Page 96 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

He leans down, brushing a kiss to my temple. “Of course. I get it. You’ve got a lot riding on this gala.”

“I’ll be cheering you on,” I say, quieter now.

“I know you will.” His eyes warm. “That’s enough.”

My stomach growls, and we both laugh.

“Come on,” he says, eyes warm. “You need food. I’ll make something before I head out.”

After he leaves, it’s not long before I’m planted at the kitchen island with my laptop. There’s still a long list of follow-ups from the gala meeting, and Kim already texted that one of the new sponsor leads wants a call tomorrow.

Work is piling up faster than I expected: calls to return, final edits to approve, new sponsor packets to prep.

A notification pings on my phone. I glance over. It’s a group text from Evelyn about table placement for the gala. I tap out a quick reply, then set the phone down, my eyes lingering on the screen.

Miss Taylor comes in later that evening later, the boys trailing behind, her cheeks flushed, arms full of LEGOs.

“Ready for the game?” she asks, smiling as she sets the stack down.

I nod, forcing my attention back to the present. “Absolutely.”

The twins run past us toward the living room, voices bubbling over with excitement.

“Daddy’s gonna win!” Noah calls over his shoulder.

Miss Taylor follows them with a smile. “Okay, first period only tonight. Then it’s off to bed. Deal?”

“Deal!” They chorus.

She glances at me, her expression gentle. “First game of Round Two. Big night for him.”

“I know.” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to.

We settle in just before puck drop. The twins bounce on the couch, jerseys slightly crooked, faces bright. Miss Taylor sits nearby, and I take the chair by the window, tucking my legs beneath me.

The pre-game broadcast rolls through highlights from Round 1: SteelClaws goals, big hits, shots of the team celebrating.

And then one clip catches me off guard.

A quiet moment from earlier this week.

Jackson kneeling by the boards, talking to a shy young fan clutching a handmade sign. No cameras posing for the shot. No showmanship. Just him: patient, steady, giving the kid his full attention.

The camera cuts back to the studio, but the image lingers in my mind.

That’s who Jackson is.

Not the phony charm, not the headlines.

Not like Brad, who was always performing, always angling for the right shot.

Jackson doesn’t need to perform. He just... is.

And with him, I’ve never had to be anything but myself.

The thought warms through me, sinking deeper than I expect.

As the game starts, I can’t stop watching him. The way he moves on the ice: controlled, powerful, relentless.