Page 115 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I know this doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. It just means I’ve been handed the responsibility to prove I deserve her, and Greg’s trusting me with that. That’s enough to settle something in my chest.

Later that evening, after practice and our team meeting, the nerves have settled into something sharper.

Focused. Hungry.

Russo settles onto the bench beside me, lacing his skates without a word at first.

After a beat, he nods toward my stick. “You’ve re-taped that three times.”

I glance down. “Didn’t even realize.”

He shrugs. “Lot riding on tonight.”

“Yeah.”

Russo leans forward. “You good?”

I nod. Even he’s dialed in. No jokes. Just game mode.

In the locker room, the energy ramps up. Guys crank music, shoulders bump, sticks tap against the floor. I pull on my jersey, the weight of it grounding me like always.

Russo catches my eye as he closes his helmet strap. “Two wins at home would feel real damn good.”

I nod once, hard.

The room quiets when Coach comes back in for the final word. “You want this series? Tonight’s your moment. Keep it clean. Keep it solid. And remember what’s waiting for us if we take both games at home.”

The roar hits us the second we step onto the ice.

It’s deafening. Electric. A wall of noise that rattles your chest and drowns out everything but instinct. The first shift flies by—a blur of blades and bodies and sticks clashing at the boards. I hit the ice hard and fast, keeping their top line pinned like Coach said. Quick shifts, no hesitation.

We strike first. A wrister from Russo at the blue line—clean and crisp. The place erupts.

They tie it in the second, a greasy rebound we should’ve cleared. Doesn’t matter. We answer back two minutes later. One of our rookies buries it off a feed from behind the net, and we ride that momentum into the third.

The pace is brutal. Every shift burns.

With five minutes left and a one-goal lead, Coach throws our line out again. My legs are screaming, but I drive the puck deep, win the battle on the boards, and manage a clean dish to Russo, who snaps it top shelf.

The horn doesn’t even need to sound. I know it’s in.

By the time the final buzzer blows, we’re up 4–2 and the place is shaking. Helmets fly. Gloves hit the ice. We crowd our goalie, shouting, back-slapping, half-laughing from the high of it all.

Two wins at home.

Coach’s grin is rare but real as we head back into the tunnel. “That’s how you send a message.”

I peel off my gear in the locker room, sweat still dripping down my spine. Russo bumps my shoulder as we sit side by side on the bench.

“Told you two at home would feel good,” he says, breathless but smug.

I just nod, grinning like an idiot. Because it does. It really, really does.

My body’s still humming with adrenaline, but my heart’s already somewhere else.

By the time I get home, the house is quiet, the dishwasher humming in the background.

I crack the twins’ door just enough to peek in. The boys are out cold, their nightlight casting stars across the ceiling like a quiet galaxy.