Page 85 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

She ends her call and looks over.

“Hey.” Her smile’s soft but there’s something else beneath it. Something unsaid. “How was practice?”

“Good. We’re ready.” I grab a protein bar from the counter and peel it open more for something to do than out of any real hunger.

The sound of the boys thundering down the hall cuts her off. Liam barrels into the room first, grinning. “Daddy! We picked what we’re wearing tonight!”

Noah’s close behind, holding up a SteelClaws cap. “We got hats too!”

I crouch, grinning. “Good thing it’s a Friday so you guys can come, huh? You guys ready to cheer loud?”

They nod furiously, and I ruffle their hair. When the boys run off again, Ava watches me from across the kitchen. There’s still a question in her eyes. The air between us is different now. Charged with everything we haven’t said.

I check the time. “I should head out soon. I’ll see you there?” I ask.

She lifts her chin. “Of course.”

And damn if that doesn’t hit square in my chest. The way she says it… sure, steady.

I nod once, grab my bag. As I pass her near the door, my hand almost brushes her arm.

But I pull back at the last second.

The rink hums louder than usual tonight.

Even at the players’ entrance, you can feel the charge in the air.

I move through the tunnel with my bag slung over my shoulder, nodding to the security guys. The place is already filling fast since it’s Friday night.

When I hit the locker room, the guys are already half-geared up. Russo’s taping his stick at warp speed. Stevens is chirping Johnson about some busted playlist in the weight room. O’Connor’s got his headphones in, head bobbing.

Coach leans in from the hall. “Pre-game in fifteen.”

I settle in at my stall, start pulling on my base layer. The ritual helps. Tape. Pads. Laces. Focus clicks into place with each piece.

Russo flops onto the bench beside me. “Your boys and Ava here tonight?”

When I nod, he grins. “Good. You always skate better when your crew’s in the stands.”

I play it off, but something in my chest tightens because I like the sound of her being a part of my crew.

Coach steps in, his voice cutting through the chatter. “This is our house. We lock it down early and bury them fast. Win this, and we punch our ticket to Round 2.”

Around me, heads nod. Tape rips. Sticks hit the floor in rhythm.

I can’t screw this up. Not tonight.

Not with her watching. Not with the boys watching.

Coach claps his hands once. “Let’s go.”

I grab my stick and head out with the team, blades biting into fresh ice.

The first shift hits hard.

Body to body, blade to blade, every inch of ice a battle. I take a clean hit off the boards, keep my feet, and dump the puck deep. Russo’s already chasing it down, barking something back at me that I barely register over the noise.

The place is electric tonight. Packed house, playoff buzz, the kind of adrenaline that makes your lungs burn and your legs move faster than they should. Every whistle is a thunderclap. Every SteelClaws goal chase has the arena surging to its feet.