Page 148 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

The trainer cleared me to drive—said my dominant arm was strong enough and I’d be fine without pain meds. I promised to take it slow.

On the way home, I replay every near miss and quick shift, leaning forward in the suite like I might somehow pull myself into the game.

When I pull into the driveway, the front porch glows warm against the dark.

I step inside to find the living room dim and quiet. Popcorn bowls and water cups clutter the table, a half-folded blanket on the couch.

Ava’s curled in the corner of the sectional, her long dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts, casual but somehow still elegant in that effortless way she has.

It hits me hardest when she’s like this: hair undone, barefoot, so completely at home. She knocks the breath out of me.

I slip off my jacket and hang it in the closet, trying to move quietly. When I turn back, she’s already standing up with a stretch.

“They looked good tonight,” she says. “Strong.”

I nod once, swallowing. “They did. Trainer thinks I’ll be cleared soon, but I’ll probably miss the next game too.”

I reach up, brush a loose strand of hair from her face. Her eyes close at the touch, just for a moment. I let my hand slide to the back of her neck and pull her gently into my chest. She tucks her head under my chin, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

For a second, I think about asking her about the test.

But I stop. Now’s not the right time.

I press a kiss into her hair, closing my eyes.

I’ll wait a little longer.

Chapter Forty-Five

AVA

Isleep in, waking to a low, queasy twist in my stomach. Not enough to send me running to the bathroom, but enough to keep me hovering on the edge of nausea.

I carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my palms to my thighs.

My fingers drum against my skin, already trying to justify one more day.

I don’t bother lying to myself this time.

I know better.

I pull on lightweight shorts and a soft shirt, tying my hair back in a ponytail. The mirror catches my face as I pass: pale, drawn, a flicker of something raw behind my eyes.

The boys are out for the summer now, and Miss Taylor took them to the park. A frog hunt and a brunch picnic, if I remember right.

The kitchen is quiet except for the whir of the dishwasher. Jackson is already up; I hear the rhythmic stretch and release of his resistance bands coming from the living room.

I set my laptop on the table, determined to bury myself in something productive.

Anything but that test.

I open the latest notes for Open Pages.

At the top it says: “Books on Wheels.”

Our new mobile library project. I skim the proposed routes again: underserved neighborhoods, church parking lots, community rec centers. I scroll past my drafted outreach emails to local schools and summer camps, trying to find my focus.

I type and delete the same sentence three times: