Page 21 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

It’s a little forced, but she smiles. She presses the heel of her palm to her forehead. “This is insane.”

“You’re not wrong about that.”

I reach for her phone again, checking the privacy settings once more. “No more tracking. And I disabled anything that could be remotely turned back on. He won’t get anything else from this.”

She nods, still watching me. “Jackson…”

“Yeah?”

Her voice is quieter now. “Thank you.”

“You’re safe here.”

Her lips twitch. “You are still protecting me like always.”

Some things don’t change. Keeping her safe still feels like breathing.

I let the quiet settle between us.

“Would you still like to come to the rink?” I ask.

She hesitates for just a second, but nods. “Yeah. I do.”

Good.

Because after the morning she’s had, she deserves a distraction.

And if I’m being honest, I want her there.

The front door opens with a soft creak, followed by the rhythmic click of Miss Taylor’s heels on the hardwood.

A moment later, she rounds the corner into the kitchen, setting her keys on the counter.

“Twins are dropped off,” she says, then her eyes flick over us with a hint of concern.

“Everything all right?”

“We’re okay,” I say. “Just… a morning.”

Her eyes flick briefly to Ava, who manages a faint nod, her arms still crossed, tension still lingering around her shoulders.

Miss Taylor doesn’t pry. Just offers a gentle smile.

“Well,” she says gently, “I’ll be out back if you need anything.”

She gives a little wave, then steps out through the mudroom door that leads outside to the guest house.

I glance at Ava. “You ready?”

She nods, still a little pale but steadier now. “Yeah, let me just grab a jacket.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into the SteelClaws’ practice facility. The facility is sleek and sprawling, tucked into a quiet suburb just outside Pittsburgh.

The familiar chill hits the second we step through the players’ entrance: crisp and clean, the way it always smells after the Zambonis made their rounds. A few guys are already on the ice, their blades cutting clean through the quiet, punctuated only by the snap of pucks against the boards.

“You can sit over there if you want,” I say, nodding toward a section of seats just above the glass, off to the side. “That’s where scouts usually hang out. You’ll see everything, and as a bonus, you won’t catch a puck to the face.”

I attempt a joke, but she just tugs her jacket sleeves over her hands and gives a distracted nod.