Page 13 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“Hart, you skating or sleepwalking?”
“Skating,” I mutter.
“Not well.” His eyes narrow. “You’re our first-line left winger, not a ghost. If your head’s not here, we’ve got problems.”
I nod once. Not arguing. He’s right.
He pauses, then adds, “We win these next two? We’re in the playoffs. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
We’ve got two games left before the playoff spots are locked. Two wins, and we’re in. I should be fired up. Focused.
And yet, all I can think about is Ava upstairs in my guest room, trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces.
I tug at the chin strap of my helmet, clench my jaw, and force a breath through my nose.
Focus, Hart.
You can’t drop the puck on both fronts.
After practice, I hit the road with the radio low, the thrum of the engine and the faint hiss of tires on asphalt filling the silence. My stick bag shifts in the backseat with every turn, a quiet reminder of the hours I just burned at the rink without getting anywhere. Every mile closer to home, my focus drifts further from hockey and back to her.
By the time I pull into the driveway, it’s just past six. My legs are lead, my brain foggy from the kind of practice where nothing clicks and everyone notices.
Not great.
I kill the engine. From the outside, the house looks quiet. No twin stampedes, no squeals. It seems peaceful, but I’ve learned that doesn’t mean nothing’s going on, especially on a Sunday like this.
When I step inside, my stomach growls as I’m greeted with the smell of roasted vegetables and lemon chicken.
Miss Taylor’s cooking is always something to look forward to.
I round the corner and pause.
Ava’s sitting on the living room rug, legs crossed, a deck of UNO cards spread out between her and the boys. Liam is mid-eye-roll while Noah leans dramatically across the pile to discard four cards.
“That is not how the rules work,” Liam groans.
“You’re just mad I’m winning,” Noah retorts with a grin.
Ava smirks but doesn’t intervene. Her sleeves are pushed up, and her dark hair is in one of those messy buns that makes her look good without even trying. There’s a smudge of something green on her cheek. Paint? Marker? And her phone rests beside her on the floor, face down.
Like she’s deliberately not looking at it.
She glances up and spots me, and something flickers in her eyes. Surprise, maybe, or hesitation. She starts to stand, but I shake my head.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say.
“You didn’t,” she replies, then to the boys: “Okay, last round.”
They groan in sync, but they don’t argue.
I’m impressed.
I step closer and crouch beside her. “Thanks for hanging out with them.”
