Page 13 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

OPTICS

JESSICA

T here’s a headache blooming behind my right eye and a cold, metallic taste coating my throat. Dread, slow and familiar, settles in like an unwelcome guest.

I skim the sponsor brief for the third time, willing the copy to rearrange itself into something less hollow. Redemption. Legacy. Turning the page. It’s all marketing theater, and Finn O’Reilly is center stage.

I hated Park City last year.

Everyone else acted like it was a prize. A preseason getaway, all luxe mountain charm and shiny sponsor dollars. Team bonding, brand activations, and endless photo ops where the players got paraded around with their team numbers splayed across their backs.

But I knew what it really was. An audition. For the rookies, for the top line, for the team itself. For me.

Back then, I was six months into the job, wearing my last name like armor, convincing myself I belonged in rooms where everyone had a legacy, a trust fund, or a penis.

That’s where Chad Vanderbilt first slithered into my life.

His firm, Vanderbilt Strategies, was one of the event’s headline sponsors, which meant he was everywhere that week, giving keynotes on athlete portfolio growth, moderating panels on post-retirement branding, hosting cocktail hours like they were curated for a Vanity Fair spread.

He had the easy charm of a man who knew everyone’s net worth—and exactly how to double it.

We crossed paths on the second night, after a panel on “maximizing visibility in contract years.” He found me near the exit, complimented my dress, made a dry remark about the sponsor seating cards and how clever it was to put all the biggest money on the left side of the room, closest to the stage.

Then he asked what I thought of the optics, said he admired a woman who could read a room like a campaign.

Later that day, he asked to buy me a drink.

After that, he kept appearing. At panels, in the hallway, by the elevator.

Always with something warm to say, always a little closer than necessary.

And I let him. God, I let him. Because for once, someone seemed to see past the Novak nameplate on my door.

Past the whispers about nepotism and Daddy’s girl.

He made me feel like Jessica first, Mark Novak’s daughter second, like I was worth knowing for my own mind, my own talent.

Within weeks, we were together. Until the morning he casually mentioned that what we had was ‘fun" but not ‘serious,’ that I was smart and driven, but not quite what the Vanderbilt family had in mind for long-term. He paid for brunch, kissed my cheek like nothing had changed, and left me sitting there with my heart bruised and my pride wrecked. The ambitious girl who’d mistaken herself for marriage material.

And now he’s back in my orbit. Offering ‘notes’ on my work. Park City’s going to test me—my focus, my composure, my ability to stand three feet from the man who once made me feel like I was the wrong pedigree in the right dress.

I keep telling myself this is the last one. One more campaign under Rothschild’s thumb, one more summit built for sponsor optics instead of player agency. After this? I build something on my terms.

“Jess?” Joy pokes her head in, gripping her phone. “Rothschild signed off on the Park City campaign copy, but Chad had a few ‘language notes’ he wants to run by you. Should I loop him in on the next call?”

“Jesus.” Frustration mounts, and I drop the tablet onto my desk.

Of course he saw the deck. Rothschild probably handed it over with a bow, grateful for the chance to have Vanderbilt Strategies “lend their expertise.” That’s what Chad calls it— consulting.

But it’s really just a license to meddle.

To reframe. To control the narrative from a boardroom six floors up and five degrees colder.

Chad’s not on the payroll, not officially. But he brokers half our sponsor relationships, and Rothschild wants to keep those six-figure checks flowing. So now Chad gets to leave comments in the margins.

I can’t prove he’s trying to undermine me or the players. But I don’t have to. I know the play. I’ve seen the move before—soft influence masked as strategy. Rewriting the copy enough to shift the power. Enough to remind me who holds the leash.

I don’t look up. I say flatly, “No.”

She blinks. “Okay. Want me to pretend you’re in a meeting if he calls?”

God, I like her.

“Pretend I died,” I say. “But make it tasteful. ”

Joy snorts, disappears. I press my fingertips to my temples and exhale through my nose.

Once the door closes behind her, I open the deck. One of Chad’s notes on Finn’s section reads: “Consider softening ‘earned trust’—might be too strong given recent media tone. Try ‘rebuilding trust’ instead. Keeps the narrative humble.”

My jaw clenches.

Rebuilding trust? Finn never lost it. He didn’t gamble a fortune or drag the league into a scandal.

That was his father. All Finn did was survive it—clean, quiet, and under scrutiny he never asked for.

But sure, let’s imply he’s got something to apologize for.

Let’s fold him into the redemption arc for optics. Makes for a better headline, right?

I want to hurl the tablet across the room.

It’s not a strategy note; it’s character assassination disguised as marketing copy. And Chad’s betting no one will notice the difference, least of all Finn.

My stomach flips, sharp and sour. Not only from the note, but the memory. The weight of it. The constant recalibration I’ve had to master to be able to stay in the room.

I haven’t had coffee in four days. Can’t even stand the smell of it without my stomach lurching like it’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear.

Which means one of two things: I’m coming down with something, or I’m spiraling so hard my body’s trying to stage an intervention.

And neither option fits into a summit schedule stacked with interviews, photo ops, and an entire campaign designed to sell a sanitized, sponsor-safe version of Finn, stripped of everything real.

Rothschild’s locked in on the redemption angle. Thinks it’s poetic, Finn rising from the ashes, rebuilt and repackaged for sponsor consumption. Never mind that the ashes weren’t his to begin with. Never mind that this version of the story only pays off for us if he stays in New York.

Which means the pressure’s on me to make it land. Sell the myth. Keep the sponsors happy. Make the summit a win.

No big deal. Just the entire direction of the campaign—and Finn’s future with the team—balanced on whether I can keep it all from buckling.

My appetite’s been off for days now; everything tastes wrong, smells too strong.

I keep telling myself it’s leftover jet lag from China, even though I’ve been back for two weeks.

Even though deep down, I know jet lag doesn’t make coffee smell like poison.

Or maybe it’s the stress. The pacing. The fact that I’m holding everything together with dry shampoo and sheer force of will.

A faint headache pulses behind my right temple.

My stomach tightens low and sharp, a rubber band pulled one stretch too far.

There’s a flicker of dizziness when I stand, the room tilting just enough to make me grip the desk.

But it’s nothing I can’t push through. Nothing I can’t ignore.

I’m a master at ignoring things that might inconvenience my carefully constructed life.

It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m always fine.

Closing the file, I drag in a breath and head for the briefing room. The motion steadies me. Focus replaces feeling. Control slides back into place. It’s muscle memory.

Until I round the corner and nearly walk straight into temptation wearing a backward baseball cap. He’s leaning against the wall outside the third-floor conference room, as if he’s auditioning for a slow-motion locker room ad.

My stomach does that stupid flutter thing.

“Red,” he says, eyes cutting up from his phone. “Didn’t think I’d catch you before the meat market briefing.”

I arch a brow. “You’re early. ”

He shrugs, mouth curving. “Figured I’d make a good impression. Isn’t that the point?”

“You showing up on time is already throwing off the narrative,” I deadpan.

He grins. “You’re the one who picked me. I thought I was on the ‘too unpredictable for sponsors’ list?”

“You are,” I say, brushing past him. “But you photograph well.”

He falls into step beside me, lazy and confident. “So it’s a pity invite.”

“It’s a strategy. The Defenders need you.”

He hums low in his throat. “And here I thought I was the redemption story of the season.”

“You’re the redemption face ,” I correct, keeping my voice light. “Big difference.”

“And you’re the genius spinning it into gold.”

There’s heat in the way he says it. Something heavy under the flirtation.

“You gonna babysit me the whole trip?” he teases, trailing behind. “Or just give me a shock collar and a list of approved adjectives?”

“I’ll be managing the player appearances,” I say crisply, ignoring the curl of something warm under my skin. “Wes and you. Try not to embarrass me.”

He leans in, voice low. “Can’t make any promises. But I do like it when you’re watching.”

Instead of responding, I keep walking, steady on the outside, even as something twists low and hard in my stomach.

He holds the door open for me, gaze lingering a second too long.

I step inside first and spot the espresso on the table—hot, no sugar, exactly how he likes it.

Exactly how I told the staff to prepare it.

A signal, precise and deliberate. A tell I can’t help but leave, even when I’m trying to keep my hands clean.

I steal a glance as he notices—the pause, the slight tilt of his head, then that slow, devastating grin that says he knows exactly what this means. That I’m thinking about him. That I remember how he likes things. That I can’t help myself, even when I should.

He looks up, catches me watching, and smirks. The bastard knows he’s already won something.

My jaw clenches. I glance over the player profiles on the screen, faking disinterest.

The meeting drags. Sponsor activations, media blocks, photo ops—all framed like strategy, but I know what this is.

A sales pitch. A stage. A glossy, pre-season auction where the league pretends this is about legacy and loyalty, when it’s really about one thing: making the numbers work for Rothschild’s end-of-year bonus.

This is my job, and I play along. But by the time I make it back to my office, the weight is unbearable. My head is pounding. My stomach’s twisted. I close the door, sink into my chair, and finally let the mask slip.

I don’t want to go to this summit. Not when it feels like I’m selling off parts of Finn to pad a balance sheet.

If I had my own agency, I’d still be doing events like this, but the power would be mine. The narrative would be mine. And players like Finn wouldn’t be reduced to redemption stories they never needed to write.

This trip is supposed to save the season, lock down Finn’s contract, prove I can deliver the impossible. So why does it feel like I’m the one about to shatter? Like every step toward securing his future is another step away from mine?