Page 69 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

But now, in the quiet, it feels like more.

As I stare at the photo, it hits me how happy I look.

Genuinely happy.

The last time I was on a trip like this, it was for one of Brad’s investment conferences in Miami. All buttoned-up dinners and careful appearances. I’d smiled so much my jaw hurt. I remember thinking,This should feel good.

But it didn’t. It never did.

My phone buzzes and I see a text from Jackson.

Want to grab breakfast and do some sightseeing before I head to the rink?

I bite my lip to keep from smiling like a complete idiot.

I’m in.

My heart lifts, warm and sudden.

We end up at a spot along the boardwalk, tucked just far enough from the crowds to feel like we have the city to ourselves. The air smells like saltwater and roasted coffee from a stand nearby.

Jackson walks beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, ball cap pulled low. Even without the gear and cameras, people still recognize him. Broad shoulders, steady stride, that quiet confidence he wears like a second skin.

“It’s nicer than I expected,” I say, tilting my face toward the sky. “New Jersey, I mean. I’d like to check out some of the lighthouses.”

He gives me a side glance. “Maybe we can do that next time.”

Next time.

The words settle between us, warmer than I anticipated, and I can’t help but wonder what that means for us. I don’t ask. Instead, I let the breeze carry us forward.

The rest of the morning drifts by as we wander in and out of small shops, sipping lattes. By the time we head back so he can prep for the game, something in me feels lighter. Steadier.

Game 2 feels different from the first.

The crowd’s louder now, sharper around the edges, like everyone knows the stakes just got higher. I’m back in the WAGs section, but this time I’m leaning forward in my seat without realizing it.

The SteelClaws hit the ice with more weight behind every move, especially Jackson. He’s relentless tonight. Aggressive but smart, fast but controlled. His stick finds the puck like it’s magnetized, and he’s already credited with two assists before the second period ends.

By the time he scores late in the third, I’m on my feet with the rest of the section, cheering like my life depends on it.

I catch myself grinning so much it hurts, hands cupped around my mouth as I cheer his name. He’s buried under a pile of teammates, and the energy is infectious, lifting the whole arena like a collective breath finally exhaled.

SteelClaws 3, Hawks 2.

They sweep the weekend.

After the final buzzer, the team floods off the ice, jackets pulled on over damp jerseys, skates swapped for sneakers, equipment bags thudding on the floor. I head toward the back tunnel like last time, heart still racing. I don’t even try to suppress the huge smile tugging at my mouth.

Jackson rounds the corner, hair damp, smile loose and lopsided. Tired but glowing.

He sees me, and something in his expression softens.

“There’s my good luck charm.”

The words shouldn’t land like they do.

I laugh, brushing my hand against his briefly as we fall into step, and it sends a spark up my spine. A shiver that has nothing to do with the chill in the tunnel.