Page 70 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
He adjusts the strap of his gear bag, then nods toward the team bus waiting at the curb.
“Gotta head out soon,” he says. “Recovery, film, usual playoff chaos.”
“Of course.”
He hesitates, then adds, “I’m really glad you came with me.”
I nod once, trying to keep the emotion tucked behind my smile. “Me too.”
The team is already loading up, a few of the guys tossing Jackson waves or teasing chirps. Russo walks by and nudges him hard in the shoulder.
“You bringing her to every game now, Hart? 'Cause whatever she’s got, we need to bottle it.”
Jackson just smirks. “Don’t worry. She’s booked through the Cup.”
Russo grins at me. “We like her.”
Then he’s gone, shouting something over his shoulder at the equipment manager.
Jackson glances at me again. “I’ll text you when we’re settled. Tomorrow’s early.”
But I don’t move right away.
Neither does he.
His jaw shifts like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t.
Something’s shifting. And I’m not sure either of us knows what happens when this trip is over.
The next morning, I wake to soft gray light slipping around the edge of the blackout curtains and the low hum of traffic several stories down. For a second, I forget where I am.
Then I roll over, the plush hotel comforter shifting with me, and it all comes back. Two playoff wins, the wild cheers, Jackson lighting up the ice.
And the way he smiled when he saw me in the tunnel, like I was the first person he wanted to find.
I stretch and sit up slowly. My suitcase stands zipped and ready near the door, packed last night before I let myself crash. We fly out at noon.
My phone buzzes.
It’s him.
You up?
I smile and type back.
Barely. You?
His reply comes almost immediately.
Yeah. Can’t sleep past 7 no matter where I am. Meet at the lobby in 30 minutes to head to the airport?
Then another buzz:
Can’t wait for tomorrow. The story time thing with the boys. Sounds like fun.
I blink.
He remembered.
