Page 79 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
By the time game day rolls around, that feeling still hasn’t left me.
The locker room is buzzing. Not the usual pre-game noise. This is the first home game of the series, and the playoffs are more cutthroat. Ruthless. The kind of current that builds when everyone knows what’s on the line. No room for mistakes.
I roll my shoulders back, tape crinkling in my hands as I wrap the blade of my stick. After our wins in New Jersey, we’re up two-nothing. The place will be packed. Loud. And we’re not taking that lead for granted.
Russo drops onto the bench beside me, helmet dangling from two fingers. “Crowd’s gonna be nuts tonight.”
“Good,” I say, pulling the tape taut. “We feed off that.”
Sticks clack against the floor. Skates scrape concrete. Low bursts of laughter can’t quite mask the tension humming underneath.
Everyone’s locked in. I can feel it in my chest. Game mode.
But under all of it, something else presses at the edges of my mind.
Ava.
She texted this morning that she’d be in the WAGs section again. Said it casually, like this is normal now.
And hell, maybe it is.
I flex my grip on the stick.
Russo taps his against the floor, watching me. “You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re thinking about something that ain’t hockey.”
I shake my head. “I’m thinking about the game.”
“Sure, you are,” he says, grinning as he stands.
Coach calls us in. We circle up, heads nodding through the final adjustments.
And then we’re moving. Sticks in hand, blades tapping concrete as we file into the tunnel.
The doors open.
The crowd hits like a wave. Lights. Sound. The kind of intense vibration you feel deep in your chest.
I push hard on my first stride, carving across the blue line. One lap, warm-up drills spreading out around me.
The puck drops and the world narrows.
First shift, legs burning, lungs raw. Playoffs don’t give you space. Every read matters.
Russo calls left. Switch. I pivot, tracking the puck through the boards. Johnson angles in to cover high, while O’Connor presses on the forecheck. We reset.
First period hums past. Tough game. No easy shots. The New Jersey Hawks clog lanes, slow us down.
I dig in harder on the next puck battle, boards rattling. Russo snags the loose puck, flips to center. I break fast, open ice ahead.
Shot. Off the post.
Damn.
Line change. I hit the bench, grabbing water. Coach passes behind me. “Right idea. Keep pressing.”
