Page 107 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I feel a smile pull at my mouth. “Yeah, buddy. I am.”
“And she’s your girlfriend?” Noah asks, eyes wide.
Ava lets out a soft laugh, glancing at me. “That’s right.”
There’s a beat of silence as the boys process.
Noah beams. “That’s cool.”
Liam tilts his head. “Does that mean Ava’s gonna stay here forever?”
Ava looks at me, her eyes soft, and I can see her throat move as she swallows.
“That means,” I say slowly, “we hope so. We’ll give it a shot, if you two are okay with that.”
They glance at each other, eyes wide, and then identical grins spread across their faces.
In the next instant, they’re both launching themselves at Ava, giggling as they wrap their arms around her.
She catches them with a small gasp, laughing through tears. By the time the boys finally let Ava breathe again, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are shining.
“I think they’re okay with it,” I murmur, leaning back with a grin.
Ava looks at me, her eyes bright and full. And for a second, I forget about the weight of the game ahead. I forget about everything except this.
This messy, beautiful, unexpected life.
And it reminds me—I still need to talk to Greg. I promised Ava I would, and after seeing this, I want him to know exactly where I stand.
I lean in and press a kiss to her lips before I can stop myself.
Noah lets out a dramatic groan. “Ew! Gross!”
Liam covers his eyes. “You’re kissing in the kitchen!”
Ava laughs against my mouth, cheeks flushed as she pulls back. “Sorry, guys.”
“Not sorry,” I mutter, brushing a hand down her back. The boys fake gag again, and we both burst out laughing.
Later, while the boys do their homework, Ava walks over and rests a hand lightly on my arm.
“I’ll be at the game tonight,” she says.
I blink. “You sure? I figured you’d be knee-deep in gala prep.”
“I am,” she says with a soft laugh. “But I want to support you. I want to be there.”
I study her for a second. She’s holding herself steady, but I can see the tired edges around her eyes. Still, there’s something quiet and determined in the way she’s looking at me.
I nod, brushing my hand over hers. “I’m glad,” I say.
And I mean it. Not just because I want her there, but because maybe sitting in the arena for a couple hours means she’ll finally let herself take a break.
By five-thirty, I’m back at the arena. Lights brighter. Arena louder. Stakes higher.
In the locker room, there are no jokes, no distractions. Just the weight of what’s coming. Even Russo’s quiet, which says everything.
Everyone’s dialed in. Taping sticks, lacing skates, going through their rituals. Music pulses low through the speakers, but it’s not the usual chaotic mix of genres. Tonight, there’s more focus and less noise.
