Page 159 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I feel my breath catch, my whole body leaning forward as if drawn by a magnet.

It hits me all at once. How fiercely proud I am, how deeply in this I already am.

I press a hand lightly to my stomach, my pulse echoing beneath my fingertips.

And when he skates past the bench, his head lifting for just a moment, I swear it’s like he feels me there: watching, waiting, cheering in every quiet, wordless way I know how.

I lean forward even more, my heart pounding in time with the beat of the arena music.

He’s back.

Chapter Fifty

JACKSON

The sharp scent of fresh ice cuts through the tunnel as I stand there, helmet in hand, pulse thudding in my ears.

It’s loud. The low rumble of the crowd bleeds down through the concrete, sticks tapping against the boards, the thud of skates against rubber mats.

I flex my fingers around my stick, roll my shoulders carefully. The last few weeks flicker through my mind in a fast, jagged montage: the injury, the forced games on the sideline, the slow climb back. Missing two Final games nearly broke me. Not just physically, but in that deep, clawing place only athletes know.

But tonight, I’m back.

I close my eyes for a second, inhaling slow, letting the edge of nerves and adrenaline slice through me clean. I think of the boys, probably glued to the TV back home with Miss Taylor. I think of Ava in the suite right now, her eyes on me. The thought of her there steadies me more than anything else ever has.

Coach’s voice echoes from down the line, a bark of final directions, but most of it blurs past me. My focus tunnels in: puck drop, first shift, first hit, first goal.

Russo slams his stick on the wall beside me and leans close. “Bout damn time you laced ‘em up again,” he shouts over the noise, a huge grin splitting his face.

I snort, shoving his shoulder lightly with my glove. “Try not to get yourself benched in the first five,” I fire back, my voice low but steady.

He barks a laugh and skates ahead, disappearing into the flood of noise and light as the announcer starts calling the starters.

I slide my helmet on, feeling the familiar snug pull, the chin strap snapping into place. My heartbeat syncs with the bass thump of the pregame music vibrating the walls.

And then I step forward.

I’m back. And tonight I’m not leaving anything on the ice.

The first shift hits me like a shot of pure adrenaline straight to the veins.

My blades dig into the ice, that first push surging through every muscle that’s been screaming to move since I was cleared. The boards rush past in a blur of white and blue, the puck snapping against my stick like an old friend finally coming home.

There’s a split-second hitch, a ghost-pain flicker through my shoulder, but then instinct barrels past it and everything snaps back into place, as natural as breathing.

I take a hit early—hard, right along the boards. It rattles every rib but misses my shoulder. I bounce up, teeth gritted around my mouthguard, and skate straight back into the play. The trainer’s eyes find me. I give a quick nod and keep moving.

The puck slides to my linemate, and he sends it across the slot. It’s a perfect, clean pass. I don’t think, just bury it.

The red light flares behind the net.

The noise explodes.

We’re up by one now. It’s a razor-thin edge, but enough to send a fresh wave of energy surging through the bench.

I don’t hear my own shout over the roar. I don’t even feel Russo’s glove crack against my helmet in celebration… I just see the guyscrashing into the boards, sticks raised, the whole bench surging to its feet.

On the bench, I drop onto the seat, chest heaving. Coach smacks my back as he moves past, a quick, firm approval that sends another jolt of adrenaline through me.