Page 12 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

SKATING ON THIN ICE

FINN

T he ice doesn’t care about contracts, headlines, or agents. Doesn’t give a damn about the way Jessica Novak’s heels clicked across the concrete like a countdown to my self-control. Out here, everything’s simple—blades, speed, power.

Everything off the ice? That’s where it gets messy.

I dig into another sprint, carving across the rink like I can outrun the weight pressing in from all sides. Management’s silence, Marcus’s texts lighting up my phone, and that little voice in the back of my head reminding me that time’s running out.

I’m the last one off the ice, not because I need the extra work, but because I’m not ready to step back into a world where everyone’s waiting to see if I bolt.

When I finally skate to the bench, Dmitri’s leaning against the boards, smirking like he knows exactly what’s coming.

“Taking a victory lap, O’Reilly?” he drawls in that rolling Russian accent. “Or avoiding the locker room?”

I shrug, popping my helmet off and running a hand through my damp hair. “Figured I’d give you old men a head start.”

He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder as we head toward the tunnel. The second I push through the locker room doors, the chirping starts.

“Look who finally decided to join us!” Adam calls out, grinning as he tosses a roll of tape across the room. “Thought you were skating straight to Raleigh.”

“Or Dallas,” Wesley pipes up from his stall, bright-eyed and too damn eager for someone who hasn’t learned when to shut up. “I heard they’ve got a jersey waiting with your name on it.”

I catch the tape mid-air and toss it back without missing a beat. “Disappointed you won’t get to film my farewell TikTok, rookie?”

Wes flushes but grins, unbothered. Kid’s got spirit, I’ll give him that.

“Just saying,” Adam adds, peeling off his pads, “if you’re planning to abandon us for barbecue and cowboy hats, a little notice would be nice.”

I chuckle, stripping off my gear. “Relax. If I wanted bad beer and Southern drawls, I’d visit my parents more often.”

That earns a few laughs, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. Because we all know the truth behind the jokes; I’m one foot out the door, and everyone in this room can feel it. The weight of uncertainty hangs over us like a storm cloud, unspoken but suffocating.

Across the room, Nate grunts as he yanks off his goalie mask, dark eyes flicking my way with something that looks like betrayal.

“Hope she’s worth it,” he mutters, barely loud enough to carry but sharp enough to land .

The room stills for a moment. I arch a brow, grabbing a towel. “Who says there’s a girl involved?”

Nate shrugs, already focused on unlacing his skates like he didn’t just lob a grenade into the silence.

“Please,” Wesley jumps in, filling the air like he always does. “The way you’re looking at Novak? I’m surprised Coach doesn’t throw you through the glass.”

That cracks the tension. Laughter—relieved, a little too loud, the kind that says thank God someone else said it .

I lean back in my stall, smirking. “If Coach wants to fight me over a look, he knows where to find me.”

Adam walks past, taps the back of my head with his water bottle. Light. Not friendly. My reflexes kick in; I grab the bottle midair, just long enough to remind him I don’t flinch. Then I calmly set it on the bench beside me.

He leans in. “You keep looking at my sister like that, and we’re gonna have a problem.”

I meet his eyes. “Noted.”

Then I hear Liam behind me. “Don’t give him a reason, Finn.”

Adam snorts. “Look who’s talking,” he mutters, turning toward him. “Funny, coming from the guy who used to sneak around with my other sister.” He shakes his head. “Seriously, every time I blink, there’s another player sniffing around a Novak girl. It’s exhausting.”

Liam doesn’t rise to it. He calmly adjusts his glove like he’s heard it all before.

Nate lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. Are we really doing this again?”

Dmitri grunts. “Next time, I bring popcorn. Maybe vodka too.”

Wesley grins. “Cool. I’ll bring a Kevlar vest. Between Adam and Coach, O’Reilly’s gonna need it. ”

That lands. A few groans, a couple laughs.

Somebody mutters, “facts.” A towel smacks Wes in the chest. The conversation shifts after that, back to preseason bets, rookie mistakes, and who’s buying the first round once camp officially starts.

But under it all, I can feel it, that undercurrent of uncertainty.

They won’t say it. Hell, I wouldn’t either. But they’re worried. Not only about losing a teammate. About losing me . And yeah, part of me wants to ease their minds. Tell them I’m not going anywhere. That loyalty still means something.

But I can’t. Because loyalty doesn’t pay when management’s too scared to put pen to paper. And I’m not about to sell myself short only to stay where I’m wanted conditionally.

I finish getting dressed, letting the noise fade into the background as my thoughts drift south. Literally.

Raleigh. Dallas.

Both offers sitting in Marcus’s inbox. Both with numbers that would make most guys pack up without a second thought.

But I’m not most guys. And I’m sure as hell not going back to North Carolina, not to play in my father’s shadow, not to have every goal I score measured against his scandals. New York is where I became myself, separate from his legacy. This is where I want to stay.

I grab my phone from my locker, Marcus’s latest text glowing on the screen like an ultimatum. I’m not ready to answer him, not until I know exactly what I’m fighting for. And lately, that answer has green eyes and a talent for making me want things I shouldn’t.

As I head out, Liam falls into step beside me, keeping his voice low. “Seriously, Finn. You good? ”

I glance at him, smirking. “Since when do you worry about me?”

He shrugs. “Since I realized you’re the only one dumb enough to flirt with Novak’s daughter under his nose. Even after seeing what he pulled off with me because of Sophie.”

I chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. “Relax, Captain. I’m always good.” But as I push through the doors and into the cool hallway air, I know that’s a lie.

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking into a conference room that smells of tension and freshly pulled espresso. Glass walls, sleek table, the kind of setup meant to look transparent while every conversation behind it is anything but.

A double shot sits waiting at my place—hot, strong, perfect. No sugar, no milk. Exactly the way I take it. The kind of detail only someone who’s been watching would know.

She won’t admit it, hell, she’ll probably pretend it was Joy or some assistant, but this is pure Jessica.

A silent move on the board. A signal that she’s interested. That she doesn’t hate the idea. And it slowly dawns on me that it’s her way of saying I’m not a fucking coffee date.

I catch her eye across the table—slow, pointed, laced with heat. My look says I saw it. I know it was you. And I’m coming for you.

Her mouth curves, just barely. That quiet, wicked smile she gives when she’s winning. Her eyes dance like she’s already three steps ahead.

She wants me. I know it. I feel it. So why the hell does she keep saying no?

The moment settles between us like a quiet promise, and I take my seat. Marcus is already there, flipping through his tablet. Blazer crisp, smile cutting. “About time,” he mutters under his breath.

Rothschild walks in next—silent, rigid, carrying all the charm of a cease-and-desist letter. He drops into the chair beside Jessica without so much as a glance. To him, we’re only numbers on a spreadsheet.

Coach Novak stands behind his chair, arms crossed. I’ve seen that look before, when he’s about to send a rookie to the minors.

And then there’s Joy, perched on the edge of her seat like she’s waiting for a pop quiz, wide eyes darting between faces. She’s got a notebook, a Moonbeans cup, and a Defenders hoodie that practically swallows her whole.

“I’m just observing,” she whispers when I glance her way, cheeks pink. “Social strategy. Player features.”

“Welcome to the deep end,” I murmur back.

Coach clears his throat. “Let’s keep this simple,” he says, voice rough.

“You’re one of the top-performing forwards in the league.

Second line or not, you pulled your weight last season, pushed us all the way to the Cup.

No one questions your value. We’ve looked at the lines, and yeah, we’ve considered moving you up.

Slotting you in at left wing on the first.” He pauses, eyes steady on me.

“But truth is, this lineup works. It’s balanced.

Keeps the pressure steady across both lines.

You on second gives us depth, makes us lethal.

I’d rather have two strong lines than one stacked. ”

The silence stretches. “That said, I know your worth. I know what you’ve earned.

We’re waiting on a couple key sponsorships to land before we can make the kind of offer you’d actually consider.

One that reflects the impact you bring—on and off the ice.

” He glances toward Rothschild, then back to me.

“You’ve worn the A for two seasons now. You’ve earned it.

Guys follow you. They trust you. And that matters. ”

Marcus lifts a brow, mildly impressed. “Nice to hear that said out loud. Now if only it came with numbers.”

Coach doesn’t bite. “We’re working on it. But sponsor alignment’s lagging. Our cap is tight, and we’re not throwing out offers we can’t honor. Not when the math’s this close.”

Rothschild cuts in, tone clipped, “It’s not only about the dollars, it’s the optics. We need the right narrative. Legacy, loyalty, performance—we want the full package aligned before we move.”

Translation: We see your value. We just haven’t figured out how to pay for it yet.

Marcus leans forward, voice cool but firm. “Then maybe stop acting like you’re the only team with ice. Raleigh and Dallas are ready now. Full support, full money, full visibility. If you want to keep him, act like it.”

Coach’s jaw tightens. “We’re not letting him go without a fight. Don’t twist what this is.”

Marcus doesn’t flinch. “Then put the gloves on.”

I speak up, calm but clear. “I’m not signing a bridge deal. I’ve done the patchwork contracts. Played through the noise. I’m done with that.” I turn to Rothschild. “You want me on the second line? Fine. But stop treating me like a bonus piece. I’m not a placeholder. I’m your anchor.”

Rothschild exhales, fingers steepled. “This is about long-term positioning. Legacy stories like yours need the right sponsor to carry the weight, and that’s still in play.”

Jessica cuts in, unshaken. “We’ve got alignment building in Park City. There will be high-net exposure, clean messaging. We’ll show Finn as more than just a forward. We will show him as the face of New York. ”

Marcus casts her a glance, somewhere between skeptical and impressed. “Finally, someone’s talking strategy.”

Coach nods once. “It’s your play, Jess. You’ve got the contacts.”

“I know,” she says, still not looking at me.

But I’m looking at her. And I can feel the shift, how her voice flattens when she’s in work mode. How she slides into that ironclad Novak posture, hiding every signal that isn’t strictly professional.

But I know what she’s doing. I know because I saw it on Fire Island—her wearing my shirt, number seventeen stretched across her back like a brand. She’d sat there sipping coffee, calm as you please, while my number claimed her for everyone to see. The boldest damn move she could make.

A dare.

Keep chasing, O’Reilly. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve to catch me.

She wanted a reaction. Wanted to see if I’d step up.

And I didn’t. I let her win the silence. Because the timing mattered. Because she ghosted me in Montreal, and that was the first time we’d seen each other after that night.

But now the leash is burning in my hand, and I’m taking everything.

Her eyes flick to mine for a breath. Enough to tell me she doesn’t want to be done either.

Coach sees it. His mouth tightens. Arms cross.

Rothschild rises, clearly done. “Get us traction in Park City. You’ll have my answer when you return.” And then he walks out.

Joy blinks. “Wow. He’s...intense.”

“You’ve got six days,” Coach tells me, not budging. “ Make the right impression, get the right sponsor, and we can lock you in.”

Then he nods once, signaling the meeting’s over, but his gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. A warning. Something that says I saw that. And I’ll be watching.

As the others start gathering their things, Marcus nudges me. “You better bring a suit.”

I smirk. “I look great in a suit.”

Jessica rises, expression neutral.

“All that’s left now,” she says without looking at me, “is to bring it in.”

She walks out, heels sharp against the tile. Back straight. Face unreadable.

Coach stands at the far end of the table, arms folded. Like he’s waiting for something. I collect my folder, ready to leave.

“Stay a minute,” he says firmly. I turn back and meet his eyes. “You’ve been a leader in this locker room,” he says after a beat. “I don’t hand out the A like party favors.”

“I know.”

“You’ve earned that letter. With grit, discipline. You show up when it counts.”

I nod once. “That’s what I’m here to do.”

“Good.” His jaw ticks. Then his voice hardens.

“Because this next part? It counts too.” A pause.

And then, like he’s been building to it all day, “Jessica’s more than PR.

” His words land heavy. No room to misinterpret.

“She’s not some puck bunny you flirt with after practice,” he continues.

“Not a one off, not a story for the boys, not a feature on your socials.” I hold his stare, pulse steady.

“She’s smart,” he continues. “Driven. Way out of your league, if I’m honest. And she’s got enough on her plate without winding up as someone’s regret. ”

His meaning is clear. Crystal.

Back off.

I wait a beat before responding. “Did you approve of Chad?” That lands.

He doesn’t blink, but I see the flicker.

“I waited,” I say. “Out of respect, I kept my distance. But I saw what happened.” Another pause.

Silence stretching taut. “I won’t be another mistake,” I finish.

“And I won’t stand by watching someone else slide by me again. ”

We lock eyes. His shoulders tense like he’s bracing for a hit that doesn’t come. Finally, he gives a single, clipped nod. Nothing warm about it. “Good,” he says. “Then I trust we understand each other.” And just like that, he walks out.

I stay where I am, the air still humming from the charge he left behind. I know what that nod was. It wasn’t permission.

It was recognition.

That I’m not some rookie he can intimidate. That I won’t be scared off. That I see her, really see her, and I’m not here to mess around.

He might not like it. Hell, I wouldn’t either if I were him. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not going anywhere.

Not when she’s the one I want.