Page 162 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Down on the ice, Jackson’s stick lifts, his teammates crash into him at the boards.
Beside me, Liam screams, “Daddy did it! Daddy did it!” while Noah pounds his sign against the seat, face flushed and wild with joy.
I pull them both in, wrapping my arms around their shoulders, my forehead resting on their soft hair as we shout and laugh and shake together.
The game barrels forward like it’s on rails, every minute sharper, faster, louder.
Between periods, the boys chatter non-stop, replaying every move Jackson makes. Miss Taylor manages to corral them into eating a few bites of pretzel and sipping some water, but they’re too wired to really sit still.
When the final period starts, the scoreboard shows 3–2 with the SteelClaws in the lead, and each second feels like it stretches forever. The tension in the arena is electric, every fan perched on the edge of their seat.
The clock ticks down. Two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds. Every clear, every blocked shot feels like a miracle.
And then, at last, the buzzer sounds.
A split second of stunned silence, then the entire arena detonates into a roar so loud it feels like the world might crack open.
The boys scream at the top of their lungs, jumping up and down. Miss Taylor’s hands fly to her face, her eyes wide and shining.
I can’t even hear my own voice as I yell, my hands lifted high, tears streaming freely now.
On the ice, Jackson’s gloves go flying. His stick clatters to the surface as teammates swarm him, helmets coming off, arms wrapping around each other in pure, unfiltered joy.
They’ve done it. They’ve won the Cup.
The boys press their faces to the glass, palms flat against it.
“He did it! Daddy won! Daddy won!” Liam screams so loud his voice cracks.
When I look up again, Jackson is at the center of the ice, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth open in a wild, victorious shout. On the ice, gloves and sticks scatter like confetti. Jackson is immediately swallowed by a flood of his teammates, all crashing into a giant, euphoric hug.
After a few moments, the cluster at center ice shifts. A suited official steps forward, carrying the gleaming Stanley Cup. It shines under all the lights, towering and silver, every engraved name a testament to battles fought and won.
“There it is!” Liam shouts, pressing his face to the glass. “It’s HUGE!”
“It looks heavy!” Noah says, eyes round as saucers.
Jackson’s teammates slap him on the back, yelling for him to step forward. He does, sweat-soaked, face cracked wide open with a disbelieving, wild grin.
When he finally takes the Cup, the entire arena seems to tilt. His teammates shove him forward, and he hoists the Cup high above his head, strong arms steady, face turned up to the rafters.
He starts to skate slowly, the Cup lifted high. He pauses, turning toward our section, and for a split second, in that chaos, in that sea of movement…
I swear he looks right at us.
Miss Taylor is laughing and crying at the same time, her hands over her heart.
I can’t stop crying either. I don’t even try.
Eventually, the noise begins to shift. Still electric, but softer in waves, like the arena is finally catching its breath. Jackson disappears into the cluster of his teammates near the bench, the Cup still moving between hands.
Noah keeps slamming his palms against the glass, chanting, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” until his voice is nearly gone.
Liam echoes him, asking, “When can we see Daddy?”
“Remember what we talked about?” Miss Taylor asks them, smiling through her tears. “They’re going to come get us soon. We have to wait until they call us down.”
Both boys nod furiously, bouncing in place as they stare at the ice.
