Page 140 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
The boys chatter through their snack and homework, buzzing with anticipation. At one point, Liam drags over a drawing he made. It’s Jackson in full uniform, stick raised mid-goal, glitter glue exploding from the puck.
I tape it to the fridge without hesitation, my heart tugging at the sight.
“You think he’ll win tonight?” he asks seriously.
“I think he’ll play like he always does,” I say softly. “With everything he’s got.”
Later that evening, I pull on a jacket, double-check that I have my bag, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
The drive feels longer than it should. Or maybe it’s just me, stuck in my head again. When I finally reach the arena and make it through the VIP check-in, the noise swallows me whole.
Fans are everywhere. Jerseys, face paint, kids on shoulders, grown men yelling.
It should feel chaotic, but it’s not. The energy is alive, electric, like the whole city’s holding its breath.
I make my way to what’s become my usual seat among the WAGs section. It’s family, partners, a few board members from the team. Russo’s wife nods politely as I sit. I nod back. I’m not really in the mood for small talk.
The game starts fast. The puck drops and Jackson’s line is out there, moving like they’ve got something to prove. He looks good: quick, sharp, focused. I feel it in my chest every time he touches the puck.
Midway through the first period, he cuts across center ice, takes a crisp pass from Russo, and rips a shot top shelf. The puck slams into the net, and the arena explodes around me.
I’m on my feet before I even realize it, shouting along with the rest of the crowd. The WAGs section is all up, clapping, hugging.
For a moment, I forget everything else: the exhaustion, the worry, the test sitting at home. It’s just him. Just this moment. And he looks unstoppable.
But in the third period, everything shifts.
He’s chasing the puck along the boards, shoulder to shoulder with another forward, when the hit comes.
It’s clean, but brutal.
Jackson twists, his left shoulder taking the brunt, and slams hard into the glass.
He stays down.
Please move. Please.
I don’t realize I’ve stood until the woman next to me sucks in a breath.
“Oh no,” Russo’s wife whispers, leaning forward. “Was that—?”
“Jackson,” Elena says tightly, already touching my arm. “Ava, are you okay?”
My throat locks up. I manage a small nod, though it feels stiff.
My nails dig into my palm, pulse pounding in my ears.
He gets up. Skates off on his own. But something’s wrong. He’s holding himself stiff, left shoulder angled just slightly. Like he’s trying not to move it.
Elena watches the ice, then turns back to me. “That was his shoulder, wasn’t it? The same one he’s been nursing?”
A hush falls over the section as Jackson skates off, one arm held stiffly at his side. The tension is palpable. I’m frozen in place, eyes locked on the bench, waiting for him to return. He doesn’t.
Russo’s wife reaches under her seat and hands me a bottle of water. “Don’t worry,” she says, voice kind. “He’s tough. He’ll be okay.”
I murmur a thanks, my fingers clenching around the water bottle.
He doesn’t come back out for his next shift.
