Page 11 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

Inching closer, testing boundaries he knows I can’t push back.

Not with Novak eyes drilling into us from above.

His voice drops to that dangerous register that fries my brain.

“Tell me, Red…does Daddy glare like that at every guy who gets close to his little girl or just the ones you dream about in the dark?”

My heart thuds with equal parts frustration and something far more dangerous. “Keep talking like that,” I snap, my voice tight with warning, “and you’ll be dreaming about extra laps instead of me.”

He leans in, that damn smirk playing at his lips like he’s already won. “Worth it. ”

My pulse skips as I take a sharp step back, forcing air between us before I do something truly regrettable. Like let him win.

“Get on the ice, O’Reilly,” I bite out, loud enough to carry. “Or I’ll make sure your PR profile includes ‘chronic underachiever.’”

His grin doesn’t slip, but I catch it, a flicker in his jaw, the briefest pause before he tips his head in mock surrender. He backs away slowly, turning toward the rink. But not before tossing one last glance up at my father—bold and unapologetic.

I don’t need to look to know Dad’s cataloging every second of this exchange.

And I’m so damn tired of it. Tired of being policed. Tired of pretending I don’t notice Finn. Tired of playing by everyone else’s rules.

Yeah... Maybe it’s time I start writing my own.

I barely make it two steps toward the exit before I hear it, the unmistakable bark of authority wrapped in paternal disapproval.

“Jessica. A word.”

I close my eyes for a heartbeat and turn to find Dad striding down from the observation deck, his steps clipped and purposeful. He gestures toward one of the empty conference rooms off the hallway.

Here we go.

The door shuts behind us with a soft click , but the tension is anything but quiet.

“You want to tell me what that was out there?” he starts, arms crossing over his chest in that way that used to make me squirm when I missed curfew.

I arch a brow, feigning innocence. “You’ll have to be more specific, Dad. I manage a lot of disasters before breakfast.”

“Don’t get cute.” His jaw ticks. “I’m talking about O’Reilly.”

“What about him?” I ask, keeping my tone even. If he wants to drag this into workplace territory, fine, I’ll meet him there.

“You know damn well what,” he hisses. “I saw the way he was looking at you. The way he always looks at you.”

I cross my arms, mirroring his stance but with far more control. “And?”

His mouth flattens. “And I’ve coached a hundred of these guys, Jess.

I know how they think. I’ve seen what happens when they get distracted, and when they distract others.

You’re not just my daughter. You’re part of this organization.

I’m not going to let some player treat you like a highlight reel. ”

There it is. The same speech he’s probably given a dozen times.

Like I’m some wide-eyed rookie who doesn’t know better, instead of the woman who’s saved this franchise’s reputation more times than he’s won games.

Like I haven’t been running circles around league executives while he’s still treating me like I need protection from the big scary world—and the men in it.

“Dad,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m not seventeen. And I don’t need you policing where a man looks.”

His frown deepens. “It’s more than a look, Jessica. Guys like O’Reilly?—”

“Are none of your business,” I cut in, sharper now.

“I handle Finn. I handle everything that keeps this team’s reputation intact.

That’s my job, remember?” His mouth presses into a hard line, but I’m not done.

“If you’re that concerned about distractions, maybe focus on getting Rothschild to lock down your star player before he signs with another team,” I add, letting a little venom slip through.

“Because Finn’s contract status is a bigger threat to this season than whether or not he flirts with me in a hallway. ”

That lands. I see it in the slight shift of his stance. For a second, neither of us speaks, just two Novaks locked in a silent war of pride and protection. Finally, he exhales through his nose, like he’s deciding which battle to pick today.

“Promise me you’ll be smart,” he mutters, the fight draining into something that sounds almost like concern. “I know players like him. Damn, Jessica, I was a player like him before meeting your mother.”

I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Yeah, well… maybe you should start trusting that I can handle myself.”

I don’t wait for a response. I turn on my heel and walk out, pulse hammering in my ears. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I’m being smart. Not when it comes to Finn O’Reilly.

But I do know one thing, I’m done letting my father define what safe looks like.

I stalk down the hall, heels clicking, pulse loud in my ears. My phone’s in hand, today’s meetings already buzzing. But the moment I duck into my office and close the door, the weight crashes down again. Heavy. Relentless.

Because underneath the anger, the ambition, the perfectly polished armor I wear to work each day, I’m exhausted.

Bone-deep, soul-tired in a way that has nothing to do with the job and everything to do with the life I’ve been too afraid to claim.

And no matter how hard I push forward, something still feels fundamentally. ..wrong.

My stomach dips. Not with nerves .

Something else.

Something I’ve been trying not to name.

I pull open the top drawer of my desk. Stare at the blank Post-it where I usually jot my priorities for the day. I write three words:

Take the test.

And just like that, the truth stops knocking.

It starts hammering.