Page 108 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I keep my head down and go through my routine: stretch, hydrate, gear up. Around me, the guys move with that same disciplined energy. Coach Barrett keeps it short when he walks in. Doesn’t need to say much. We know what tonight means.
When the anthem ends and the puck drops, everything narrows. The roar of the crowd blurs into a dull hum. It’s just us. The game.
And from the first shift, I know: we got this.
Every pass clicks. Every line pulls weight. Ava’s somewhere up there in the stands. Just knowing she’s here is enough. It’s like having a center of gravity again. Like something in my life is finally aligned, and that steadiness bleeds into how I play.
We bury one late in the first. Another early in the second. Boston answers back once, but we hold the line. And in the third, when the clock’s winding down and they pull their goalie, it’s all instinct.
I win the puck along the boards, turn, fire.
The puck slices clean into the empty net. Game over.
The horn sounds like a shot to the chest. My lungs finally exhale. We did it.
We’re on to Round 3.
Everyone rushes the ice. Gloves fly. Russo tackles me, shouting something I can’t hear over the roar. I’m grinning so hard it hurts. Not just from relief, but pride.
Fierce. Earned. Electric.
I spot her in the WAGs section, on her feet, hands in the air, grinning like she knew all along this would be the outcome.
My chest tightens. Not from the win, but from her.
I’m so damn glad she was here for this.
Chapter Thirty–One
AVA
The RSVP list refreshes again.
Eighty-two confirmed.
I scroll through the latest guest entries. A few late names have trickled in overnight — some I recognize, some I don’t.
Then I see it.
Bradley Thomas.
My breath catches.
No way.
I click into the submission details, hoping it’s a glitch. But the email matches. He filled out every field. Even checked the vegetarian dinner option.
My fingers move, texting Jenna on instinct.
Brad RSVP’d. He’s on the list.
She calls before I can even put the phone down.
“Tell me this is some kind of sick joke,” she says.
“It’s not,” I manage. “He used the public RSVP form for general attendees. I just didn’t think he’d—”
She cuts me off. “Actually, it’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do.”
