Page 127 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Next shift, we adjust. Play smarter.

O’Connor blocks a slapshot off the shin and doesn’t flinch. Stevens lays out on a breakaway, forcing their center wide. We’re giving everything. Leaving it all out here.

With eight minutes left, they finally break through—a messy rebound in front, bouncing twice before a stick finds it low, glove side.

2–1.

Still up. But barely.

TV timeout. We huddle. Coach’s voice cuts through the noise—calm, clipped.

“You know how to win games like this. Close it out.”

When the puck drops, we grind. Shift by shift. Dump and chase. Tie up sticks. Block everything.

They pull their goalie with ninety seconds left.

Empty net. Six attackers.

The pressure ratchets up.

One shot—blocked. Another—glove save.

Thirty seconds. One more faceoff.

I line up, breath burning. Sweat stings my eyes. The ref drops the puck.

Russo wins it. O’Connor clears it.

The puck bounces, bounces… kisses the post on the empty net and rolls wide.

The crowd groans. So do I.

But it doesn’t matter.

New York makes one last push. We close them out against the boards.

The horn blares.

The arena explodes.

We’re going to the Stanley Cup Final.

I get mobbed by the guys, our gloves and helmets flying, sticks clattering to the ice. Russo grabs me in a bear hug and nearly lifts me off the ground.

“You’re a machine, Jacks!” he yells in my ear.

I barely hear him over the roar. But I nod, grinning through the chaos, still catching my breath.

The team floods the ice. Cheers, slaps on the helmet, shouts that blur into noise.

But even as we celebrate, my mind pulls somewhere else.

Home.

I picture the living room: the couch, the blanket, the soft glow of the TV. Liam probably yelling something about how I skated faster than a superhero. Noah trying to mimic the goal with his mini stick.

And Ava.