Page 29 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
That thought hits harder than I expect.
“Morning, Ava!” Noah barrels into the room like a rocket, backpack half-zipped, socks mismatched. “We’re out of the good granola.”
“Tragedy,” she deadpans, handing him a spoon. “You’ll have to survive with oatmeal like the rest of us.”
Liam follows behind, quieter but not shy.
“Do you have a game tonight?” he asks, eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the milk. “Puck drop’s at 7:30. I’ll head out after dinner.”
“Can we go?” Noah asks through a mouthful of banana.
I lift an eyebrow. “It’s a school night bud.”
He swallows his bite, his next question catching me off guard. “Is Ava going?”
Ava’s eyes widen, surprised.
I clear my throat. “Only if she wants to.”
Her gaze meets mine. Hesitant, but not unwilling. “I think I’d like that. Can you give me a ride?”
I nod, and just like that, something settles in my chest. A steady kind of pull. She fits. The boys like her. She’s here, blending into the rhythm of our day like it’s second nature.
Which might be the most unsettling part of all.
After breakfast, the house shifts into its usual weekday rhythm. Miss Taylor wrangles the twins for school, and I head out for my morning skate. Ava stays back, but when I return late that afternoon, she’s curled up in the front room with a book and a blanket draped over her legs, like she’s been here longer than four days.
Dinner comes together easily: baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and salad. The twins burst through the door in a whirlwind of announcements and snack requests.
Ava helps Liam open a stubborn juice box while Noah tells a story about a glue stick emergency with dramatic flair. She laughs, genuinely, and I catch myself watching her a second too long.
By the time we sit down, the table’s loud with energy. Miss Taylor asks about spelling words, Liam wants to know how many fans will be at the game, and Ava gently redirects Noah when he tries to swap his broccoli for extra bread.
It’s noisy, imperfect, real.
And Ava fits like she’s always had a seat at this table.
She doesn’t say much, but when I head upstairs to get ready, I hear her pad into the kitchen and start making tea. By the time we’re out the door, the sun’s just starting to set, and she slides into the passenger seat like muscle memory.
The arena is already buzzing when we hit the ice that evening. Fans are filing in, jerseys in every row, the kind of energy that crackles even before puck drop. It’s not quite sold out—weekday games rarely are—but the lower bowl’s filling fast, and the sound system’s cranked up loud enough to vibrate the glass.
Two games left in the regular season. We need to win both to clinch our playoff spot. The guys feel it. I feel it. No one says it out loud, but it’s there… coiled under our ribs, fierce behind our focus.
Coach Barrett paces behind the bench, jaw clenched. He doesn’t need to say much tonight. We all know what’s on the line.
I settle into the rhythm of warmups: skate, stretch, pass. But my head’s not as clear as it should be. It keeps drifting to the way Ava smiled at Liam when he handed her that lava dragon drawing, the way she laughed at Noah calling oatmeal “prison food.”
I pull on my helmet and skate into the first drill. The scrape of blades over clean ice clears my head. Almost.
Because I know exactly where she’s sitting. Center ice, just above the glass. Hoodie down, dark hair loose, eyes tracking us as we move. And that’s enough to mess with my focus more than I want to admit.
Russo catches me looking.
“You gonna daydream all night or join us?” he chirps.
I grunt. “Mentally preparing.”
