Page 52 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
On the drive back, I notice that I feel lighter. Jackson has a way of pulling walls down without asking you to break them.
I try to remember the last time I felt this light, this free. With Brad, even the fun moments came with a cost.
Expectations. Pressure.
But with Jackson, it’s just... easy. Like maybe it’s okay to just be.
We pull into the driveway, and I’m already unbuckling when he turns off the engine and glances over.
“Hey,” he says, voice low but steady. “The team’s doing a celebratory dinner tomorrow night. Players, coaches, plus-ones. It’s a ‘we made it into the Playoffs’ thing.”
My stomach flips.
Those dang butterflies again.
“You want to come with me?” he asks. “You’d be with the other WAGs. Russo’s wife’ll be there, couple of the others too. Nothing fancy. Just food, some speeches, probably a lot of bad jokes.”
I blink, caught off guard by how genuine the offer feels. Like he wants me there, but won’t hold it against me if I say no.
“Okay,” I say, the word settling warm in my chest.
He smiles. “Cool. I’ll tell Russo not to bug you too much.”
We head inside, and he holds the door open like he always does. Easy, natural, like I already belong here.
Later, upstairs in the guest room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s a flush in my cheeks, a softness in my eyes I haven’t seen in a while. I grab my phone and sit on the edge of the bed, pulling up our photo from our post yesterday.
One caption. One photo. And now I’m going to a team dinner with him like I belong in his world.
I press the phone to my chest, staring up at the ceiling.
If this is fake, then why does it feel like the realest thing I’ve had in a long time?
Chapter Fourteen
JACKSON
The locker room buzzes with the kind of energy only playoff season can bring.
“Hey, Jacks!” Russo calls from across the room. “You bringing the girlfriend tonight?”
“Only if you promise to behave.” I reply, pulling on my pads.
Coach Barrett steps in, and the room quiets. “Alright, listen up. We made it into the playoffs. Now it’s time to dial in. The real work starts today.”
A chorus of agreement rumbles around me as he continues, “We’re zeroing in on everything this week: film sessions, extra ice time, special teams work.”
I stand slowly, grabbing my helmet from the shelf, my focus settling into something familiar and reassuring. Hockey’s always been my safe ground, the place where I know exactly who I am.
But even as I head out to the ice, I can’t stop the voice at the back of my mind whispering that maybe something else is starting to matter, too.
Practice is intense today. Every drill feels sharper, every pass harder. I throw myself into the rhythm, letting my muscle memory take over as my skates slice across the ice.
The steady beat of sticks on ice and the rush of breath around me are familiar, grounding, but even that isn’t enough to shake Ava completely from my mind.
I can’t shake the image of her trusting me when she slipped on the ice and that smile when I invited her to dinner.
I glide backward, eyes on Russo as he charges forward, puck controlled expertly on his stick. I angle toward him, timing my approach carefully.
