Page 16 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

GIRLS, GUILT, AND ICE CREAM

JESSICA

B loomingdale’s in the morning has the energy of a luxury spa that collides with a fashion battlefield. The lighting is soft but strategic, designed to make every mirror brutally honest and every display table a gravitational pull you can’t resist.

It smells of money, ambition, and very expensive face cream.

Two hours in, the fifth floor had been thoroughly conquered.

What started as a casual browse turned into a minefield of velvet hangers and increasingly questionable choices.

Jenna disappeared into the beauty section and reemerged with a sixty-dollar Dior lipstick she swore was a necessity for Stanford interviews.

Sophie lost her mind in the shoe department, cooing over a pair of satin heels until I reminded her that Liam would probably buy them for her if she so much as blinked in their direction.

Erin swept through lingerie and activewear with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly what time she needed to be back to pack for her European tour .

The damage was impressive.

A crisp navy suit from Theory—tailored, sharp, lethal in the boardroom.

A cocktail dress I absolutely did not need—sparkly, short, white, with enough stretch to make it dangerous.

A pair of strappy silver sandals that clicked of confidence.

Three new lingerie sets tucked into tissue paper and a signature brown Bloomingdale’s bag—one black, two unapologetically red.

The red wasn’t for anyone else, not even for Finn, no matter how many times my traitorous subconscious whispered his name when I’d held the lace up to the light.

This was about me. About feeling powerful when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

Slightly superstitious, maybe. A nod to the Chinese part of me that still clung to red envelopes, good luck charms, and the belief that bold color brings bold energy.

Mostly, I bought it because sometimes the only way to feel in control was to wear armor no one else could see.

The clerk had folded everything neatly, scanning me with that quiet approval women give each other when they know you’re buying armor disguised as lace and heels.

Sophie appeared beside me as I signed the receipt, her arms full of footwear.

“Tell me again you’re not planning to slay this summit.”

I simply smiled.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

And if I was going to war with sponsors, PR optics, and a dangerously charming forward with a voice that lingered in all the wrong places, I was damn well going to look good doing it.

An hour later, we’re sprawled in a marble-topped booth at Forty Carrots, surrounded by mirrored walls and clinking cutlery.

The server cleared our salad plates, followed by the real reason we’re here is finally making its entrance: four chilled bowls of frozen yogurt, two toppings apiece, and a communal extra of hot fudge.

“You needed this,” Sophie says, spoon halfway to her mouth. “You’ve been stress-dressing for weeks.”

“I dress fine,” I mutter, stabbing into my fro-yo.

“You dress like you’re prepping for a deposition,” Jenna adds, not unkindly. “A sexy deposition, but still.”

Rolling my eyes, I deadpan, “Excuse me for maintaining a standard of fabulousness while keeping the Defenders franchise out of hot water.”

Erin laughs softly, swirling her spoon through the fruit topping. “Okay, but let’s take a moment. Lingerie floor? We might’ve done the most damage there.”

I smirk. “Damn right we did.”

She nods at the branded bag tucked beneath the table. “You made out like a bandit.”

Sophie grins. “To be fair, we all did. Liam and Dmitri should consider themselves very, very grateful.”

“I didn’t see anyone holding back,” I say, casually. “And honestly? A good lace set is cheaper than therapy.”

Jenna lifts her spoon. “And better for morale.”

“And what’s your excuse Jenna?” Erin says, flicking her eyes over. “Still moping from the breakup or just adding lace to the rebound rotation?”

Jenna groans. “Not moping. I’m…prepping for med school.”

“You mean prepping to meet some hot West Coast guy with a trust fund and an emotional support surfboard,” Sophie chirps.

“God, please,” Jenna mutters. “Let him be over six feet, emotionally available, look and fuck like a Greek god, and at least two rounds into building a wildly successful tech startup.”

Erin clicks her spoon with Jenna’s. “Dream big, babe.”

“Delusion is free,” I add, smirking.

Jenna rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at her mouth now. The first one I’ve seen in days.

We all laugh that soft, sparkly kind of laughter that floats above a marble table and four bowls of frozen yogurt, ignoring what’s coming next.

We’re all leaving, in some way.

Erin’s heading off on her insane European tour—thirty cities, a custom luggage set and a thirty-thousand-dollar cello that is her lifeline. She’s excited, obviously, but I catch the little flicker in her expression when someone mentions Dmitri or his daughter Ris. She’s going to miss them. Badly.

Jenna’s off to Stanford’s med school this weekend. New city. New apartment. New start. She’s pretending to be chill about it, but she’s been hugging Sophie like she’s never going to see her again, and she’s avoided talking about Marc ever since he dumped her “to focus on the next chapter.”

Sophie’s starting Columbia med school orientation next week. Which means even though she and Liam are still in the honeymoon phase, things are about to get real for both of them.

And me?

I’m headed to Park City in a few days.

Back into the circus. The optics. The endless spin cycle of media and ego and corporate money dressed up as brand values.

I lean back, letting a spoonful of yogurt melt slowly on my tongue. Letting the buzz of their voices swirl around me. This is what calm feels like. This is what friendship looks like. And I already know it’s going to feel very far away in a few days.

Jenna lifts a spoonful of fudge and lets it drip dramatically back into the bowl. “So…Park City. Are you ready?”

“I guess. Wesley’s coming,” I say, keeping it breezy. “And Finn. Rothschild thinks it’s a smart move—let him land a sweet sponsor deal and charm some wallets in the process.”

They all make sounds of agreement, noncommittal and amused.

I nod along, trying not to wince as another wave of nausea curls in low and sharp. I push my yogurt around the bowl.

This isn’t nerves. It’s not stress. It’s something else. Something that’s been building quietly for days.

I’ll deal with it later. Right now, there’s a summit to plan and a player image to polish.

The conversation lingers on Park City. I don’t say it aloud, but Sophie and I know the game.

Finn’s not going to the summit for fun—he’s going to smile for cameras, charm some execs, and remind every sponsor in the room why he’s worth the investment. And I’ll be there, managing his image while trying not to think about the way he makes me forget every rule I’ve ever lived by.

If he brings in money off the ice, the team has an excuse to pay him more when he’s on it. The Defenders need him for the wins.

That’s how it works. Flash sells. Hype pays. And I’m the one who has to package it all into a clean, safe, and sponsor-friendly narrative.

He’s the risk. I’m the glam. And Rothschild wants it done yesterday.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” I add, swirling my spoon through the yogurt. “Finn needs polish. Restraint. Sponsor-safe smiles. And Wesley, he’s media gold, but he’s still green. I’ve got to keep them both on message, and off the kind of TikTok that gets pulled into PR meetings.”

Sophie smirks. “That’s a lot of alpha to wrangle.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And your dad’s not coming?” Erin asks, grinning over her spoon.

“Nope,” I say, definitely too fast. “Dad is staying put.”

Erin raises a brow. “So it’s an unsupervised trip this time. You looking forward to that?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I sigh, half laughing. “You have no idea.”

Mark Novak might be a legendary coach, but when it comes to me, he’s less mentor and more helicopter pilot. He hovers, but not about my job, not really. I handle crises like a pro and land sponsorships better than half the league’s agents. No, he hovers about one thing: men.

Players, specifically.

He’s been policing glances since I joined the Defenders a year ago, shutting down casual conversations like I’m some naive intern who needs shielding.

On every trip, he either plants himself in the seat next to mine or sends Adam to do the surveillance.

Adam, at least, I can manage. Dad? Impossible.

Being chaperoned by a whistle-wielding ghost of my teenage years is not fun, let me tell you.

And yeah, I love him. He’s a great coach. A decent man. And terrible at respecting boundaries.

I mean, come on. I’m almost thirty.

How am I supposed to meet anyone—ever—when he’s shadowing my every move?

Which, ironically, is kind of what happened with Chad. The minute I was in a committed, respectable relationship, Dad finally backed off. And of course, Chad turned out to be a manipulative disaster with great suits and no soul.

So yeah. A week without Novak surveillance?

I’m all in.

But I catch myself wondering again if maybe there’s more to this.

Because as much as I love this team…the idea of my father always being in the next room, in every meeting, breathing down every decision, it’s suffocating. I’m tired of feeling like the naive girl everyone’s humoring.

Screw this noise.

Maybe it’s time I stopped trying to prove myself worthy of a seat at their table and started building my own damn restaurant instead.

We dig back into the yogurt, each of us quietly savoring the last slow, sweet minutes before life starts moving again.

Twenty minutes later, I’m saying my goodbyes in front of the Bloomingdale’s escalators, claiming a meeting I definitely don’t have and flashing a fake smile while hugging my girls, seconds from unraveling.

Sophie gives me that look, the one that says she can read me like a book I never meant to open. That subtle, sister-coded raise of the eyebrows that cuts through every wall I’ve built. The look that says I see you pretending, and I’m not buying it.

“Fine,” I say. “Tired.”

She watches me a beat too long. I wave her off. Smile again. Then head for the parking garage.

But I’m not fine.

The moment the server set down the hot fudge, I knew. One whiff of that rich, sweet scent and my stomach revolted so violently I had to grip the edge of the table. I tried to blame it on the AC, the stress, the fluorescent lighting, but none of it holds.

The queasy twist hasn’t left since.

By the time I’m in the car, I know.

I’ve known .

The last few weeks have been a blur of travel, deadlines, and dodging my own thoughts, but in the quiet of the driver’s seat, the truth presses in, relentless. A weight I can’t avoid anymore.

My hands shake as I peel off the parking ticket.

I don’t drive home.

I float .

And when I finally get there, Bloomingdale’s bags abandoned on the floor, I head straight for the bathroom. Straight for the drawer where I tucked the box away, half daring myself to forget it.

I don’t need to read the instructions. I’ve imagined this moment in nightmares and daydreams for years. Three minutes that feel like three hours. And when the results appear, stark and undeniable, I sit on the edge of the tub, heart hammering against my ribs, air completely gone from my lungs.

Staring at the test, I will it to change, hoping if I blink long enough, the lines might fade like a cruel mirage. They don’t. They just stare back, unwavering as a verdict.

Pregnant .

I don’t cry.

I don’t scream.

I go still .

A thousand thoughts slam into me at once: Finn and what this means for us, Park City and whether I can fake my way through a summit while my world implodes, the team and my father, and how a pregnancy will derail every carefully laid plan I’ve ever made.

How do I build an empire when I can barely manage my own life?

But only one word makes it to the surface.

Sophie.

I grab my phone with hands that barely work. My fingers swipe wrong three times before I get to her name.

Jessica: Come to my house.

Her reply is instant.

Sophie: What? I just saw you like an hour ago.

Jess: Please. Just…come.

There’s a pause.

Then:

Sophie: On my way.

I sit there in the growing darkness, wrapped in silence and the weight of two pink lines that just rewrote my entire future.

Waiting for my sister to walk through the door and help me figure out how to tell the father of my baby that our one night of recklessness just became a lifetime of consequences.