Page 133 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I press a kiss to her shoulder, then ease out of bed carefully so I don’t wake her. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.
She’s a force when she’s onstage. But when she’s quiet, curled into my pillow like this, I just want to wrap the world around her and keep it still.
I grab my phone and scroll through the week’s schedule. Game 1 is in three days. Which means today’s a light day at the rink: treatment, warm-up skate, nothing too heavy. My shoulder aches more than I’d like to admit, but I’ll deal with it.
For now, I pause in the doorway and take one last look at her before heading out.
Even asleep, she looks like she’s holding something in.
I tell myself she’s just tired. That after everything she’s been through lately, anyone would be.
But something twists low in my chest anyway.
The rink feels colder than usual this morning, or maybe that’s just me. I shrug off the chill and start lacing up my skates inthe locker room, trying not to focus on how much more stiff my shoulder feels today.
The trainers already know it’s bugging me. They don’t say anything. Neither do I.
The locker room hums with chatter and the clatter of sticks echoing off the concrete walls. When Coach walks in, the noise dips immediately. There’s a shift that happens when he shows up, causing shoulders to straighten and focus to tighten.
Now it’s time to lock in.
“Treatment first,” Coach says. “Then light skate, systems work. Keep it loose, stay focused.”
We nod and get moving.
As I stretch near the bench, I roll my shoulder once, twice. The ache is still there—deeper than before. Nothing stabbing yet, just a persistent edge that keeps me cautious.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a long season catching up to me.
By the time I get back home, there’s a hint of tomato and basil in the air, soft and homey, like something Miss Taylor whipped up from scratch. The twins are still out with her running errands, and the house is quiet in that rare, almost sacred way. I toe off my boots and head toward the kitchen.
Ava’s there at the table, laptop open in front of her, though she’s not typing. She’s just sitting with her hand cradling a mug of tea, gaze somewhere far away.
“Hey,” I say gently, stepping in.
She looks up and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hey. How was practice?”
“Good. Light stuff.” I lean in to kiss the top of her head. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired. Still catching up on sleep, I think.”
She gestures toward the tea. “Miss Taylor made ginger. Thought it might help.”
I watch her for another second. She’s wearing one of my hoodies, and her socks don’t match. Her hair’s a little messy, and her cheeks are paler than usual, but she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You eat yet?”
She shrugs. “Picked at a roll. I’m not really hungry.”
“All right.” I move behind her and place both hands on her shoulders, giving a light squeeze.
Then she murmurs, “Sorry I’m so out of it.”
“Don’t apologize.” I kiss her temple. “You ran a damn marathon in heels last night.”
But even as I grab a plate to heat up some leftovers for both of us, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Something more than just exhaustion.
Dinner’s quiet. She eats a few bites, but it’s not much. I don’t push. We clean up together in that quiet way we’ve fallen into lately, then end up on the couch, a nature documentary playing low in the background.
