Page 60 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Without her.
My hands curl into fists on the boards. It doesn’t feel right, even now. Even after all this time. Like I’m betraying something sacred just by thinking about someone else.
But then I picture Ava’s face from last night: her smile, the way she looked at me when I reached for her hand. The way she leaned into me like she belonged there.
And maybe she does.
But I don’t know how to hold that. How to make room for her without feeling like I’m erasing Claire. Without drowning in the guilt of wanting someone again.
I catch the overhead clock out of the corner of my eye. Twenty minutes until practice. The quiet won’t last much longer.
I need to get it together before the rest of the guys show up.
Before I see Ava again.
Because I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say.
By the time I leave the locker room an hour and a half later, every part of my body aches, from my quads to my stiff hands.
Practice went fine, despite pushing through drills on autopilot and fielding a dozen chirps from the guys. Russo told them I’d been out there since dawn, which opened the floodgates.
“Damn, Hart, are you training for the Ironman?”
“You know there’s no extra credit for extra laps, right?”
“Someone tell Jackson the sun comes up even if he sleeps in.”
Coach didn’t say much, just gave me a look during warmups and muttered something about “pacing myself.”
Now, in the quiet of my truck, I sink into the seat with a groan. My water bottle’s warm and mostly empty, but I chug what’s left and toss it aside. My phone buzzes just as I turn the key in the ignition.
My heart rate spikes when I see it’s Greg.
He’s probably between surgeries or on a quick break. He doesn’t call much, but when he does, it’s usually important.
I hesitate before answering.
“Hey,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Hey, got a minute before I scrub in. Thought I’d check in.”
I swallow, trying to sound normal. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Greg says, a pause. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just getting ready for the playoffs.”
He snorts, and it loosens tension in my chest. “Did you finally move into the rink full-time?”
I force a laugh. “Right back at you. You living in the OR yet?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” he chuckles. “What can I say? You know I’ve always thrived on being go-go-go.”
It’s true. He’s always been that guy. Focused. Driven. While I was staying late at the rink, chasing NHL dreams, Greg was charting his path to med school with surgical precision.
“Congrats on the win, by the way, and for making it into the playoffs. That’s huge, man.”
“Appreciate that.”
