Page 125 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
JACKSON
The crowd’s already thundering by the time I step onto the ice.
Spotlights sweep across the rink in wide, deliberate arcs, catching the edge of every stick, every helmet, every bead of sweat. My breath fogs under the lights as I skate past the bench, circling once to ground myself.
Game 6. Home ice.
If we win tonight, we’re going to the Stanley Cup Final.
I don’t need the scoreboard to feel what’s at stake. It’s in the energy pulsing through the boards, in the low hum of my legsfrom morning skate, the way the noise fades at the edges when focus kicks in.
But even as I move through warmups, my thoughts drift.
Ava texted a few hours ago; said she was staying home tonight. Just tired.
But she’s been dragging lately. Not just tired.Worn down.
Tonight, I hope she’s curled up in a blanket, not hunched over her laptop running seating charts for that gala.
Knowing her, it’s probably both.
Russo skates up beside me, tapping his stick against mine.
“Let’s lock it down early, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing focus back to the ice. “Let’s shut this thing down.”
He grins and peels off, flipping the puck between his skates as he joins the line for rush drills. I follow, muscle memory taking over, blades cutting clean as I drive down the left wing.
Coach Barrett’s voice cuts through the din from the bench. “Crisp passes! Head up!”
I fire the puck top shelf, catch it on the rebound, and swing back around to reset.
The rhythm helps. Keeps me in my body. In the game.
Warmups wind down. The announcer’s voice echoes as they call starting lines. I hit the bench, gloves secure, heart steady.
The crowd’s on fire. Every seat full, the place vibrating with energy.
And back home, I imagine Ava with the boys, wrapped in a blanket, watching this unfold.
That thought centers me more than any pep talk ever could.
The puck drops and everything else fades.
Noise blurs into white. Movement sharpens. I lean into the first shift like I’ve been waiting all season for this exact moment.
New York comes out fast, aggressive. We expected that.
But we’re faster. Stronger. Cleaner.
Russo wins the draw and swings it back. I catch the pass on the fly and cut across the blue line, eyes scanning. Their defense closes fast, but I see an opening, flip the puck behind the net, and peel wide as Russo chases it down.
We nearly get one early. Stevens rings it off the glass, but nothing lands.
We regroup and keep the pressure up. I shift off, lungs burning, and drop onto the bench next to Russo. Coach Barrett leans in, barking a quick adjustment.
“They’re pinching harder than usual. Keep the weak side open,” he says. “They’re trying to bait you into traffic.”
