Page 142 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Our start to the Final. At home. In front of our people. And I went down like a fucking rookie.
I grit my teeth and stare at the floor, a sick, sinking feeling that I might’ve just blown it.
By the time I make it back to the bench, my shoulder is wrapped and cold, the ice pack already numbing most of the ache. I slideonto the end of the row, careful not to bump anyone as I sit. It’s the kind of quiet where everyone knows you’re there but doesn’t say much. Just a few nods, a couple of looks from the guys closest to me.
Russo skates by during a line change and casts a quick glance down the row. He doesn’t say anything, but the look says enough. You good?
I lift my chin in return. As good as I can be, taped up like a busted engine part.
The guys are locked in now, heads down and focused. There’s barely five minutes left in regulation, and the score’s close. It’s 2-1, us winning. The whole building’s on edge, the kind of tension that clings to your skin.
I catch Coach Barrett down the line, barking something at the defensemen before turning back toward the ice. He throws a quick glance down the bench when I slide in, his gaze catching on the taped shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just nods once, like he’s clocked it, processed it, and moved on for now.
I blow out a slow breath and lean forward slightly, careful of the shoulder. From here, I can still track the puck, watch the rotation of the lines, see how tight we’re keeping the zone. It’s torture, sitting here while they battle for every inch. My good hand curls against my thigh, itching to be out there.
One of the assistants walks past and nods. “MRI’s set for seven a.m.”
I grunt in response, leaning back, letting the cold from the wrap seep in, watching the game unfold in front of me like I’m stuck behind glass.
I shift in my seat, the cold from the ice pack biting through the fabric now. Every time I breathe, it feels like disappointment settling deep in my ribs.
I glance at the scoreboard again. Just hold the line. That’s all we need.
The clock ticks down, each second loud in my ears.
A few shifts rotate. Fast, disciplined. We’re still up by one, but it feels thinner than it should. Like if you blink wrong, it’ll vanish.
Russo’s line takes the ice again. He moves like he’s got something to prove, which he probably does. He’s been looking for blood since I got hit. One solid check along the boards and the crowd erupts.
I shift slightly, careful of the wrap on my shoulder. The cold’s starting to wear off, and the throb is settling into something dull but deep. It’ll feel worse later.
But right now, I can’t feel anything except the seconds burning off the clock.
Empty-netter with 16 seconds left.
3–1.
That’s it. We’ve got it.
The horn blares, and the building explodes.
Guys are flying off the bench, throwing arms around each other, sticks tapping the ice. I stay where I am, halfway up, one arm braced against my thigh. It’s instinct to rise, to move, but I know better. The second I try to stand too fast, I’ll feel it. And I’m not giving the media that shot.
Coach Barrett turns my way as he makes his way down the line. He pauses beside me and drops a hand on the back of the bench.
“Get the imaging done tomorrow. I’ll talk to you after the results. We’ll adjust rotations temporarily, but I want you back when it counts. Don’t be an idiot about the shoulder.”
I grunt. “Copy that.”
Eventually, I push to my feet and head toward the tunnel. No one stops me. Not the guys, not the staff. I think they know better than to try.
I cut through the back hallway toward the locker room, moving slower than usual, careful of every jolt to my shoulder. By the time I reach the corner outside the medical room, the hallway’s already thinning out: security, staff, a couple of reporters waiting to be waved in.
Then I see her.
Ava’s tucked to the side, near the spot where family usually waits. Her coat’s still half-buttoned, eyes scanning every person who passes.
She sees me, and I swear I watch the tension drop from her shoulders like someone cut a string.
