Page 144 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

AVA

Iwake to the sounds of Miss Taylor’s calm voice drifting up from downstairs, punctuated by the boys’ excited chatter.

Sitting up slowly, I press a hand to my stomach. It’s tight and unsettled, like something’s coiled there. I swallow against the rising nausea. It’s not enough to send me running to the bathroom, but it sits there, uneasy.

I keep replaying last night in my head. The crack of Jackson hitting the boards, the way he didn’t get up right away, the wrap on his shoulder when I finally saw him again.

Quickly changing, I head downstairs and pause, catching another burst of laughter below.

“Liam, that cereal stays in the bowl,” Miss Taylor calls, her voice patient but firm.

“But the marshmallows fell out!” Liam insists.

A small smile tugs at my mouth despite the heaviness in my chest.

I make my way down and step into the kitchen doorway. The boys are already at the table: both elbow-deep in a bowl of cereal, faces smeared with milk. Miss Taylor hovers by the counter, smoothing her hair back like she’s already fought three small battles before sunrise.

“Morning,” I say softly.

Three heads whip toward me. Liam points a cereal spoon at me. “Miss Taylor said Dad got hurt after we went to sleep. Is he gonna be okay?”

The question lands heavy. Miss Taylor shoots me a gentle, sympathetic look, her hand pausing on a dish towel.

I clear my throat, moving closer. “He’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It’s just his shoulder. He went to get it checked this morning.”

Liam’s brow furrows. “Will he still play hockey?”

I crouch beside his chair, brushing a stray hair off his forehead. “He will. He just needs to rest a little while so it can heal properly.”

Noah nods solemnly, then offers, “I could bring him my dinosaur ice pack if it helps.”

That small, earnest offer slices right through me. “I think he’d love that.”

Miss Taylor sets a plate of toast on the table and gently nudges the boys to finish up. Then she catches my eye and tilts her head toward the hallway. We step aside as the boys argue over whose cereal has more marshmallows.

“You okay?” she asks, her voice low.

I press my lips together. “I didn’t really sleep. I keep replaying it. The hit… his face afterward…”

Miss Taylor nods slowly, her eyes softening. “He’s tough. And you’re tougher than you think.”

I look down at my hands, flexing them like I’m testing if they still work. “I just… I hate not knowing. Not being able to do anything.”

She touches my arm gently. “He’ll be okay.”

Before I can answer, Noah’s voice booms from the kitchen. “Miss Taylor! Liam stole my marshmallows!”

She rolls her eyes affectionately and turns to intervene.

I force myself to take a slow breath and step back into the kitchen, determined to keep the morning moving forward. Even if I feel barely stitched together.

When Miss Taylor shepherds the boys out the door, Noah’s still dramatically complaining about his missing marshmallows.

After they leave, I stand there for a moment, listening to the silence wrap around me like a heavy blanket, before finally turning to make some ginger tea.

While it steeps, I wrap my arms around my middle and lean against the counter. My phone sits on the table and I check it, hoping for a text. Anything.

Nothing yet.