Page 86 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Second period, I pick off a loose puck in the neutral zone and take it in fast, faking a pass before ripping it low glove-side. The puck kisses twine and the red light flares.

1–0. SteelClaws.

I don’t even hear the horn. I just feel the slam of bodies around me as Russo and O’Connor crash into me, howling like wolves.

“Let’s go, baby!” Russo roars, slapping the back of my helmet.

O’Connor grins wide, shouting something I can’t even hear over the noise. Stevens skates in for a rough back-pat.

I slide onto the bench, water bottle in hand, pulse still racing. I glance up at the WAGs section.

And there they are.

Miss Taylor in the middle, steady as ever. The twins sitting on either side of her, eyes huge under their SteelClaws hats. Noah’s on the edge of his seat, shouting something with both fists raised. Liam’s half-standing in his chair, clapping so fast his cap’s almost sliding off.

And Ava’s beside them, her dark hair loose, her eyes bright even from here. Hands cupped around her mouth, leaning forward, eyes locked on the ice.

The sight hits harder than the goal did.

Third period. They press hard.

I block a shot with my leg, feel the sting vibrate through my shin pads, but I don’t slow.

We net an empty-netter with thirty-two seconds left. 2–0.

The final horn blows, and it hits like a cannon.

SteelClaws take Game 4. Series won.

Round 2 here we come.

The crowd goes insane.

I skate toward the pile forming at center ice, a grin splitting my face even as sweat soaks through my gear. Helmets crash together, gloves slap backs, someone’s cursing with joy loud enough to make the refs shake their heads.

The locker room’s a madhouse.

Music’s thumping, guys shouting over each other, sticks banging against benches. Russo’s half out of his gear, towel around his neck, still grinning like a lunatic.

O’Connor’s holding a water bottle like a mic, mid–mock interview with Stevens. He spins toward me with a dramatic flair.

“First star of the game,” he booms, grinning. “Tell us how that goal made you feel, Hart!”

“It felt like we’re moving onto Round 2,” I answer, voice rough with adrenaline.

That gets a loud cheer from the room.

Coach comes through the door a second later, hands raised. The noise dims, just enough.

“Hell of a game,” he says, eyes sweeping the room. “Hell of a series so far. We lock it down, we move on. Proud of every damn one of you. But enjoy tonight. We go again soon.”

Another round of cheers. Russo lets out a piercing whistle.

I towel off, tug on a clean shirt and jacket, and navigate the media horde, giving quick answers and delivering a soundbite about team first, playing our game, and staying dialed in. Finally, I head into the tunnel, pausing by the player entrance to pull out my phone.

I glance toward the concourse. I know they’re still up there. Ava, the boys, Miss Taylor. They are waiting for the crowds to thin. No point going up. They’ll take their time, get out easy.

Maybe that’s better. I need a moment to get my head straight before I see her again.