Page 155 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Below, the pregame lights swirl across the ice, the roar of the crowd climbing like a wave. When the puck finally drops, I lean forward, instinct pulling me toward every shift and every hit.
Ava’s presence beside me is a steady, calm counterweight to the chaos below.
The game feels different from up here, a strange mix of distant and too close. I watch every shift like I’m still out there, my fingers twitching at every turnover, every missed chance.
Ava watches too, quieter now, her hand resting on my arm or tracing along the edge of her water bottle. I can feel her checking on me in those small touches, even when she doesn’t say a word.
When the final buzzer sounds, we’re down by one and the loss sits heavy in my gut like a bad bruise. We still lead the Final, 2-1. But the tension crackles through the arena like a live wire.
I force myself to breathe, to roll out my shoulders carefully, reminding myself I’ll be back on the ice next game. I’ll have a chance to help fix this.
She turns to me, her expression soft, searching. “You okay?” she asks quietly, even though she already knows the answer.
I squeeze her fingers, the tension still coiled in my chest. “Yeah,” I say, but my voice is rough.
Ava leans in a little, her voice low but steady. “You’ll get them next time,” she says. No fluff, no forced optimism, just quiet belief.
I turn to her, the tension in my chest easing a fraction. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Next time.”
I lean in, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Thank you for being here. It means more than I can say.”
She leans into me, her eyes shining with something fierce and steady. “I’ll be waiting for you back at the hotel,” she says, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Go talk to the guys.”
I nod, one last squeeze before I stand. “I won’t be long.”
I head down to the locker room, and the second I cross that threshold, the weight shifts. The air is thick with sweat and frustration, every scrape of a skate blade or clang of a helmet echoing like a challenge.
Russo catches my eye first. He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head once, jaw set. I nod back, a silent agreement passing between us: tomorrow, it has to be different.
Coach Barrett stands near the whiteboard, arms crossed. His gaze sweeps the room like a searchlight. “We’re still in this,” he says finally, voice low but cutting. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy. We regroup, we dial it in, and we come back stronger the next game.”
A few guys grunt in response, others nod. Russo tosses his gloves into his bag with a sharp exhale, muttering something under his breath about turnovers.
I move toward my stall, even though my gear is mostly untouched. I run my hand over my helmet, that restless itch to get back on the ice thrumming through me like a second heartbeat.
Coach steps closer, his eyes locking on mine. “You good for Game 4?”
I meet his stare head-on. “I’m ready,” I say, and I mean it all the way down to my bones.
He nods once, a brisk, approving flick of his chin. “Good. We’ll need you.”
One by one, the guys file out, the mood tense. Russo claps my good shoulder on his way by. “It’s about time you dragged thatpretty face back into the lineup,” he mutters, and for the first time all night, I almost crack a smile.
When the room finally empties, I take a moment alone. I close my eyes, breathe in the sting of sweat and tape, and let the need to fight tomorrow start to coil hard inside me.
Tomorrow, I’m not just coming back. I’m coming to win.
By the time I get back to the hotel, the adrenaline from the game and the locker room is still wound tight in my muscles. My shoulder aches a little from the tension, but it feels more like a signal than a setback. Tomorrow, we practice. Day after tomorrow, I’m back on the ice.
I drop my gear in my room, barely pausing to run a quick hand through my hair, and then head straight down the hall to her room. When she opens the door, she’s already changed into soft clothes, her hair damp from a shower. She looks up at me, and for a second, everything else: the loss, the noise, the pressure, it all falls away.
“You okay?” she asks softly, her eyes scanning my face.
I let out a long breath, shutting the door behind me. “Yeah,” I say. “Frustrated. But… focused.”
She crosses to me without hesitation, her hands coming up to rest lightly on my chest. “I’m sorry about the loss,” she murmurs.
I shake my head. “We’ll bounce back.”
