Page 10 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

NOT HIS TO PROTECT

JESSICA

T he fan’s whirring furiously as I drop into the last set of squats, sweat trailing down my spine and fire licking at my thighs. My quads are torched, the HIIT circuit conquered, and I’m running on six hours of sleep with a to-do list that reads like a tragic novella. Standard Tuesday.

Sanity in this job doesn’t come from spa days or meditation apps; it comes from being stronger than whatever the league throws at me. And not only in heels and boardrooms.

I swipe a towel across my neck and head for the shower. The blast of cold water is supposed to reset me. It doesn’t. Neither does the protein shake waiting in the kitchen—kale, banana, espresso shot thrown in like caffeine can fix career-induced existential dread.

My body’s out of sync. A beat behind. Like a song I can’t quite hear the melody to anymore. A long pull from my smoothie doesn’t chase away the nausea that’s been lurking for days like an unwelcome truth. Probably the jet lag, I tell myself. Or the stress .

Or the possibility I’ve been refusing to name, sitting heavy in my chest.

The house is quiet when I step out. A modern haven tucked inside a colonial frame, much like me—polished exterior, strategic design, clean lines, tall windows catching the early light, and walls no one gets past.

My phone buzzes, the reminder glowing up at me.

Captain Skate. 7:45 a.m. Arrival.

Right. Another season of babysitting egos and dodging landmines in the all-boys club. Another year of Dad hovering like my job comes with a curfew.

Going independent .

The thought flickers, uninvited but persistent, like every other dream I’ve shelved to play by their rules. Building something that’s mine. Something that doesn’t come with a father’s approval or a boardroom full of men who see me as Mark Novak’s daughter first, Jessica second.

I lean against the counter, letting the idea hang there for a breath too long.

It’s reckless. Risky. No guaranteed paycheck. No team resources. No safety net if I fall.

But also...no more answering to anyone but myself.

My phone pings again, snapping me out of it.

No time for fantasies. Not yet.

I lock up the house behind me and step into the crisp Tarrytown morning. Sunlight filters through gold-tinged leaves like some kind of poetic encouragement.

But I’m not buying it.

By the time I’m on the road, Finn O’Reilly’s smirk has barged into my thoughts, uninvited. Because of course it has. I queue up a playlist that’s more battle anthem than background noise and focus on the fifteen-minute drive ahead .

Another season. Another war to fight.

When I pull into the Defenders’ complex, the parking lot is filling up fast—testosterone on wheels, every car a shiny reminder of where I am and exactly who this world was built for. I grab my tote, shrug on my blazer over the silk red blouse and head for the doors.

Time to remind them all why I’m here.

“Jessica!”

I glance over to see Joy Preston trotting toward me, her Moonbeans cup nearly sloshing over the lid. She’s flushed and breathless, which, given the pace she keeps, is about right.

“I wasn’t sure if I should wait in reception or just...follow the scent of testosterone.” She grins, shifting her tote higher on her shoulder.

“It’s thick in the air this time of year,” I deadpan. “Peak ego season.”

Joy laughs. “I know I’m not new-new, but this is my first start-of-season, so…do I look as overwhelmed as I feel?”

She does. In high-waisted ice-wash jeans, white sneakers, and a Defenders hoodie slouched off one shoulder, she’s the walking embodiment of curated casual. Gen Z cool with enough caffeine in her system to power a ring light.

“You’ll adjust,” I say, gesturing for her to follow. “Come on, I’ll walk you in.”

We step out of the tunnel into the viewing corridor right above rink level, where the sharp slice of blades on ice echoes up through the rafters.

“It’s called a captain’s skate,” I explain. “No coaches. No staff. Just alpha posturing and passive-aggressive chirps about who trained harder this summer.”

Joy blinks wide as she spots the chaos—Dmitri leading a pre-skate warm-up, Nate and Adam arguing over Spotify rights, and Wesley Cain looking like he wandered into a documentary on athlete psychology.

“I love it,” she whispers.

“Of course you do,” I mutter as we reach the edge of the viewing corridor.

And that’s when I spot him.

Finn O’Reilly stands at the railing, his jersey clinging to his frame, skates glinting under the arena lights.

A titan at rest. His navy Defenders jersey clings to damp shoulders, pads bulking beneath the sleeves, the hem tucked loosely into black compression pants.

His dark hair’s pushed back from his face, a little damp, like he’s just come off the ice… or is about to tear it apart.

And that grin of his—slow and lethal. He knows I’m watching. And he wants me to keep doing it.

My stomach tightens and my pulse stumbles. Because of course he’s here. And of course, he looks like that.

Joy spots him too. “Should I give you a minute with your favorite distraction?” she murmurs, sipping her coffee.

“Don’t start,” I mutter.

She grins. “Relax. I’m just observing the mating rituals. From a respectful distance.”

“Keep it that way,” I deadpan as Finn pushes off the railing, water bottle dangling from one hand, blades gliding with ease. He towers in his skates like some Roman god of sweat and bad decisions, his gaze locked on me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m the only one in the damn arena.

“Morning, Novak,” he says, slow and smooth. That Southern drawl, sharpened just for me.

“Back on your PR-approved behavior?” I murmur, keeping my face neutral and my pulse under control. But barely.

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his gaze drag down, then up, with all the subtlety of a heat-seeking missile. Then he glances at Joy. “Don’t think we’ve met.”

She steps forward like she might evaporate from nerves. “Joy Preston. Social. Not new, but…new-ish.”

Finn smiles, easy and practiced. “Welcome back, then.”

“I’ve seen you on camera,” she blurts. “I mean, not like that. Not creepy . Just stats. And clips. I’m gonna stop talking now.”

His grin softens into something warmer. “You’re doing great.”

Joy blushes straight down to her sneakers.

“She’ll be assisting me and also running team content this year,” I interject. “Behind-the-scenes, reels, player features. Keep the thirst traps subliminal.”

Finn lifts a brow. “You sure that’s not your specialty, Novak?”

I blink, a tight smile on my lips. “Save it for the rookies, O’Reilly.”

“Wouldn’t be half as fun.”

Before I can snap back, Marcy from HR swoops in, tablet in hand, chirping about payroll forms and locker room permissions. Joy shoots me a quick, knowing look before being ushered off.

Which leaves me exactly where I swore I wouldn’t be—alone with Finn O’Reilly and a hallway full of sexual tension thick enough to cut with a blade. And judging by the tilt of his mouth, Finn knows exactly how much that’s going to cost me.

He watches them go. Then, like clockwork, his attention slides right back to me.

His eyes drag over me again with familiar heat, a slow grin curving his mouth like we’re sharing a secret no one else can hear.

“Guess I should enjoy the view while it lasts.” He grins easily, but there’s a hint of something else in his voice.

“Before you disappear halfway across the world again.”

My pulse skips. I roll my eyes and start walking. “Save the drama for the cameras, O’Reilly.”

“Still with the last name?” he calls, falling into step beside me. “Come on, darlin’. Thought we were past that.”

He matches my stride without trying, enough to be in my space. Close enough that the heat of him wraps around my senses. His arm brushes mine, casually intentional. “I like the red,” he murmurs, low and for my ears only.

Of course he does. I keep my gaze locked forward. “Me too.”

He hums, that maddening little sound he makes when he knows I’m pretending not to react. “Fire suits you, Red.”

I stop short of the rink entrance, turning to face him. “Are you always like this, or is it just me you enjoy tormenting?”

His grin is slow and wicked. “Wouldn’t be fun if you didn’t fight it.”

Before I can snap back, I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck. The weight of a gaze that’s sharper than any blade on this ice.

Dad.

My eyes flick upward, barely for a second, but it’s enough. There he is, stationed in the observation deck like a general surveying his troops. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That signature Novak scowl carved into his face.

Of course he’s watching. He always is.

Not coaching today, not officially. Captain’s skate rules say this is player led. But that’s never stopped Mark Novak from looming like a storm cloud over both his team and his daughters.

Finn follows my gaze. His smile only deepens, amusement flickering in those dangerous eyes like this is his favorite game, and my father’s glare is gasoline on the flames.

I swear my molars might crack from how hard I’m grinding them.

I’m twenty-eight years old. I run point on every crisis this franchise survives. I’ve negotiated deals that keep this team profitable, navigated scandals that would sink lesser organizations, and still, Dad hovers, guarding me from the big bad hockey players.

My fingers tighten around my purse strap, knuckles whitening. This is exactly why that file of business plans on my kitchen counter keeps calling my name. Why the idea of breaking free—of building something mine—doesn’t feel so reckless anymore.

Because no matter how sharp my strategies or how high I climb, I’m forever Daddy’s little girl in his eyes. Stuck under his shadow, dodging his warnings and sidelong glances every time a player so much as breathes in my direction.

And Finn doesn’t breathe. He devours.