Page 112 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“Mom—”
“No, no, honey, I’m happy,” she cuts in quickly. “I mean, we’ve alwaysadoredJackson. I just… I didn’t want to assume.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I figured you suspected.”
“Well, we did,” she admits. “Your dad called it weeks ago. He said, ‘That boy’s been in love with her since she had pigtails.’”
My throat goes tight.
“He’s a good man, Ava,” she says softly now. “You deserve good.”
I close my eyes, fighting back the sting behind them. “Thanks, Mom.”
I hear my dad’s voice somewhere in the background, then a muffled shuffle, and suddenly he’s on the line too.
“We always liked that Jackson,” he says, his voice gruff but warm. “I bet you two make a good team.”
My chest squeezes. “Yeah. We do.”
“Good,” he says simply.
There’s a quiet moment where no one rushes to fill the silence. Just warmth stretching across the line.
“We’re happy for you, kiddo,” Dad says finally.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “I love you guys.”
“We love you too,” Mom says.
I hesitate a beat, then add, “Um—could you not mention it to Greg yet? Jackson wants to tell him himself.”
There’s a faint hum of understanding in her voice when she says, “Of course. I imagine that’s a conversation he’d rather have man-to-man.”
“Exactly.”
“Then my lips are sealed. Now go finish your million gala tasks so you can get some rest, okay?”
“Okay.” I’m smiling so wide it almost hurts.
We hang up, and I sit there for a long moment, phone still in my hand. Relief slides through me like warm honey.
That night, after school pickup, homework, and dinner, the boys and I curl up on the couch with popcorn and handmade signs.
Liam’s says “GO DAD GO!” in big, uneven letters. Noah’s drawing looks like a flaming hockey stick.
For the first ten minutes, they’re fully locked in: commenting on who has the puck, which helmet looks the coolest, and whether their dad is the fastest skater out there.
By the time the first period ends, both boys are yawning between bites of popcorn.
“Alright, you two,” I say, brushing Noah’s hair off his forehead. “Time to get ready for bed.”
They protest half-heartedly, but there’s no real fight in it. I help with pajamas and supervise a messy round of toothbrushing before tucking them in.
As I adjust Liam’s blanket and kiss his forehead, Noah says casually, “You’re kind of like a mom now.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, not arealmom,” he adds quickly. “But you do mom things. And you’re really good at it.”
