Page 117 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Midway through the first, they crash the zone hard and bury one past us. I slam my stick against the boards as the red light flashes behind me.
We fight back, stay in it. But every play feels like it takes just a second too long. Like we’re skating uphill.
Second period, I cut across center ice trying to angle a puck out of the zone when their defenseman blindsides me into the boards. Hard.
Pain spikes through my left shoulder. I stay down longer than I mean to—just a breath—but I hear the crowd swell behind me. I grit my teeth and push to my feet.
I skate it off. Or try to. But I know the difference in my stride. The way I roll that shoulder now, slightly stiff, just enough not to show it.
It’s not bad enough to pull out. But I feel it. Every shift.
We chase the rest of the game. Trying to close the gap. Trying to match their speed, their fire. But we never quite catch up.
When the final buzzer sounds, it’s 4–2.
I skate off with my jaw clenched, chest heaving, the noise of their crowd swelling behind me. We head down the tunnel, shoulders heavy. No words, just that clipped silence of a team that knows it needs to hit reset fast.
I should’ve found a way to do more.
Later, in the hotel room, I check my phone and see a text from Ava.
You played hard. Proud of you.
And just like that, the knot in my chest eases.
Chapter Thirty-Three
AVA
It’s been a few days since the Game 3 loss, but the tension hasn’t lifted. I can feel it every time I talk to Jackson.
I can tell how hard he’s taking it, even from hundreds of miles away.
I tell him about how the boys drew smiling faces on the bananas because they looked “too sad.” Anything to make him laugh. Or breathe. Or remember there’s still joy waiting for him at home.
Tonight it’s Game 4, and they are halfway through the second period.
Miss Taylor put the boys to bed after the first. She’s been back a day, and it’s already a relief having her here again. Like the house has settled into its usual rhythm.
I’m curled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my legs, my laptop balanced beside me, but I haven’t typed a word in twenty minutes.
Game 4 isn’t going well.
I can feel it in the way Jackson moves. Rigid. Rushed. Like he’s trying to will the entire team into shape by sheer force. His shoulder must still be bothering him, even if he won’t admit it. Every time he takes a hit, I flinch.
I can tell they want it. But tonight, nothing is clicking.
A blocked shot turns into a breakaway. A bad line change gives up a goal. Passes don’t land. They’re chasing instead of dictating, reacting instead of controlling.
As I watch Jackson, I notice the restless shifts between whistles, and the way his stick grip tightens when he’s barely keeping his temper in check.
The game ends in another loss, 4–2.
The arena feed cuts to replays. Analysts start circling mistakes on the screen. I mute it.
My phone rings—Greg.
“Returning your call,” he says, a pager beeping faintly behind him. “I’ve got two minutes.”
