Page 15 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

LETTING HER FLY

JESSICA

T he rink is empty when I lace up my skates, the clock barely past seven.

The lights haven’t fully awakened yet, just that soft fluorescent buzz of a building still deciding whether to start the day.

Sharp air cuts through my lungs, my breath forming clouds in the chill. Cold, quiet, exactly what I need.

The players won’t arrive until eight. An hour to outrun the thoughts that have been chasing me for days—the nausea, the exhaustion, the possibility I’ve been refusing to name.

Me and the ice. Nothing else.

I step out and push off hard and fast. My blades cut clean lines through the surface, carving the kind of order my brain hasn’t known in weeks.

Long, clean laps. Crossovers. A sharp pivot here, a fast turn there. The ice gives and resists all at once. It knows me, and it’s glad I’m back.

My arms are swinging wide, lungs filling, body moving without asking permission from my mind. I skate like I used to, before every choice came with consequences, before every want had a price tag, before I learned that letting go meant losing control.

And then, inevitably, Finn’s face flashes in my head, all crooked grins and dangerous charm. That slow Southern drawl that disarms before it cuts. That body built for violence and velvet. Too strong. Too tempting.

Too easy to unravel for. Fall for.

It would be so simple to let him in. Ignore every warning bell and go all in on the way he makes me feel—seen, wanted, undone.

But Finn O’Reilly doesn’t do forever; he does highlight reels and headlines, flash and heat and graceful exits. I’m not about to become another cautionary tale about the coach’s daughter who thought she was different.

I press harder into the ice, chasing speed, chasing the part of myself that used to know how to want without getting wrecked by it.

My chest aches, tender in ways that have nothing to do with the cold. My body feels foreign, sluggish, sensitive, like it’s keeping secrets from me.

I haven’t been sleeping. Food’s a gamble. But I chalk it up to stress. Work. Life. Temptation.

Shaking it off, I lean into a spin. Fast, tight, dizzying.

Stay in control. That’s the trick. Always has been.

Even when everything else is slipping.

The door creaks open behind me and skate blades clack against concrete. I don’t need to turn around to know who’s ruined my sanctuary.

I must have beckoned him.

He skates out, easy and loose. Confident. Aware that he owns every inch of the surface.

“Morning, Red,” he calls, voice echoing across the ice, rough enough to ripple low in my chest .

I slow to a coast, pulse ticking faster. “You stalking me now, O’Reilly?”

“Only when you wear those leggings.” His grin is audible. Teasing. Warm with promise.

I roll my eyes but don’t stop skating.

Pulling up beside me, he glides backward with infuriating ease. This man was born on blades.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

Shrugging, he continues cruising. “Not my fault you’re distracted.”

He circles in, closing in with patience. His presence smolders in the cold air.

We skate in silence for a minute. The rhythmic scrape of blades and the soft hitch in my breath are the only sounds.

Then he slides in beside me again, matching my pace perfectly.

“You always come this early?”

“Only when I want to be left alone.”

“Guess I missed the memo.” His tone is light, but there’s heaviness under it. Want.

The air shifts.

It may as well be the moment right before a puck drop, charged and suspended. Anything could happen.

“What do you want, Finn?” I ask finally. The air fogs between us.

He doesn’t smile this time. Just looks at me, eyes dark and steady. “I want to see if the Ice Queen remembers how to burn.”

I shoot him a glare. But it lands soft.

He grins that slow, crooked thing that gets under my skin. “There she is. Will you let me get close again, Red?”

My heart stutters. I want to. But I’m scared to get hurt if I let him. So I stay silent .

We skate. And I try not to enjoy it. But he makes it impossible.

He cuts in front of me, spins a little too close, sends up a spray of ice that dusts my leggings. He’s cocky. Fluid. Effortless.

He’s playing.

And worse, I start to play back.

He circles around me like a dare made flesh, a predator who knows his prey isn’t really running, just making the chase more interesting.

Then he bumps me, enough to make me wobble.

“Hey!” I snap, but I’m laughing in spite of myself. He’s already gliding away, smug as hell.

“I forgot how fun you are when you’re annoyed,” he calls.

“Keep pushing, and I’ll forget I like your face.”

“So you do like it?”

I groan. But my lips twitch. I chase him. He lets me catch him. We fall into sync, skating side by side. Fast. Easy. Free. It’s reckless. It’s stupid. And I don’t want to stop.

Glancing at me over his shoulder, he skates backward again, eyes locked on mine. “God, Red,” he murmurs. “You’re dangerous out here.”

I arch a brow. “Me?”

A nod. “Yeah. Because the second you let go? You’re unstoppable.”

Without thinking, I sink into a spiral, leg extended, arms out, the muscle memory taking over.

For a few seconds, I’m sixteen again.

When I straighten, he’s staring. “You miss it,” he says. Not a question.

I shrug, but my throat’s tight. “Sometimes. ”

His expression softens. “Let’s try something,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on mine.

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“It’s still a no. On principle.”

Slowing, he turns to face me. “Come on, Red. Don’t you trust me?”

I stop skating. He coasts to a clean, easy halt in front of me, blades whispering against the ice.

“One jump.” His hands are out, palms open. “Nothing fancy.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I look away. “Because I haven’t done it in years. I’m too tall.”

“Too scared,” he finishes softly.

My jaw clenches. The last time I did this, I was lighter. Dumber. Unbroken.

There’s barely a foot between us now. “It’s me, Red,” he drawls, low and easy. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you fall.”

I stare at him. At the ridiculous calm in his face. The way he’s looking at me, knowing I’ll say yes.

His lips twitch, but there’s no cockiness. Only pure intent.

Being wanted like this is dizzying.

“Fine,” I breathe and back up.

“On three,” he says, eyes locked on mine.

I nod and bend my knees. My fingers shake.

He mirrors me. “One…”

The rink is too quiet. My pulse too loud.

“Two…”

I take one inhale, deep and shallow all at once.

“Three. ”

I jump, not high, not clean, but enough. His hands catch my waist with the confidence of a man who’s never dropped anything precious in his life.

And suddenly I’m airborne, not just lifted, but liberated. For these stolen seconds, I’m not the coach’s daughter or the PR director or the woman afraid to want too much. I’m just Jessica, flying in the arms of a man who makes me believe in gravity-defying possibilities.

Suspended above the ice, every wall, every reason I ever had to keep him out, is turning to dust.

Time doesn’t stop. But it stretches.

One heartbeat. Two. Long enough to remember what it felt like before I learned to keep my feet on the ground, before I discovered that flying meant trusting someone to catch you. Long enough to forget why I stopped.

His eyes stay on mine, arms locked around me, holding me steady. The way he looks up at me, it’s not just desire. It’s devotion.

And it pulls me under.

Slowly—almost reverently—he lowers me. His body is still, pressed close, his hands wrapped around my waist. I land, but I’m not grounded. Not really. I feel breathless. Electric.

And just like that, I remember what my father said last year.

Don’t let him get close, Jess. He’ll ruin your future.

Maybe he was right.

But right now? I don’t care about my future. I care about the way Finn O’Reilly looks at me, like I’m already his. Like flying wasn’t the dangerous part.

Falling is.

And then I feel him .

Hard. Hot. Pushing into my hip. A filthy promise. Leaving no doubt about what he wants.

And for one dizzying second, I can’t move.

His breath warms my cheek, the only heat in a room made of ice, steel, and control. He leans in until his mouth hovers over mine, lips brushing soft. Barely there. A ghost of a kiss that sets my skin on fire.

“This was a good date,” he murmurs against my ear, voice rough with satisfaction.

I blink, dazed. “This wasn’t a date.”

He shifts, mouth grazing my jaw. A waterfall of tingles spills down my spine. “Sure it was. Ice skating is a classic. It just needs a proper ending.”

His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me in. He’s steel and sinew, and all I can think about is how good he felt inside me. How completely he filled me. His thigh shifts, closer now, firmer between mine.

“Let’s play hooky today.” His voice gains a gruff edge.

“What? I can’t; I need to prep for the summit.” I try to deflect, but my body has already decided. Every inch of me screams yes.

“Come back to my place.” His lips graze my neck, breath hot, goosebumps rising in its wake. “I’ll pull you an espresso. Strip you down slow. Kiss every inch until you forget why you keep running from me. Then I’ll lay you out and take my time reminding you how good we are for each other.”

My pulse stutters.

“Finn—”

“Let me take care of you.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. No one’s offered to take care of me in.

..God, I can’t remember how long. My lungs forget how to work, my mind goes completely blank except for one screaming thought: yes, please, yes .

There’s nothing but fire and need and desperate longing.

His thumb traces along my hip, deliberate, reverent.

“Say yes, darlin’. Let me be your man.”

The soft thunk of a door echoing across the rink barely registers. We’re too lost in each other to care.

And I do want that. Christ, I want him with an ache that reaches my bones. I open my mouth to say yes?—

“WHAT the hell are you doing on the ice this early, O’Reilly?” Dad’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade through silk. I jolt away from Finn so fast, I nearly lose my balance, caught red-handed in something that looked exactly like what it was.

But Finn doesn’t flinch. He shifts back an inch, calm as you please, as if almost kissing the coach’s daughter is built into his morning routine.

“A light skate before the captain’s run,” he says casually, mouth warm from hovering over mine two seconds ago, whispering wreck-you-and-ruin-you things.

My dad’s gaze narrows. “That so?”

Finn nods. “Gotta stay sharp, Coach.”

Then he flicks one last look my way—smoldering, charged, very much unfinished—and pushes off into a lazy, controlled drift that looks anything but innocent.

And then, he winks.

The bastard winks .

Detonates every rational thought in my skull and strolls off as if nothing happened.

I exhale shakily, core humming, legs unsteady beneath my skates.

The rink door clanks shut behind him.

“Jessica.”

My dad’s tone drops, low and clipped. The one that used to stop me cold at twelve .

“What were you thinking?”

I turn to face him, spine stiff. “I was skating. Like I do every week.”

“You were practically—” He cuts himself off. Drags a hand down his face. “You can’t afford distractions like this.”

My jaw tightens. “It wasn’t a distraction. We were doing a lift.”

“You shouldn’t let O’Reilly get this close. We spoke about this already.”

“He caught me.” I meet his gaze. “And it was nice.”

He blinks, confused. “Nice?”

“Yeah.” My voice softens, but my resolve doesn’t. “I forgot what it felt like. To fly.”

The words hang in the frigid air between us, and for a moment, something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe even regret. But I don’t wait around to find out. Some flights are meant to be solo.

I push off and drift toward the far gate, away from his judgment, his disappointment, his rules.

Because I’m not twelve anymore.

And I’m done being handled.