Page 1 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

DEFINITELY NOT A DATE

Jessica

The Bell Centre thrums beneath my feet, eighteen thousand voices creating a symphony I feel in my bones.

Just like the man who owns this ice. The man I’m not supposed to want.

Number seventeen. Finn O’Reilly. Six-foot-two of pure, confident chaos. Right winger for the Defenders. Fastest forward in the league, and my biggest headache.

The ice bends to his skates. Every stride is raw power, every turn a dare—tight, explosive, impossibly smooth. He knows exactly how good he is and wants the whole world to watch him.

And they do. Eighteen thousand people, eyes glued to number seventeen.

Especially today.

Today’s not just any game. It’s the Defenders’ first appearance since hoisting the Stanley Cup.

An exhibition match in Montreal, part of a post-season charity tour designed to keep the buzz alive and the goodwill flowing.

No points on the line, no pressure. Just a sold-out arena and a city hungry to watch hockey royalty take a victory lap.

Tonight’s exhibition benefits youth hockey programs, a cause that looks good in press releases and actually does good in communities. An organization that tries to rebuild trust where the system failed.

It’s supposed to be light. Fun. A celebration.

But Finn is turning it into a performance.

God, he’s lethal. Broad shoulders and long lines, that infuriatingly perfect jaw, the dark gold hair shoved under his helmet in a way that makes him look unfairly casual, like he didn’t spend hours in the gym or years sharpening every inch of himself into a weapon.

And then there are those eyes—amber gaze, always amused, as if he’s enjoying a private joke no one else is in on.

But the joke is on me.

Because when he finds me in the crowd, when he burns through me like fire through glass, it’s not a glance.

It’s a dare and a promise all at once.

And I feel it to my bones. He doesn’t even need to touch me. That stare does all the work—still, certain, patient. Because he knows he’s already won and is just waiting for me to admit it.

I swear this man can sense every flutter of want in my body.

I’ve spent the last year pretending he doesn’t get to me. Pretending I don’t feel it every damn time he walks into a meeting and zeros in—calm, scorching, full of intent. Pretending I don’t notice the way his gaze drops to my mouth mid-sentence.

And he doesn’t even bother to hide any of it, not from the team, not from my brother Adam—his teammate and the Defenders right winger—and definitely not from my father. Coach’s warning glares bounce off him like rubber bullets. My brother’s thinly veiled threats? Wasted breath.

If anything, I think he enjoys defying them.

I know. And I feel every smirk. Every wink. Every intentional, infuriating pass by my office door, checking to see if this is the moment I’ll finally cave.

He staked a claim the day I joined the Defenders. Started to circle and ask me for coffee the same afternoon. Right after what I now know was my father’s locker room warning to the team, his big “stay away from my daughters” speech that made everyone look at me like I was wrapped in barbed wire.

But Finn never blinked. Never backed off.

It was always the same—coffee. Casual. Low stakes. No pressure. At first, I figured it was a joke. A patient flirt wrapped in a cocky grin.

But he kept asking. Lightly. Consistently. Not necessarily trying to get a yes, just wear down my resistance one espresso at a time.

And he does love his damn coffee.

So much that I started making sure there was a double shot waiting for him at every meeting. Black. No sugar. Exactly how he likes it.

It started like that. Just a little tease. Light banter to pass the time.

And then Chad happened.

Vanderbilt Junior swept in, all polished smiles and perfect timing, and Finn stepped back without a word. No drama, no push. Just…gone.

And when the bastard shattered me three months later, Finn was there again—flirty, steady, patient as ever.

But I still said no.

Because coffee with Finn O’Reilly isn’t harmless. It’s a door I know better than to open. The man has one foot in the next city and a fanbase in every time zone. Charming, infuriating, and never seen twice with the same woman.

I’m not signing up to be someone else’s temporary obsession.

But tonight, Finn is skating like sin in motion and looking at me like I’m the only thing he wants.

He cuts across the neutral zone, hips low, stick handling the puck easily.

A quick deke, a sharp pivot, and he burns past the opposing defender who should’ve known better.

The crowd rises with a collective gasp just as he pulls the goalie wide, then flicks the puck top shelf so fast, I barely register the goal light before the horn goes off.

The Bell Centre erupts, pure, unfiltered chaos.

But Finn?

He doesn’t raise his arms. Doesn’t slam the glass or pound his chest.

He just skates backward, slow and steady, savoring the chaos he caused.

Then he finds me in the crowd. That cocky smile curves at the corner of his mouth, satisfaction laced with dark intent. And then, he points.

Not a casual salute. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nod.

A full, deliberate, I-see-you-and-I-want-you point.

My breath catches. My chest tightens. And for one dizzying second, I forget how to stand.

How to breathe. Because there are eighteen thousand people on their feet, screaming his name.

And Finn O’Reilly has his eyes on me. Not giving a damn that I’m Coach Novak’s daughter.

Or that I’m the Defenders’ PR director. The one woman he has absolutely no business claiming in front of this many sponsors, execs, and cameras.

Beside me, Joy chokes on her champagne. “Okay, let’s just be clear. O’Reilly’s in love with you.”

“It’s optics,” I say automatically, though it scrapes out.

“More like a mating call.”

I force myself to look away and pretend my pulse isn’t drumming a rhythm I haven’t felt in months. Pretend my stomach didn’t just do that wild, traitorous thing it does around him. Flirty. Cocky. Stupidly beautiful in that smug, slow-grin way that makes my skin hum.

I lean against the glass, arms crossed tight. “He’s playing to the crowd.”

Joy snorts. “He’s playing to you , my friend.”

I open my mouth—probably to deny it again—but I don’t get the chance.

Because the final buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts.

The game ends in a blur of congratulations. An hour later, I’m still in the press corral, fielding questions and steering interviews, when my phone vibrates with a message I should’ve seen coming.

Finn: Wait for me. 30 mins. Hotel rooftop. Don’t make me come find you.

My heart skips a beat. I ignore it. Focus on the press.

By the time I’m finally done—my phone lightning up with a dozen unread messages from Joy and one annoyingly smug “I’m serious” from Finn—the last place I should be heading is the hotel rooftop.

I told myself I would stay away. But I end up there anyway.

The party’s already in full swing. Music, champagne, half the team clustered around couches and bar tables. I spot Joy by the bar, deep in conversation with Wesley, the new kid, all dimples and PR gold. She catches my eye, raises her brows. I wave her off.

I should leave. I should be anywhere but here. Then I feel it, that electric charge that says someone’s watching me. And I know it’s him before I even turn.

Finn O’Reilly. Freshly showered. Button-down open at the throat, sleeves rolled, hair still damp. And he’s looking at me, knowing I tried to resist, and ended up showing up anyway.

“Come with me,” he says, low, steady, confident. He doesn’t doubt that I’ll obey.

I fold my arms in an attempt at defiance. “You don’t get to just…summon me.”

His mouth tilts into a grin. “Wasn’t summoning.”

“Then what was that?”

He shrugs, then steps closer, crowding my space, warmth radiating from him. “I was deciding. You need to see Montreal.”

That voice. That look. He’s already dismissed every excuse I’m about to make

“You can’t just drag me off somewhere,” I say, trying to hold my ground.

“Technically, I could.” His eyes are dancing. “But that wouldn’t be real polite now, would it?”

A beat. Then he leans in, voice dropping to something low and warm. “‘Unless you want me to.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “You’re forward.”

“You’ve nailed it.” His lips curve into that million-dollar smile.

“And I’m also real tired of sharin’ you with the Novak security detail.

” A wicked, lazy grin spreads over his face.

“Just one evening. No Adam starin’ me down from the buffet table.

No Coach Novak eyeing me like I’m one look away from benching.

Just seein’ how good we get along when there ain’t nothin’ in the way. ”

I bite back a laugh. God, that hits a nerve.

Because they do hover. Adam with his constant presence and subtle glares. Dad with his stone-faced, old-school rules about “team professionalism” that conveniently translate to no one touches my daughter. Ever.

And maybe—just maybe—I’m sick of feeling like the team’s forbidden fruit.

“They both act like I’m still fifteen,” I mutter. “Last I checked, I’m a grown woman.”

“I know,” Finn says, easy and smooth, the Carolina drawl sliding over his every word like honey. His voice dips lower. “Believe me, darlin’, I’ve noticed.”

The look he gives me is heat and hunger, feeling dangerously close to a claim.

I should say no, that’s what smart Jessica would do. But I’m tired of being smart Jessica, the one who always follows the rules. For once, I want to be the woman who takes what she wants.

He’s giving me exactly what no one else has in months—freedom. Choice. Space to be seen as something other than Coach Novak’s daughter or the woman every guy on the roster is too afraid to talk to. A few hours outside the suffocating bubble my dad wrapped around me.

“Novak,” he murmurs, his voice smoke. “Give me a chance.”