Page 160 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Russo collapses beside me again, still laughing.

“About damn time,” he pants, relief evident in his grin as he raps my helmet once more.

“Shut up,” I growl, but I’m grinning too.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, sweat dripping to the floor. Beneath all the noise, the heavy breathing, and the sting of the ice, a quiet promise thrums inside me.

The third period starts like a gunshot. The other team pressing hard, their desperation clawing at every loose puck.

Every line change feels faster, rougher, like time is both stretching and collapsing around me. My legs scream, lungs burn, but that steel-edged focus holds me steady.

Russo takes a hard hit along the wall, and I bark out his name without even realizing it, ready to jump in. He pops up, gives me that toothy grin, and my pulse slams back into rhythm.

We’re holding the lead by one, but it’s thin as paper. Every shift feels like a fight for air.

I take another rush down the ice, eat a slash to the wrist that’ll bruise like hell tomorrow, but I keep moving, keep feeding the puck forward.

The clock winds down, minute by brutal minute. Coach leans over the boards, shouting final assignments, eyes burning.

When the last buzzer finally splits the air, it feels like the roof might rip right off the arena.

I slam my helmet against Russo’s, adrenaline still crackling through every nerve.

“We did it,” he roars, voice ragged.

Guys swarm around us: gloves smacking shoulders, sticks banging helmets in quick, chaotic celebration. The noise is pure chaos and relief all at once.

In the tunnel afterward, the guys keep yelling, every shout echoing like a war drum.

We’re one win away from the Cup.

The tunnel buzz fades as we spill into the locker room, which quickly turns into a cramped, humid cave of sweat-soaked gear and steam curling off shoulder pads.

Russo launches himself onto the bench, still grinning like he might explode. “One more!” he yells, pumping his fist toward the ceiling.

I toss my gloves into my stall, my chest still heaving from the rush. Coach is making his rounds, clapping guys on the back, barking half-sentences: part praise, part ‘next-game’ reminders.

I sink down, elbows propped on my knees, letting the moment soak into my bones. My head drops forward, sweat dripping to the floor in steady beats.

My phone buzzes from the pocket of my jacket hanging nearby. I fish it out with stiff fingers.

Greg:Hell of a game. Good to see you back out there.

I stare at the message for a second, my pulse ticking up.

Greg doesn’t know yet. But he will. Soon.

I type back quickly, my fingers clumsy from the leftover adrenaline.

Me:Thanks, man. Means a lot. We should get together soon.

I lean back, exhaling slow.

Russo is yelling something at the rookies, another guy’s tape ball sails across the room, Coach’s voice cuts in and out, but I barely hear any of it.

All I can think about is her. The boys. Everything we’ve built since she ran out of her wedding and into my arms. How each small step, each messy, terrifying leap led us here.

A wave of certainty rolls through me so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of my lungs.