Page 12 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I nod, chewing my lip. “I keep thinking about this time in middle school. These girls thought it would be hilarious to dump out my lunch tray while I was in the bathroom. I came back and all my food was gone—everyone was laughing. Everyone except Jackson.”

I swallow, the memory clearer than I expect.

“He got up, walked straight to the front of the line, bought me another lunch, and handed it back to me like it was no big deal. Then he sat next to me the rest of lunch, tearing into his pizza as if nothing happened.”

Jenna smiles with a glint in her eye. “Well, maybe now’s the time to see if he still wants to be that guy.”

I roll my eyes, but my face burns. “It’s not like that.”

The man gave me a guest room and a shirt, not a proposal.

“Uh-huh. And I’m definitely not about to eat all the donuts downstairs.”

As she heads out, I’m overwhelmed again by how fast my life has shifted. But also, oddly, how safe I feel.

Here.

With him.

And I have no idea what to make of that.

Chapter Four

JACKSON

The slap of a puck against the boards snaps me back.

“Eyes up, Hart!” Coach Barrett’s voice echoes through the rink like a gunshot.

I mutter a curse under my breath and pivot hard, narrowly avoiding a collision with Russo, our second-line winger, who shoots me a sideways look and throws his hands up like,What the hell, man?

I deserve it. This is the second time I’ve drifted mid-drill.

As first-line left winger for the Pittsburgh SteelClaws, the last thing I need to be doing is slacking off.

“Keep your head in the damn game,” Russo calls as he circles back toward the net.

Yeah. Easier said than done.

The truth is, nothing’s been clicking since yesterday. Not practice this morning, not the usual locker room banter, not even the text thread blowing up in my pocket last night with jabs about Russo’s new haircut.

All I can think about is Ava.

It’s surreal having her in my house after all this time. Part of me still sees her as Greg’s kid sister, always trailing behind us with a huge backpack and a book tucked under her arm.

She’d sit at the edge of our backyard games, reading while the rest of us shouted and roughhoused like idiots.

She acted like she couldn’t be bothered. That is until someone cracked a joke funny enough to make her laugh, and she’d glance up, biting back a smile like she didn’t want us to see it.

But that girl is long gone.

This morning, she stood barefoot in my kitchen, wrapped in one of her sweatshirts Jenna brought over, hair still damp from a shower. Her phone buzzed twice on the counter, but she avoided it like it was radioactive.

She didn’t move, just stood there staring out the window, like she was waiting for the sky to tell her how to put her life back together.

And yet, when I handed her a mug of coffee, she still managed to thank me, clutching it like it was the only solid thing she had left to hold onto.

Coach Barrett blows the whistle again, snapping me back to reality.