Page 80 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I nod, my chest heaving, mind still honed in.
Then the line change call hits, and I’m moving again. Skates biting ice, blood pumping.
First period ends tied, 1-1.
Second period’s rough. No easy plays. We hold the zone, keep pressure high, but the Hawks are scrappy as hell.
They clog passing lanes, blocking every shot. By the time the horn blows, sweat’s pouring and my legs are on fire.”
The third period crowd sounds different: louder, hungrier.
We take the faceoff. Shift after shift, it’s a battle. The Hawks press hard, but our lines hold. Our defense is solid, our speed sharp.
And then midway through the period, I catch the puck in the neutral zone and fire a clean pass ahead. Russo takes it in stride, blows past the last defender.
One stride, two, and he snipes it glove side, past the goalie before the crowd even breathes.
Goal.
The place erupts. I’m at the boards in a second, gloves high as Russo slams into me with a grin. I block out everything but the next shift.
The puck. The play. My line.
We’re up 2-1. Hawks pull their goalie, six attackers flooding the zone. I dig deep. Legs screaming, lungs burning, but there’s no way I’m letting them tie this.
The last faceoff drops. We clear the puck. The clock ticks down slow as hell.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
The horn blares.
We win.
I raise my stick as the crowd erupts, the noise crashing like a wave. Russo barrels into me, grinning wide, and I slam my gloves against his back in return.
A blur of teammates crashes in around us, sticks raised, shouts echoing off the glass. I catch Stevens’ grin and O'Connor’s thumping my back hard.
Somewhere through the roar, my eyes flick instinctively to the WAGs section. I spot her instantly. Ava is on her feet, hands clapping hard, eyes shining beneath the lights.
I skate off with the team, adrenaline still pounding through my veins.
The locker room smells like sweat and adrenaline and more importantly, victory.
Russo’s grinning across the room, yelling something about his shot being prettier than my face. I just shake my head, towel slung around my neck.
Then we’re moving. Showers, interviews, gear getting stripped down and packed.
Games used to be about the ice, the win, the numbers.
But now there’s something else. Not the press. Not the fans.
It’s her.
I shove the phone in my bag and stand.
One more interview, then I’m out of here. Because tonight, for the first time in a long damn time, it’s not just the game that matters.
It’s who I’m going home to.
