Page 146 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I swallow hard, my fingers curling around the edge of the table. “That’s… that’s good news, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something behind it. Something quieter, like he’s not fully convinced yet.

“I should be home soon,” he adds. “They’re finishing taping me up again. Trainer wants me to start some movement today already. I’ll be home before dinner.”

When I hang up, I sit there for a minute longer, the phone still in my hand. Relief and worry mix in my veins like two incompatible currents.

My shoulders drop, tension finally beginning to slip away.

For now, he’s okay. And that’s enough.

Chapter Forty-Four

JACKSON

I’ve been trying not to think about the unopened pregnancy test.

I told myself I’d wait. That she’d come to me when she was ready.

But the longer I wait, the harder it is to pretend I don’t know about it, invisible but heavy as hell.

And if that weren’t enough, there’s the shoulder.

Every time I move, there’s a dull, angry pull that reminds me I’m not on the ice, not with the team.

The trainer keeps saying the same thing:Be patient. Trust the process.

I tell myself it’s just one more game. Maybe two. But Game 2 of the Final is tonight, and the thought of watching instead of playing guts me.

This is the moment every NHL player dreams of. The chance to fight for the Cup. And I’m watching it from the sidelines.

I see the way Ava looks at me, like she wants to fix it somehow. She hovers, brings me ice packs, checks if I’ve eaten. She’s been more careful than usual, softer. And at the same time, I can tell she’s somewhere else in her head.

I don’t want to push her. God, the last thing I want is to make her feel cornered or scared.

But every time I look at her, I see the same quiet, knotted worry I feel twisting in my own chest.

I tell myself I’ll give it a little longer. Let her come to me. But if she doesn’t…

I can’t keep pretending I don’t know.

I went in early for treatment: manual work, ice, all the things the trainers swear will get me back faster. They sent me home with a band and a list of movements to do.

I run through my rehab exercises in the living room, bands anchored to the railing, slow rotations that feel like they’re moving through wet cement.

The muscle burns in a way that makes me want to push harder, but I know if I do, I’ll pay for it tomorrow.

The guys are probably at morning skate right now, going over last-minute drills, fine-tuning line changes. The locker room will be buzzing later with that electric energy before a big game. The kind that makes your pulse beat in your fingertips.

And I’ll be up in a suite, dressed in a suit and tie instead of pads and gloves.

Useless.

I know it’s the smart call. One or two games now to avoid risking the whole series. But it doesn’t make it easier.

I flex my fingers, rolling my shoulder slowly.

I think of the boys, probably climbing all over Ava, still glued to the TV even though they know I’m not playing.