Page 2 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

And this time, when he offers his hand, I take it. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and sure. The pressure is light, but the message is clear:

I want you.

We slip out the back of the hotel. He doesn’t let go. And I don’t want him to.

The city stretches out in front of us, warm summer air curling through the streets, the hum of music and life spilling from patios and rooftop bars. Montreal at night is made for romance. Cobblestone alleys. Twinkling lights. Laughter bouncing off old stone walls.

He walks, confident and calm, like he’s had this mapped out for weeks.

“Where are we going?” I ask, trying not to sound breathless.

He glances over, his grin lazy. “To ruin you for all other cities.”

“Modest.”

“Always.”

He guides me through winding cobblestone streets, past bustling cafés and late-night patios. “Trust me,” he says when I hesitate at a narrow alley. The noise fades as we walk deeper into Old Montreal, gas lamps casting warm pools of light. He stops in front of a tucked-away building.

He knocks twice. A tiny slot opens. A nod. The door swings wide.

Inside, it’s candlelight and jazz and the kind of place that feels like it doesn’t exist unless someone really wants you to find it.

He grins at my stunned expression. “Underground speakeasy. No social media or press. Just music, good wine, and people who know how to keep a secret.”

I blink. “How the hell did you find this?”

“I ask the right people the right questions.”

“Or flirt with the right hostesses?”

He shrugs. “Why limit myself?”

We settle at a velvet-lined table in the corner, low and tucked away. A string quartet plays jazz covers under soft lighting. A server appears with wine, bread, and dark chocolate.

I’m speechless. Which doesn’t happen to me often.

“Finn,” I say slowly, “this is…not what I expected.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice low and loaded. “Because I’m not the guy you assume I am.”

I arch a brow. “Right. You’re not a TikTok thirst trap with a fanbase that names their vibrators after you?”

He chokes on his wine, coughing out a laugh.

“Well, hell. If folks are namin’ toys after me, I’d be downright rude not to take the credit.

” He tips his head, that smirk pure trouble, voice all molasses and mischief.

“Tell me somethin’, Novak… you got a toy tucked away in your pretty little nightstand?

” His eyes gleam wicked. “Don’t suppose it’s named after me? ”

Heat surges up my neck, but I recover fast. “Please. Mine came with a five-year warranty and zero maintenance issues.”

Finn clutches his chest, mock-wounded. “Oof. Ice cold, Novak.”

“Just practical,” I shoot back, chin high. “I like things that don’t break under pressure.”

A grin spreads on his face, measured and lethal. “Then maybe it’s time you tried somethin’ that doesn’t come with a return policy.”

My thighs are pressed tight under the table, and I take a sip to buy time. “And what about you?” I manage. “No teamies on speed dial? No groupies parked outside your hotel with a Sharpie and questionable judgment?”

“Sure,” he says, unfazed. “Plenty of groupies.” I blink. “But none of ‘em make me forget how to breathe mid-conversation.” He pauses, gaze fixed on mine. “You do.”

That…was not in the script. It lands low and hot, somewhere deep in my belly. And just like that, every reason I’ve kept him at arm’s length crashes back in. The danger. The risk. The fact that I want him—and don’t trust what that means.

I scramble for a comeback. Anything. But my brain’s spinning, and my mouth betrays me with, “I…don’t know what I want.”

He leans back, the picture of lazy confidence. “Then let me show you.”

My stomach does a full somersault. I open my mouth—nothing. Just silence.

Finn watches me, then settles deeper into the booth, wine glass dangling between his fingers. “So. Are you always this hard to impress, or is it just my game that sucks?”

I arch a brow, sipping from my glass. “You think I’m impressed?”

“You haven’t stopped smiling since we got here.”

“That’s because the jazz is good. And the wine is free.”

Finn tips his head, lets that slide—for now. “What impresses you?”

“Genuine self-awareness. Full sentences. Maybe someone who doesn’t end every interview with a wink.”

He chuckles, deliberate and low. “Yeah? Yet somehow, you always have my coffee waitin’.” A pause. “Almost like you want me ready.”

I laugh—actually laugh. It comes out easy, like a bubble. The weight I always carry at events, at work, at home—it’s just…not here.

He watches me for a beat. “You’re different when you’re not surrounded by suits and clipboard schedules.”

“I have a reputation for soul-crushing efficiency to maintain.”

He leans in, eyes warm. “I like this version of you too.”

I glance away, unsettled in a way that’s not bad, just…vulnerable. “You’re different too. Less…”

“Public menace?”

“Predictable.”

He hums, rolling his glass between his hands. “My dad was predictable. In the worst way.”

That makes me pause. “You don’t talk about him much.”

“There’s not much to say. He burned bridges before I knew how to spell ‘draft.’ He taught me two things: how to shoot a puck, and how to spot bullshit.”

I nod slowly. “I think mine taught me the opposite. How to keep everything clean. Polished. Safe.”

Finn’s eyes lock on me, serious now. “You don’t strike me as someone who plays it safe.”

I scoff. “That’s because you only see the edges. The rest of me is buried.”

“And that’s exhausting?”

I glance at him. “Yeah.”

The saxophone curls around us, soft and sultry, as we fall into silence.

“I want out,” I blurt. “From the Defenders. From serving only hockey players.”

“No Novak morality police hovering in the background would be a nice change of pace,” he tries for levity. Then he tilts his head, intrigued and serious. “What’s stopping you?”

“Loyalty. Fear. Take your pick.”

He nods, quiet for a moment. Then, “If I stay in New York next season…”

I freeze. “Aren’t we working on renewing your contract?”

“I’ve got offers. Texas. North Carolina. They’re tempting.”

“But?”

He smiles. “I like it in New York. The city. The team. Certain...people.”

“Certain people, huh?” I tease, my stomach fluttering. “Like your nutritionist?”

He smirks. “She’s ninety.”

“She’s got great taste in protein shakes.”

“I was talking about you.”

I go still. He doesn’t take it back. Just watches me, waiting. But I’m not ready to go there yet, so I laugh. “You already are my most exhausting client.”

“Only ’cause you like me.”

I give him a look. “You’re not special.”

His grin spreads, lazy and sure. “Darlin’, if I’m not special, why do you smile when I say your name?”

I open my mouth to speak—something sharp, something clever—but nothing comes out. And he just keeps smiling.

Somewhere between the jazz and the chocolate and the sound of his voice wrapped around me, I forget to hold the line. It happens between a bad joke and a forkful of shared chocolate torte.

He reaches across the table, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, like he’s done it a hundred times before in some alternate universe.

His eyes don’t leave mine. Not for a second.

The air shifts, thickens, every molecule between us buzzing.

For a breathless second, I think he’ll lean in.

Taste the chocolate off my lips. But he just lets his thumb linger.

Long enough to make my pulse trip. To make a point.

Then he pulls back, eyes still glued to mine, mouth tipped in that maddening almost-smile. Like he’s already kissed me. And knows damn well I’ll want more.

Outside, the night has cooled. The buzz of the city has softened.

He slips his hand around my waist as we walk, low and easy.

But he still doesn’t try to kiss me. Doesn’t rush or push.

With every step, he shifts a little nearer, his knuckles brushing mine, his thumb catching the hem of my blouse and slipping beneath, warm against the bare skin of my hip, branding me with his touch.

As if we are already lovers.

We pass a quiet side street, the hush of the night stretching long between us. I half expect him to guide us back to the hotel. But he doesn’t. Instead, he veers left.

“Where are we going?” I ask, even though I don’t really want to stop him.

He glances at me, that disarming smile tugging at his mouth. “One more stop.”

The street narrows, curves, then opens again. The old Olympic rink. The lights are low, but on. A side entrance is propped open.

“Finn…”

He just grins. “Relax. It’s open for us.”

“You bribed someone?”

He shrugs. “I know a guy.” A beat. “I figured this was a place you’d stop running…or maybe let me catch you.”

His words are a low rolling thunderstorm growling itself into my bones. He’s not subtle or guarded—there’s no game. Just clear, unfiltered intent. And that wrecks me the most. Because I can’t help imagining how he’d claim me if I let him.

And I want to let him.

Inside it’s quiet, filled with cold air and the sharp scent of ice. He walks me toward the boards, our footsteps hollow in the empty arena. Two pairs of skates sit by the bench.

“You planned this, huh?” I chuckle, watching him strip off his jacket.

“That depends.” He leans against the boards, arms crossed. “Are you impressed yet?”

“I’m considering it.”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just invading all my air. “Come play with me, darlin’.”

Something hot and reckless snaps in my belly. There’s a sharp, sweet ache blooming between my legs, and my feet move before I can think better of it.

The chill hits the second we step onto the ice, crisp and clean, that familiar scrape of blades echoing in the quiet arena.

I step out first, gliding into a deliberate turn. Testing the edges like second nature—because it is. I grew up on blades. Skates before sneakers. Ice rinks instead of playgrounds.

Finn follows a beat slower, his eyes locked on me.

“What?” I toss over my shoulder, circling back with a flick of my hair.