Page 157 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“I love you too, Ava.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
AVA
Morning light filters through the hotel curtains, and I realize I’m awake before the alarm.
The room is quiet and the sheets are still faintly warm beside me, a lingering echo of Jackson even though he slipped out hours ago.
He must have left before dawn, off to the rink for early skate and meetings. I didn’t hear him go, which means he was careful, probably trying not to wake me.
I shift onto my back, a hand drifting to my stomach without thinking. My fatigue is heavier this morning, the waves of nausea closer to the surface. But underneath it all hums anticipation.
It’s Jackson’s first time back on the ice since his injury.
I draw in a long breath, staring at the ceiling. So much has changed in such a short time. I’m in Denver, pregnant, and waiting for the man I love to come back from morning skate.
The thought makes my chest tighten and then expand all at once.
For the first time in so long, I don’t feel like I’m performing someone else’s version of my life. This, all of it, is mine. Messy, terrifying, fragile, and so deeply real.
I let my eyes drift shut again, trying to rest before tonight, knowing that when he returns, everything will start moving faster: the game, the crowd, the noise of this new future we’re building together.
I sip water and scroll through my phone, barely absorbing anything. Even the usual Open Pages updates feel distant, like echoes from another life.
I take a long shower, get dressed, and keep my hands busy. Anything to slow my racing thoughts.
There’s a soft knock on my door a few hours later, just as I’m sipping water and debating what to order for lunch.
Jackson steps inside wearing a fitted team hoodie and joggers, his hair still damp from the rink. A subtle flush colors his cheeks, the kind that always follows a hard skate.
He closes the door behind him, his eyes landing on me immediately.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, a little rough from the cold arena air.
“Hey,” I breathe back, a small smile tugging at my lips.
He crosses the room in two strides, his hand coming up to brush my jaw, his thumb grazing my cheek. “You okay?” he asks, scanning my face.
I nod, leaning into his touch. “Tired,” I admit, “but good. You?”
His eyes flicker with that restless, competitive edge humming just below the surface, but he softens when he looks at me.
“Ready,” he says. “More than ready.”
I slide my hands up to rest lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“You’ve got this,” I tell him, my voice firmer than I expected.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, careful, deliberate, almost reverent.
When he pulls back, his eyes stay locked on mine, like he’s trying to carry this moment with him into whatever chaos comes next.
“I’m heading to a team lunch, then a quick nap, then the rink. I just… wanted to see you first. I’ll see you after,” he says, his thumb brushing over my wrist one last time before he lets go.
“I’ll be in the stands watching. Go get them,” I whisper.
I catch his fingers one more time as he turns to leave, holding on for a heartbeat longer than I probably should.
