Jackson crouches to give the boys hugs before they go.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says. “Play nice for Ava and Miss Taylor.”