Page 59 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I slam the puck against the boards, frustration bleeding through. The echo rings out, harsh and accusing, like it knows exactly what I’m trying to escape.
This wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to be fake dating. Give her cover from Brad. Keep her safe without crossing the line.
But last night, there was no line left.
It wasn’t just about Ava.
It was about what it meant—wanting someone again after losing Claire.
Her name whispers at the edge of my mind as if I’m getting close to forgetting. Like she’s standing just behind me, watching. Like I’ve done something wrong.
I told myself for years that Claire was my one and only. That anything else would be a betrayal. But lying beside Ava last night didn’t feel like betrayal.
It felt like breathing again.
I slow to a stop behind the net and drag my glove across my face, jaw clenched.
What the hell am I doing?
I glance around the empty rink. I used to love being here alone. It used to center me. Now all it does is echo my thoughts right back to me.
By late morning, my body is screaming to slow down. I’ve been out here for hours, firing pucks and trying to silence my thoughts with muscle memory.
I finish another round of line sprints and skate to the bench, chest heaving. My shirt clings to my back, damp and heavy. I tug off my helmet and lean forward, elbows on my knees, letting the chill settle over me.
I grab a protein shake from my bag and down half of it in a few long gulps. It’s lukewarm now, but I don’t care. My stomach turns at the idea of food, but I force it down anyway.
The click of a door opening echoes across the arena. I glance up as Russo steps onto the bench platform, not dressed for iceyet, coffee in one hand, and skate guards clacking against the concrete.
I skate toward him, slowing near the boards.
“Damn Jacks. You skate through the night or something? Practice isn’t for another forty minutes.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Russo studies me for a second, raising an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, pushing off again. My legs are lead now, burning from hours on the ice, but I grab a puck and set it at center ice anyway.
He steps closer to the boards, leaning over slightly. “So… rough night or are you just trying to win the Cup single handedly?”
I force a half-laugh and tap the puck ahead of me, skating in a quick circle before flipping it on net. “Didn’t sleep much.”
He gives me a long look, then nods slowly like he knows not to push.
“Alright. But if you burn yourself out before the first playoff game, Coach is gonna skin you alive.”
I nod once, jaw clenched. He’s not wrong.
Russo heads towards the locker room, leaving me alone again on the ice. I stare down at the puck beneath my blade, trying to will myself into focus.
Practice is about to start, and I still don’t know if I’m more afraid of forgetting the past or facing the future.
I skate to the boards and brace my forearms against the top of the dasher. My head drops between my shoulders. My pulse still hammers from the morning’s drills, but beneath it sits a gnawing discomfort, lodged deep between my ribs.
I let myself just breathe for a few seconds.
I spent two years pouring everything into my boys and hockey. Those roles were safe. But if I wanted something again, I’d have to admit I moved on.
