Page 46 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

A pause.

“I told Jenna this morning,” she says. “Figured I should warn her before she opened Instagram. I also told Greg yesterday.”

“I’m aware,” I say. “He called me last night.”

When Greg talked to me about the fake dating thing yesterday, he didn’t say much.

Just exhaled slowly and told me he approved if it got Brad off her back.

Told me to take care of her.

I’m still not sure if that was brotherly approval or a warning.

She doesn’t say anything to that… just leans back a little, eyes flicking toward my phone still facedown on the table.

Her knee grazes mine, light and quick. She doesn’t pull away.

And neither do I.

By early afternoon, the house has quieted again, but the buzz in my chest is building. Game-day adrenaline. Routines clicking into place.

By the time I step into the locker room, I’ve already gotten three texts from Russo and one audio message from him that I refuse to open.

The place is its usual mess of tape balls, scattered sticks, and half-dressed players blasting music that somehow manages to be both motivational and off-key.

Russo’s the loudest voice in the room, which is not unusual. What is unusual is that the minute he sees me, he grins like he’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket.

“Look who finally decided to make it official,” he calls out, waving his phone in the air. “Hart, you romantic son of a—”

“Don’t,” I warn, dropping my gear bag onto the bench beside my stall.

He ignores me. Of course he does.

“I mean,damn, man,” he says, dramatically fanning himself. “You could’ve told us it was serious. We would’ve planned a team toast. Or bought you a blender.”

The guys around him snort and chuckle. One of them murmurs, “Thought she was his childhood friend or something?”

“She is,” Russo says, turning back to me. “And now she’s in the WAGs section tonight, wearing what I assume is your hoodie, drinking from a SteelClaws tumbler, and living the dream.”

I finish unlacing my shoes and toss them into the corner. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” he says cheerfully. “I’m just getting started. I mean, your caption alone… what was it again?” He squints at his phone. “‘Right where I want to be’? My dude. That’s a proposal soft launch.”

Someone behind him starts clapping. Russo bows like he’s on stage.

I roll my shoulders once, slow and deliberate. “If your game tonight’s half as loud as you are right now, we’ll be fine.”

“If my game’s half as good as that post, we’ll sweep the damn playoffs.”

I shake my head with a wry smile, more amused than I should be. This is how he works. Loud, relentless, mostly harmless.

But under all that noise, I can feel the pressure building around the game. The stakes. The knowledge that a win tonight locks us in for playoffs. And that one misstep could cost us everything.

Russo finally drops into his stall with a grin and starts taping his stick. “You know I’m happy for you, right?”

I glance at him.

He shrugs. “Just don’t let it screw with your head.”