Page 163 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I wipe my eyes, trying to catch my breath. My chest feels full, every inhale wrapped around too many feelings to name.

Soon a staff member jogs up the aisle to our row, her headset crackling. “Family members can come down now,” she says.

Liam and Noah explode into motion, grabbing my hands and nearly dragging me forward. Miss Taylor laughs, gathering her bag and following behind us, her eyes crinkled with pride.

We make our way through the back halls, the boys practically vibrating beside me.

Finally stepping out onto the edge of the rink, I spot Jackson right away. His helmet is off, his hair damp and pushed back, cheeks flushed from the game. The second he sees us, his entire face changes. A light that starts in his eyes and spreads, cracking him open with pure, unstoppable joy.

The boys let go of my hands at the same time, sprinting forward without hesitation. Jackson drops to his knees just in time to catch them both, their small bodies crashing into him with unrestrained force.

I slow my steps, taking it all in. The roar of the arena, the scattered equipment on the ice, the echoes of laughter and shouts around us… it all blurs at the edges.

Other families pour onto the ice: small kids in oversized jerseys sliding across the surface, wives and girlfriends weaving through the crowd with shining eyes.

I catch a glimpse of Russo lifting Lauren off the ground in a wild spin, her laughter echoing even above the noise.

Another player scoops up his toddler, who immediately tugs at the Cup with chubby hands.

Jackson looks up at me, eyes locking onto mine over the boys’ shoulders. He holds them close and extends his free hand toward me.

My feet move before I can think, my heart pounding like it might crack open. When I reach them, Jackson’s hand closes around my wrist and he pulls me into his arms.

For a moment, there’s nothing else. Just the four of us huddled together on the ice, our breath mingling, our hearts crashing against each other’s ribs.

Jackson leans in, forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged and warm. “We did it,” he murmurs, his voice so raw it makes my ribs ache.

My hands tighten on his arms, my own voice shaking. “You did it,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. “We’re so proud of you.”

His gaze drops to my stomach, and he presses his forehead against mine again, a soft exhale passing between us.

The boys chatter and wriggle in his arms, still half yelling about the Cup, about the win, about everything they can’t quite put into words.

I hold them closer, feeling Jackson’s arm firm around my back.

And under the bright lights and the echoing roar, I realize:

This is our first victory together.

But it won’t be the last.

Chapter Fifty-Two

JACKSON

The house is quiet when I wake up, the kind of early-morning hush that feels almost sacred. For a second, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, my body heavy from last night’s game — and the celebration that followed.

I can still hear the echo of the crowd, feel the sting of champagne in my eyes, Russo’s voice yelling something about lifelong bragging rights. We passed that Cup around like a newborn, each guy holding it with a mix of reverence and wild disbelief.

The early light slips through the curtains, painting soft lines across the sheets. Ava’s curled against me, her head on my chest, her hair a dark, messy halo. One of her hands drapes across my chest, the other resting lightly, almost unconsciously, over her stomach.

I brush a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. There’s no rush today. No flight, no practice, no looming game.

I slip quietly out of bed, grab my phone, and step into the hallway to call my mom.

She picks up almost immediately.

“Jackson?” Her voice is soft.