Page 98 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I catch Russo’s eye again when he grabs his phone. He lifts his chin slightly. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
The room’s already half empty by the time I hit the showers. Water scalding. Steam thick around me. I stand there too long, head down, letting it beat against the back of my neck.
Trying to drown out the replay in my head.
But it doesn’t work.
By the time I pull on a hoodie and jeans, the rink’s quiet. Just the low hum of lights and the echo of my own footsteps down the hall.
I grab my phone from my locker. Screen lights up.
Text from Greg:
Tough one. You good?
I stare at it a second longer than I need to.
Yeah. One game. Just need to reset.
Just a simple text. Friendly. Normal.
But it still lands heavier than it should.
Because the longer I wait to tell him, the harder this conversation’s going to be.
Three weeks ago, I’d have walked out of this room and gone home alone to stew. No one to see it. No one to feel it but me.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
Because tonight, there’s someone waiting at home I can’t stop thinking about.
And part of me needs that more than I’m ready to admit.
The truck’s quiet except for the low rumble of the engine and the soft clink of my water bottle against the console.
City lights blur past the windshield: white, gold, too bright against the night.
I should be breaking the game down, running plays, and fixing mistakes.
But my focus keeps drifting to Ava.
I can still see her this morning, barefoot in the kitchen, hair tousled from sleep, hands wrapped around her coffee mug.
Steady. Warm.
And without even trying, she’s become the place my head goes when everything else tilts sideways.
The Cup’s still out there. Boston’s going to come at us even harder in Game 2. We’ve got no room for another stumble.
But underneath it all, something keeps pulling at me
I want to see her.
Not just because it’s been a shit night. Not because I need comfort.
