Page 47 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I don’t answer. Just pull my jersey over my shoulders, the familiar weight settling across my back like armor.
Game face. Game day. The tunnel smells like sweat, sharpened blades, and adrenaline.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, helmets on, gloves secure, sticks in hand, waiting for the signal. The arena above us is already roaring: deep, rhythmic chants shaking the concrete, a pulsing heartbeat we’ve all learned to run on.
Russo taps the blade of his stick against the floor twice. “If we win this, it’s Playoffs, boys. Let’s lock it in.”
I roll my neck, shift my weight, try to drown out everything except the game.
But I still glance up through the cutout above the tunnel. The WAGs section is already filling in, and she’s there: dark hair, SteelClaws jacket, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s not being watched by half the row.
Ava’s leaning in toward one of the other women, listening, nodding like this isn’t her first time sitting up there. Like she belongs.
Then she looks up, and smiles.
She lifts one hand in a quiet wave and I nod back.
It’s supposed to be fake. A show. A strategy.
But seeing her up there, confident, calm, wearing my team colors… it does something to me I can’t name. Something I shouldn’t feel.
“Eyes up, Hart,” Russo mutters, bumping my shoulder.
I straighten. “Eyes are up.”
“Not on the ice, they’re not.”
He grins under his visor, already skating ahead as the signal comes.
The announcer’s voice cracks across the sound system, calling out the starting lineup. The lights cut. The crowd surges.
And then we’re flying.
Onto the ice, into formation, through the familiar chaos of sticks and blades and impact.
Everything else falls away.
The puck drops.
The whistle blows.
And just like that, I’m in it.
The next twenty minutes blur past. Hard hits, quick passes, one near goal that rattled the post.
We skate off the ice to a roar that feels earned.
One period down. Score’s tied, but the energy’s right. We’re moving fast, clean, aggressive.
I unclip my helmet and drag a hand through my hair as I head down the tunnel with the others.
Russo’s running his mouth about a pass he claims I missed, but I let it roll off.
Back in the locker room, everyone quiets when Coach walks in.
He’s got that look. The calm before the storm. No yelling, just expectations.
He runs through strategy while trainers swap sticks and refill bottles.
