Page 161 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I want this forever.
Chapter Fifty-One
AVA
It’s been a few days since we flew back from Denver, just long enough for the nerves to settle into something deeper. A kind of charged stillness, like the whole city is holding its breath.
If they win tonight, they bring the Cup home.
The moment we park at the arena and step out, a wave of noise washes over us: music, chanting, the low rumble of pregame hype. I take Liam’s hand in one of mine and Noah’s in the other, feeling their small fingers curl around mine.
We move toward the entrance, and every few steps someone calls out, “Go SteelClaws!” or starts a spontaneous chant that the boys eagerly join in.
Inside, it’s somehow even louder. The hallways are lined with fans in jerseys, face paint, and glittering signs. Liam’s head swivels like he can’t decide where to look first. Noah’s eyes keep darting to every poster and flashing light.
We follow a staff member through the concourse toward the family section. As we walk, I keep catching snatches of the boys’ chatter.
“Do you think he can see us from the ice?”
“We have to yell extra loud so he hears us!”
When we finally reach our section, I spot a few of the other wives and girlfriends, including Lauren. She waves, offering a quick hug. There are other kids waving homemade signs, bouncing in their seats, or wearing oversized jerseys that nearly swallow them whole.
The boys barely notice, too busy scrambling toward the glass. They press their faces against it, their breath fogging the surface.
My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. This moment here, tonight, with all of them, feels like more than just a game. It feels like stepping fully into the life we’re building.
“Look!” Liam shrieks, face squished against the glass. “That’s Daddy!”
Noah jumps next to him, bouncing on his toes. “I see him! I see him!”
I step closer, spotting Jackson’s unmistakable stride as he skates laps, helmet slightly tilted, focused and steady. Every move looks deliberate, every shot a quiet promise.
After a few final passes and shots, the players start drifting off the ice, and the boys chatter a mile a minute about seeing Daddy up close.
We settle in, and soon the lights drop, the arena music surges, and team introductions begin. The boys are on their feet before the puck even drops, signs clutched so tight their knuckles turn white.
The game starts like a lightning strike, an electric surge of sound and color that rolls through the entire arena.
Around us, other partners and families lean forward, already halfway standing, everyone caught in that electric playoff edge.
Miss Taylor sits just behind us, one hand lightly on each boy’s shoulder, her eyes wide and bright.
Jackson’s first shift takes him right across our line of sight. I watch the clean snap of his stride, strong and fluid, like he’s claiming every inch of ice for himself.
When he takes a big hit against the boards, Liam lets out a loud, startled yelp and clutches at my arm.
“Daddy’s okay,” I say quickly, dropping to his level and squeezing his fingers. “That’s part of the game.”
Liam nods, his breath coming fast, and Noah leans in closer, peeking around me.
“He got up so fast,” Noah whispers, awe threaded through his voice.
The game surges around us. The low roar of the crowd swelling and breaking like a tide, the crack of sticks echoing up to the rafters.
When Jackson scores, the entire arena explodes. The boys jump so high they nearly topple over the row in front of us. Miss Taylor whoops, her hands flying up, eyes glassy.
I’m on my feet before I even realize it, my hands pressed to my mouth, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.
