Page 14 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

STILL NOT A DATE

FINN

T he puck rings off the post and ricochets into the corner with a sound like a gunshot.

“Jesus, O’Reilly,” Nate mutters from the crease, adjusting his mask. “You aiming for the parking lot or just trying to give me a concussion?”

“Keeping your reflexes sharp,” I call back, circling toward center ice with more force than finesse.

He snorts. “Tell that to the guy who almost lost a kidney.”

We reset. I drop my shoulder, pivot on the toe of my blade, and send another shot screaming toward the net. This one misses wide too—clean, fast, and completely off target.

Nate lets it fly. “You trying to prove something? Or just hate that goalpost in particular?”

“Thought I’d make it earn its keep,” I say, dry. But the edge in my voice gives me away.

He eyes me under his mask. Doesn’t press. The way only a friend can. Clocking my every move and saving it for later.

The rest of the team is scattered across the rink— captain’s skate chaos. Dmitri’s barking instructions to the rookies, Adam’s winding up for one of his trademark slapshots, and Wes is doing that thing where he moves like he’s about to trip but somehow still scores.

But I can’t lock in.

I’m fast, yeah. Strong on my skates. But my passes are a hair late, my shots keep drifting, and I can feel it—the thing I don’t want anyone else to see.

I’m off.

Coach isn’t here, which helps. No Novak lurking on the sidelines with a whistle and a sixth sense for whatever bullshit’s crawling under my skin.

But I know the drill. He’ll hear about it from Adam or Liam, and next thing I know I’ll be getting pulled into a quiet chat about “focus” and “headspace.”

Spoiler: my head’s not where it should be.

I skate a loop, try to shake it. Try to let the burn in my thighs and the cold in my lungs clear it out.

But it doesn’t work.

Because no matter how hard I push, how fast I skate, my brain keeps circling back to the same damn thing: Jessica Novak and the night that wrecked me for every other woman.

The night that ruined me; her control stripped away piece by piece until she was straddling me, breathless and wild-eyed, begging in that voice that haunts my dreams. The way she shattered in my arms, whispering my name like a prayer, like a secret she’d never told anyone else.

And the way she looked at me after, like she was falling and wanted me to be the one to catch her.

That was months ago.

And now ?

Cool professionalism and a voice that cuts glass every time she passes me in the hallway.

I could have imagined the whole damn thing.

And yeah, I’m spiraling. Over-reading every gesture, every glance, every perfectly prepared cup of coffee. Scheming ways to get her in my bed again. Trying to figure out what play to run next, how close I can get without getting benched for good.

Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover it.

I’m halfway through my second set of sprints, carving up the ice, skating the tension out of my bloodstream, when I catch Nate leaning over the boards, still in half his gear, already done with drills before the rest of us. Watching me.

He lifts a hand in a lazy salute. “You good, Romeo? Or you trying to dig a trench across center ice?”

I glide to a stop in front of him, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of my base layer. “Clearing my head.”

He snorts. “You mean obsessing over Novak.”

Instead of answering, I strip off one glove and swipe my hand through my hair.

Nate leans in, elbows on the top of the boards. “You want her, you chase her. But don’t kill yourself analyzing a play she’s not calling.”

I shoot him a look. “You done with the fortune-cookie wisdom?”

“Just saying, there’s spiraling, and then there’s this.”

Before I can snap at him, movement catches my eye by the tunnel.

Jessica. Standing half in shadow, phone in hand, pretending to check something on it.

But she’s not fooling anyone, least of all me. Her screen stays dark while her eyes track my every movement, and suddenly I’m seventeen again, showing off for the girl in the stands who pretends not to notice.

And just like that, the rest of the rink fades. Because I don’t care what she’s trying to make me believe.

It’s not unusual for PR to lurk around to catch a few clips for the social media channels, but this feels different. She’s not taking notes. Not even pretending to be recording a clip. She’s watching me with an intensity that makes my next pass sail wide by a foot.

Liam throws me a look. Nate yells something about needing glasses. I wave them off, try to reset.

But she’s still there. And suddenly, I’m back in that hotel room in Montreal—her back arched, mouth on mine, the sound she made when I made her come.

Fuck.

I shake it off, drop back into practice.

But the damage is done.

Because now she’s in my head again. And I can’t decide if she’s here because she’s trying to keep tabs on me or because she’s equally wrecked.

Either way, I want to find out.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the locker room that reeks of sweat, hockey tape, and pure testosterone. I’m toweling off the last of the ice when Nate drops onto the bench beside me, still damp from the rinse, towel slung over one shoulder.

“Good skate.”

“Felt good to get back out there.” I nod.

“You were flying,” Dmitri grunts from across the room, peeling off his gear. “But Tolstoy said, ‘The strongest warriors are time and patience.’ Right now, you have neither.”

“You volunteering to babysit me?” I ask, smirking .

“ Nyet . I have a daughter. One chaos machine is enough.”

Wesley flops down a few stalls over, looking obnoxiously cheerful for a guy who just got skated into the boards by a Russian tank. “You were in a mood today, O’Reilly.”

“Focused,” I correct, grabbing my phone off the shelf.

“Uh-huh,” he says, voice thick with mischief. “Focused on someone whose last name rhymes with blowback?”

Dmitri barks a laugh. “Ah, yes. The one with legs for days and eyes like daggers. You still hunting?”

“Don’t worry,” Nate deadpans. “She probably doesn’t even remember your name.”

Something reckless flickers in my chest, maybe it’s Adam’s glare, maybe it’s the weeks of Jessica’s professional distance, but I’m done playing it safe. I pull up her contact, thumb hovering over call.

This is either the best idea I’ve ever had—or the worst—but I’m past caring which.

“Shit,” Wesley mutters. “He’s doing it.”

Dmitri whistles. “It’s like watching car crash in slow motion. Can’t look away.”

“She’s gonna hang up the second she hears your voice,” Nate says, grinning.

“Wanna bet?” I say, lifting the phone just as it starts to ring.

That’s when Adam walks in. Wesley, clueless and chirpy, pipes up, “Yo, O’Reilly’s finally calling Novak.”

Nate elbows him hard. “Shut it.”

Adam’s gaze snaps to my phone, then to my face. His jaw locks.

“O’Reilly.”

I flash Adam a grin that’s pure provocation. “Easy now, baby brother. Ain’t like I’m askin’ her to elope.” The lie tastes bitter because part of me is already thinking that far ahead. Then I wink.

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Make it your last,” but I’m already walking away from the stalls, the whole team watching.

The line clicks.

“Hey,” she answers, all warm confidence and just enough bite to make my pulse spike.

“Red,” I say, drawing it out like a dare. “What’re you doing tonight?”

A pause. “Working.”

“Boring,” I say smoothly. “Let me fix that. Come out with me.”

“To what? A round at the Penalty Box? Or maybe a coffee? You know my answer to that already.”

“Not the Penalty Box,” I say, pacing now. “You and me. No Novak family chaperones.”

Adam’s stare could melt steel, but I flash him a grin designed to make his blood pressure spike. Because if I’m going down for this, I might as well enjoy the show.

“Tempting,” she laughs.

“Dinner. A date,” I say. “I’ll wear a shirt with buttons.”

“Wow. A Southern gentleman and a dress code?”

“Say yes, sugar.”

She’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“I can’t,” she says, voice low. “I’ve got plans.”

I narrow my eyes. “What kind of plans?”

“Oh, you know,” she purrs, voice like honey over broken glass. “Pole dancing class. Wouldn’t want to miss it, gotta stay flexible for all those...athletic demands.”

The mental image hits me like a freight train, and I have to grip the phone tighter to keep from groaning out loud .

Behind me, the room’s gone dead quiet. The guys are watching my every move like it’s a live broadcast.

I turn away, grip tightening on the phone. “Red,” I snarl. “You tryin’ to ruin me, darlin’?”

“Not my fault you can’t handle the visuals.” She giggles, light and unbothered.

I grin. “You keep throwin’ sparks like that, I’m fixin’ to combust.”

“Guess you’ll have to cool off on your own.”

“I will,” I say smoothly. “Right after you say yes.”

“Keep dreamin’, Carolina.”

Click.

I lower the phone slowly. The guys are silent, waiting for the verdict.

“She say yes?” Nate asks, hopeful.

“She said she’s got pole dancing class,” I grind out.

Adam glares at the ceiling like he’s praying for divine intervention. “Jesus Christ. Let me inform all of you fuckers that my sister doesn’t take pole dancing class.”

Wesley groans. “I still need a cold shower.”

“She is evil,” Dmitri declares. “Perfect. But evil.”

I run a hand over my face and toss the phone onto the bench. “She’s gonna drive me plumb crazy.”

Nate claps me on the shoulder. “You’re already halfway there, man.”

The others peel off slowly, grabbing gear, chirping each other, heading toward the showers or the parking lot. Dmitri leaves, muttering something in Russian about American emotional constipation. Wesley offers one last wink before disappearing.

Nate lingers, pulling a hoodie over his damp hair.

“You really like this girl,” he says finally, voice low and even .

I shrug, but it sits wrong on my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

He nods once. Doesn’t say more, just leans back against the row of lockers, deciding whether to press further.

“She’s different,” I add. “Not just hot different. Like…oxygen different.”

Nate lets out a soft huff of breath, then slants me a look. “So why’s she dodging you like you’ve got a rap sheet?”

“Hell if I know.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Every time I think I’ve cracked the code, she flips the board.”

“Maybe she’s scared.”

I blink at him. “You get all this from standing still in a net?”

He smirks. “Goalies are the therapists of the ice. We see everything.”

I laugh, but it’s short. “You ever get tired of chasing someone who keeps slipping away? Like every time you think you’re close, she changes the rules of the game, but you can’t quit playing because losing her would be worse than never having her at all?”

Nate’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Maybe she’s not running from you, man. Maybe she’s testing whether you’ll stick around when it gets complicated. Whether you’re the kind of guy who fights for what he wants or just talks about it in locker rooms.”