Page 154 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. Part of me wants to tell them now, to fold them into this new world that’s blooming in my chest. But I know we need time. Time to hold this close, just for us, before it belongs to anyone else.

That afternoon, we drift through the house in a gentle rhythm. I pack a small suitcase, my hands moving slowly over folded shirts and soft dresses.

As I fold each piece, my mind drifts to Open Pages: the bookmobiles, the summer programs, all the tiny details. I think of Jenna, how she’s always been the one I trust most, the one who never hesitates to jump in.

I make a quiet promise to myself that I’ll talk to her soon. I’ll tell her about the baby, then ask her for help carrying more of the load for a while.

It feels strange to think about stepping back but also freeing. Like making space for something new without dropping the parts of me I still love.

Jackson double-checks his travel bag, quiet and focused. Every now and then, we pass each other in the hallway and pause. His fingers brush my arm, my hand lands on his chest. Both of us stand there for a breath longer than necessary.

Miss Taylor keeps the boys busy, promising them a movie night and extra dessert while we’re away. Their excited chatter floats through the house like a warm breeze.

After dinner, Jackson and I meet in the bedroom. He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, testing the shoulder he’s been guarding so carefully.

“I’m still out for Game 3, but I’m officially cleared for Game 4,” he says when he catches my eye. Relief threads through his voice, edged with determination.

A smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it. “That’s great,” I say, wrapping my arms around him from behind. “I know how much you’ve been waiting for this.”

Tomorrow, we leave for Denver. Tomorrow the world keeps spinning: games, travel, the noise of everything waiting beyond this house. But today, it’s just us, holding on to the small, quiet hope of everything still to come.

Before bed, I pad down the hall to switch off the porch light and pause in the entryway. The boys’ sneakers sit in a lopsided heap. I catch myself picturing a smaller pair beside them next spring.

I’m still scared, just less than I was yesterday.

Chapter Forty-Eight

JACKSON

The plane touches down in Denver just after noon, the wheels hitting the tarmac with a jolt that echoes through my bones. I glance at Ava across the aisle. She’s looking out the window, fingers twisting together in her lap.

She catches me watching and offers a small, tired smile. I reach across and squeeze her hand.

By the time we get to the hotel, the lobby is buzzing with reporters and fans. I keep Ava close, ignoring the flash of cameras and the too-bright smiles that follow us in. Russo whistles low when we pass him near the elevator.

"Bringing your good luck charm this time?" he teases, giving my good shoulder a light slap.

"You’ll need it until I’m back in the lineup," I shoot back, raising an eyebrow.

Ava and I take the elevator up to our rooms. A staff member delivers my gear and the team’s schedule. I glance through it briefly, my shoulder already beginning to ache.

The next day, the hotel lobby is already humming by the time we head down. Players move past us in suits and sneakers, staff barking last-minute directions, the whole place vibrating with the focused edge only game days bring.

Ava stands at my side, hand hooked loosely around my elbow. When we step into the suite, she sets her purse down and moves to the front row of seats without hesitation. I take the seat beside her, feeling her lean in a fraction closer than usual, almost like she’s trying to anchor herself.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah. Just a lot on my mind.”

I squeeze her knee. “Me too.”

Even if I’m not lacing up tonight, my head is already on the ice with the guys, tracking every shift, every zone entry. But tonight, there’s something bigger humming under the surface. Something that has nothing to do with the scoreboard.

Ava watches, too. Calm, composed, but I can tell by the way her fingers tap gently against her leg that the weight of everything we’re carrying is still there.

When she catches me staring, she just gives a small, knowing smile. “It feels different now,” she says quietly, almost to herself.

I nod, my throat catching. “Yeah. Everything does.”