Page 147 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

It’s their last week of school, and I can already tell they’re bursting with summer energy, counting down the days to long days at the park and backyard water fights.

I think of Ava, pacing the living room, that distant look in her eyes she can’t quite hide. The conversation we need to have. The possibility that everything may be about to change.

When I finally head upstairs to grab my jacket before leaving for the arena, the boys are waiting for me in the hallway, practically vibrating with energy.

Noah runs up to me, his hair sticking up in three different directions like he just wrestled a bear.

“Daddy, are you gonna score tonight?”

I swallow hard, forcing a smile. "Not tonight, buddy. I’ll be watching, cheering just as loud as you."

His face falls for a second before Liam pipes up behind him, "Then we’ll cheer extra loud too!"

I ruffle their hair, careful not to let my voice shake. “That’s my guys.”

I glance at Ava as I stand, her eyes catching mine, that same concern living there. I give her a small nod. The kind that says I’m okay even when I’m not.

The drive to the arena feels wrong. No gear bag in the back seat, no stick balanced across the headrests. Just a suit jacket hanging behind me, reminding me I’m going there to watch, not play.

Ava offered to come, but I told her to stay with the boys. They’d need her there, shouting at the TV, asking where I was every two minutes. And the truth is, part of me didn’t want her to see me like this, sidelined and useless.

I park in my usual spot out of habit. My fingers twitch toward the truck bed, like they’re expecting to grab my gear. I catch myself, shaking my head as I reach for the door with my good arm.

Inside, I check in with the trainers one more time: quick wrap check, mobility test, another reminder to ice later. I nod along even though every word gnaws at me.

Russo catches me in the hallway on my way to the suite. He gives my shoulder a careful pat. “You sure you don’t wanna come hang in the room? The boys would love it.”

I force a smile. “I’ll come down after. Right now, they need to focus.”

He nods, reading between the lines.

Up in the suite, I lean against the glass, my breath fogging the edge as I watch warmups. Every stride, every puck snap, looks both familiar and distant. Like watching an old life through a one-way mirror.

The game starts, and I shift restlessly. I can’t sit, can’t stand still. My hand curls into a fist every time we lose a faceoff or get pinned in our zone. I catch myself almost miming defensive coverage like some restless kid in the stands.

Between periods, I imagine Russo cracking jokes in the room, tossing towels at guys and chirping the rookies about their hair or how they tape their sticks. He’ll pretend he isn’t nervous, but that’s just his way of keeping the air light.

I can almost hear the echo of their laughter, the biting scrape of skate blades on the floor, the low murmur of the coaches sketching out the next shift plan.

My shoulder throbs under the wrap, an ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. I shift again, pressing my palm to the glass.

When the final horn blares, I stay by the glass for a minute longer, watching them celebrate the win.

They pulled it off without me. Relief rushes in first. But underneath it, there’s a restless pulse that reminds me I wasn’t out there fighting with them.

I take the elevator down to the locker room. The hallway already hums with energy, trainers weaving in and out, someone blasting music from a phone speaker.

As soon as I step in, Russo shouts across the room, “Hey, Jacks! You coming back out there next game, or do you just like the view from the suite?”

A couple of guys laugh and slap me on the back, careful around my injured shoulder. Someone tosses a towel at my head, and I catch it on reflex.

I force a grin, shake my head. “Maybe next game. Trainer’s call.”

I hang around long enough to hear them rehash plays, pass beers around, watch the rookies get chirped for nothing at all.

I know I’m still part of this. But standing there in a suit instead of gear, not drenched in sweat with them, I feel one step removed from it all.

Soon I clap Russo on the shoulder, nod to the rest of the guys, and slip out.