Page 158 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
When the door clicks shut behind him, the quiet folds around me again, but it doesn’t feel empty this time.
Jenna’s name is at the top of my texts, a string of patient check-ins. My thumb hovers for a second before I finally tap to call.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Ava! I was just about to bug you again,” she says, her voice a mix of warmth and relief. “How are you? Did you—”
“I did,” I interrupt gently. My voice wobbles. “I took the test. It’s positive.”
She inhales sharply on the other end, then goes silent.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Jenna finally says, her voice trembling. “Are you okay?”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I’m terrified. Overwhelmed. But… also kind of at peace in a weird way.”
She lets out a teary laugh. “Only you would say that.”
I pause, then take a breath. “Jackson knows too. We found out together. He’s been incredible, Jenna.”
“I’m so happy he’s there for you, Ava,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I also want to ask for your help.”
“Anything,” she says immediately.
I close my eyes. “I think I need to start stepping back from Open Pages a little. Not all at once, but I want to start leaning on you and the team more. You’ve always been the person I trust most.”
“Of course,” Jenna answers, emotion spilling into every syllable. “We’ve got this. You’re not alone in any of it, okay?”
My eyes burn. Relief and vulnerability crash together, forming something powerful.
“Thank you,” I say softly, meaning it in a thousand different ways.
We talk a few minutes more about practical details—how I’ll start forwarding tasks and meetings, and who can step up where. But beneath all the logistics, there’s this fierce, unwavering thread of love tying us together.
When we finally hang up, I set the phone down and press both palms to my face.
A quiet thought nudges at the edge of my mind about Greg, my parents, and how they’ll take the news when I tell them about the baby. Jackson and I haven’t really talked about when or how yet.
That’s another conversation waiting for us back home.
The afternoon drifts by in gentle stretches. I reply to a few Open Pages emails, jotting down a few notes for the board.
At some point, I make a cup of tea and sit by the window, watching the city shift and settle into early evening.
I change into my favorite black top and jeans, something comfortable but steady, and slip my arena pass around my neck. I smooth my hair in the mirror, pause, and press a hand lightly to my stomach.
I book a car and head downtown, my heart hammering with every passing streetlight.
As we get closer to the arena, the sidewalks thicken with fans in SteelClaws jerseys, some holding signs or snapping photos with friends. A low, electric buzz hangs over the entire street. It’s that unmistakably charged energy that only game nights bring.
By the time I step into the suite, my heart is already thrumming. I move to the front row of seats, leaning forward, fingers twisting around the lanyard of my arena pass.
Below, the lights sweep across the ice as the crowd’s roar rises and falls like a living thing. The players pour out of the tunnel, one by one, each greeted with a wave of deafening cheers.
Then I see him.
Jackson steps onto the ice with squared shoulders, his stride smooth and powerful despite everything he has been through to get here.
