Page 122 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says.
I nod. “Damn right it does.”
We’re not done yet, but we’re close.
Just one more win, and we’re in the Finals.
When I get home, the house is quiet except for a faint glow from the kitchen.
She’s already home, which isn’t surprising. She usually beats me back, with media and cooldown dragging me behind.
She’s curled into her usual spot at the table, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, laptop open in front of her.
Ava looks up, smiling. “You crushed it.”
“Thank you,” I say with a grin. Then I gesture toward the laptop. “Still at it?”
She gives a sheepish shrug. “Just updating the silent auction list.”
I wrap my arms around her shoulders, kiss her temple. “No more spreadsheets tonight.”
She leans into me. “You’re bossy when you win.”
“You’ve got two options,” I murmur. “I carry you, or you walk with me. Either way, your getting a good night’s sleep.”
“That sounds dangerously like a promise.”
“It is,” I say, already pulling her up and into me. “And I don’t make promises I don’t plan to keep.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
AVA
Idon’t even make it to the kitchen before I bolt for the bathroom.
Bare feet slap tile, one hand on the doorframe, the other clutching my stomach as I try to breathe through a wave of queasiness that hits low and sudden.
I drop to my knees and heave in front of the toilet. My heart races. Vision blurs.
When it’s over, I’m blinking at my pale reflection. My skin looks washed out, lips colorless, eyes shadowed. I breathe slowly, trying to calm the roil in my stomach. It passes. Sort of. But not without leaving me lightheaded and clammy.
Jackson left early this morning for skate and pregame media, and I'm so relieved he didn’t see this.
He’s already worried about me, hovering in his quiet, gentle way. If he knew I’d been hugging the toilet before seven a.m., he’d carry me to urgent care himself.
It’s probably nothing. I haven’t been sleeping well, been running on coffee and stress, and I’m just worn out, and I’ve skipped more meals than I’ll admit out loud. I haven’t had a real night of sleep in who knows how long.
No one plans a major nonprofit event during the middle of playoff season while living with a professional athlete and two energetic six-year-olds.
Because that would be crazy.
I force myself to stand, fingers fumbling for the edge of the counter. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face.
Down the hall, the sound of cartoons hums faintly through the floor. Miss Taylor’s already got the boys fed. Thank goodness she’s fully back on her feet.
I pad back to the bedroom and sink onto the edge of the bed. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers curled inward.
I was planning to go tonight to support Jackson. It’s Game 6. If they win, they go to the Finals. It’s huge. But now—
