Page 68 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
The question cuts deeper than I’d like.
And when he asked me to come to New Jersey, part of me wondered if it was just to keep up the fake dating ruse, to look the part. But another part, the part that keeps getting louder, hopes he really does want me here.
On the ice, he’s locked in. I can tell from the second he glides onto the rink. His strides are clean, his passes precise. Focused in a way that makes it impossible to look away. He doesn’t glance up at the glass, doesn’t scan the crowd. He’s just in it. And I admire how he disappears into the game like it’s the only thing that matters.
The first period flies by. Then the second. Jackson scores once, assists twice. The third period’s all grit and speed, but when the final buzzer sounds, the SteelClaws come out on top. 4–2.
The place erupts.
I’m on my feet without realizing it, clapping until my palms sting, cheering before I even realize what I’m doing. I’ve never been a die-hard hockey fan, not the kind who screams herself hoarse. But tonight, it’s easy to get swept up in it. Easy to celebrate.
I end up in the players’ tunnel after the game. Someone must’ve told security I’d be there, because no one stops me. A few of the other wives and girlfriends pass by with congratulatory smiles.
And then, there he is.
Jackson rounds the corner, flushed and glowing, his hair damp under a black beanie. He slows when he sees me.
“Ava,” he says, eyes bright. “You might be my good luck charm.”
I laugh, but something catches in my throat. The words are light and playful, but the way he says them sinks in deeper than I expect.
“You sure it’s not because you basically live at the rink?”
He grins. “Nope. It’s you.”
He’s teasing. Mostly. But I still feel the heat rise in my chest.
Someone calls his name farther down the tunnel, and Russo’s wife appears, phone in hand.
“Wait! Quick photo!” she chirps, already lining up the shot.
Jackson steps in close, slipping his arm around me. I loop mine through his, and for a second it feels startlingly natural. Easy.
The flash goes off.
He squeezes my arm once, quick and warm. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
I nod. “Go celebrate.”
He jogs off, blending into a crowd of laughing teammates and fist bumps.
And I stand there, still smiling, heart beating faster than it should when Lauren texts me the photo.
The next day, the morning sun filters through the hotel curtains, soft and pale, like the city hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet. I stretch slowly, blinking against the quiet.
For the first time in over two weeks, I’m not thinking about the wedding. Or Brad. Or any of that drama.
I’m actually enjoying myself.
I sit up, pulling the comforter around me. My phone’s on the nightstand. When I grab it, I pull up the photo from last night. The one Lauren snapped in the tunnel and sent right after.
I hadn’t meant to post it so fast, but it felt right in the moment.
Jackson’s flushed from the win, his dark hair curling slightly under his beanie, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. I’m next to him, arm-in-arm. I hadn’t realized until now how naturally we were leaning into each other.
The caption had been simple:
Win night smiles. #Playoffs
