Page 30 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

“For the game or for her?”

I shove him lightly with my stick. “You talk too much.”

We rotate through drills, the mood tense. Focused. Coach calls out a few adjustments, calm but firm.

“Let’s go, Jacks,” Russo mutters as we line up for the opening shift. “Time to turn it on.”

And we do.

When the puck drops, the noise in my head fades. The game demands everything: speed, instinct, precision. We move clean through the first, staying tight on coverage and hammering their breakout attempts.

By the second, it’s a grind. The other team plays heavy: chippy in the corners, testing us every shift.

But we’re sharper. Hungrier.

In the third, I assist on a rebound goal that puts us up by two.

The crowd erupts. My teammates swarm. I slap gloves, nod at Coach, and skate back to the bench, heart hammering. I glance toward the stands. She’s there. I can’t tell if she’s smiling, but she’s watching.

And something about that steadies me in a way I wasn’t expecting.

When the final horn blows and we’re up 4–2, the weight that’s been pressing on my chest all week finally lifts.

We did it.

One win down, one to go to make it into the Playoffs.

Russo claps me on the helmet. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For not telling the whole team you were checking the stands every five minutes.”

I roll my eyes, but the grin that tugs at my mouth is real.

I don’t bother arguing because he’s not wrong.

By the time I’m done with the post-game breakdown, media quick hits, and a protein shake, I’m finally leaving the locker room. The arena is mostly emptied out.

Russo slaps my shoulder on his way out. “Go find your girl.”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches.

I head toward the suites, where family and guests usually wait, and spot her instantly. Ava’s leaning against the wall near the private hallway. She’s scrolling on her phone but looks up the second she senses me.

“Hey,” she says, straightening.

“Hey,” I echo, adjusting the strap of my gear bag.

“You survived the whole game?” I tease.

She nods, raising an eyebrow. “Congratulations, by the way. That assist in the third? Very nice.”

I laugh in disbelief. “Did you actually watch the game, or were you just pretending so you could sound convincing later?”

She lifts one shoulder in a mock shrug. “I had help. The guy next to me was yelling out plays like it was his job.”

I snort. “Yeah, there’s always one guy who thinks he’s auditioning for ESPN.”