Page 121 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“Good luck tonight,” she says.
I hesitate at the door.
“You’ll text me if you’re not feeling up to it?”
She arches a brow. “I’ll be there.”
I cross over to her, kiss her temple, and linger for a beat. “Okay. See you later.”
By the time I get to the arena, that quiet hum from this morning has intensified. Home ice always hits different. Familiar boards and a cold that sinks into your bones and somehow steadies you.
I nod to staff and trainers on my way to the locker room. Russo’s already running his mouth, a few of the guys chirping back, but there’s focus under the noise.
Coach Barrett claps me on the back. “We’re back where we belong. Let’s make it count.”
The rink’s buzzing hours before puck drop. Normally it settles me, but tonight my mind drifts. I keep thinking about the look in Ava’s eyes this morning. Exhausted, like she hadn’t slept at all. I’m worried she’s running herself ragged.
“You good?” Russo asks, clapping my shoulder. “You’ve got your grumpy face on.”
I grunt. “Didn’t know I had a happy one.”
When I skate out for the anthem, I glance up. Ava’s in the WAGs section, hoodie, dark hair spilling out, hands folded in her lap. She claps, even smiles when Russo hams it up, but the usual spark in her eyes is quieter. The kind of quiet that makes me wish I could skate off the ice and ask if she’s okay.
But there’s nothing I can do right now. So, I skate, hit, shoot. I chase the puck like it owes me something.
Next shift, I don’t overthink it. I push harder. Strip a puck clean in the neutral zone, drive it deep. When Russo crashes the net, I thread it to him and he buries it. Crowd erupts. We tap gloves.
The game doesn’t let up. Neither do I.
We keep the lead. Block the lanes. Force the dump-ins and win the battles on the boards. It’s not pretty, but it’s solid. Gritty.
We lock it down.
When the final buzzer cuts through the roar of the crowd, it hits me like a jolt to the chest.
We won.
The boys mob Russo first. He scored the third-period go-ahead. We crash together near center ice, helmets tapping, gloves slapping backs. It’s chaos, it’s loud, and it’s ours.
Sticks tap the boards, gloves fly in the air, and Russo yells something unintelligible as he tackles me in a half-hug, half-headlock.
“Tell me that wasn’t the cleanest redirect you’ve ever seen!” he shouts, grinning like a maniac.
“You tripped into it,” I laugh.
The buzzer fades, but the energy doesn’t. We pour into the tunnel, the adrenaline still thudding behind my ribs.
In the locker room, it’s loud: helmets clattering, water bottles spraying, towels snapped like whips. Coach Barrett makes his way through with quick back slaps and half-shouted praise. The room smells like sweat and ice and victory.
Russo reenacts his celebration in dramatic slow-motion: finger guns blazing, knee sliding across the rubber floor.
“You see that crowd?” he yells. “Had ’em eating out of my hands.”
“More like you had them terrified you were gonna faceplant,” someone calls back.
Laughter ricochets off the walls, and I stand there, letting it soak in. The sound of a team coming alive again.
I pull off my gloves, and start peeling down my gear. Russo flops onto the bench next to me and bumps my shoulder with his.
