Page 20 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

LET ME IN

JESSICA

I catch my reflection in the mirror—burgundy silk, precise lipstick, the picture of professional control. My skin still hums from yesterday, from his hands and mouth and the way he unraveled me completely before sending me away wanting more.

Twelve weeks pregnant, and I’m supposed to smile through sponsor meetings while my body rebels against everything—scents, tastes, the very idea of food.

Half the sponsors barely glance at the players before circling the real leverage, while the other half stare at Wesley like he’s some kind of glacial Adonis.

Meanwhile, Finn doesn’t even have a contract.

The Defenders are dragging their heels, playing hardball, waiting to see how this week plays out.

Meanwhile, Dallas and Raleigh are circling, flashing their shark teeth and dangling big numbers.

I don’t know the exact figures—Marcus is too polished for that—but the look he gave me earlier said what I needed to know.

The Defenders are running out of time. One wrong move, one missed opportunity, and Finn’s gone .

And what happens then?

If he signs with Dallas or Raleigh, it will be a fresh start somewhere else. New locker room. New apartment. New life. And I’ll be left here— we’ll be left here—trying to figure out how to tell a long-distance father about a baby he doesn’t even know exists yet.

The thought knots in my stomach, sharper than the nausea. He’s not mine. And if he walks? I don’t just lose him from the team. I lose the last chance I might have to maybe do this the right way.

What Rothschild won’t say—but I know—is that if Finn lands the Under Armour deal we’ve been massaging, it changes the equation.

National exposure. Big dollars. A campaign like that signals he’s not only marketable—he’s a franchise cornerstone.

And then Rothschild will put a serious contract on the table.

But nothing’s signed yet.

Though lately, something feels...off. Meetings are getting shuffled. Brand reps are suddenly “reassessing timelines.” Under Armour is taking their time on final creative approvals. None of it is overt, but it’s enough to make me twitch.

And Finn, of course, is acting like none of it touches him. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

It’s about making sure the right people believe in the version of Finn that sells.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sophie asking if I’m alive. Barely , I want to reply. Instead, I type back that I’m fine, ignore her follow-up questions about the baby, and shove the phone in my purse. Some conversations can’t happen over text.

The ballroom glitters with warm light and elegant chaos, all champagne flutes and calculated networking. I’m supposed to be seated next to an Apex Hydration VP; instead, I find Finn O’Reilly sliding into the chair beside mine, wearing the kind of smile that says he orchestrated this entire coup.

“Thanks again, man,” Finn says, giving him a friendly clap on the back. “I owe you one.”

The VP chuckles and moves on, leaving Finn to drape his elbow casually over the back of my chair like he belongs there.

“You needed to speak to your PR girl?” I murmur, not looking at him, because if I do, I might unravel right here in front of the arugula.

“Urgently,” he replies, voice still that same velvet mischief, but this time, it hits differently. Warmer. Deeper. Because he knows what he did to me yesterday, and he’s not done.

My skin prickles. Not only from the sound of him, but the memory of his mouth, the ache between my legs, the wet heat I still haven’t shaken. And now I have to sit here, make polite conversation over asparagus, and pretend I’m not one look away from detonation.

“About what?”

“Seating arrangements. And how good you look tonight.”

I stab a piece of fish, trying to convince my stomach it’s up for the challenge. It’s not.

“No iPad tonight. I almost didn’t recognize you without your battle gear.”

I arch a brow. “Is this you flirting?” I deadpan, trying to pull air into my lungs. “Because it sounds a lot like harassment. ”

“You’ll know when I’m flirting,” he rumbles, his tone rough silk, and I hate how fast my nipples tighten in response. I shift in my seat, fighting the urge to cross my legs, to press down against the low throb still pulsing there.

“And this isn’t?”

He leans in, making me forget the room exists. “Not yet.”

He’s all swagger and cheek and quiet promise, and now the ballroom feels too small, too hot, too full of air I can’t quite breathe.

I sip my water and remind myself I’ve gone head-to-head with league lawyers and media execs.

I can handle one hockey player with too much charm and a memory like a steel trap.

“You know, it’s a miracle I get to sit next to you tonight,” he murmurs.

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Your dad’s got perimeter security tighter than the Pentagon. I so much as glance your way, and I swear there’s a red dot between my eyes.” He smirks playfully.

I try not to smile. Fail. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” His mouth curves. “He practically waterboarded Liam when he started dating Sophie.”

“Well, Liam’s still alive. And he’s been over for Sunday dinner. He’s fine.”

I stop myself before I add you could be too . What am I doing? Offering a seat at my family table like some kind of perk?

He catches the shift in my face.

“Then sign me up for Sunday roast and medieval torture, darlin’. I’ve survived worse for far less.” He leans back, grinning and diffusing the moment. “You’re worth whatever your father can dish out.”

I roll my eyes, but I know it does nothing to hide the blush creeping up my throat .

“Flattery and enhanced interrogation techniques. You really know how to woo a girl.”

He smiles, but there’s something behind it, like he means every word. And that’s the part that undoes me. The part I don’t know how to brace for. He’s silent for a beat, sipping his drink, eyes locked on me. “You clean up nice, Red.”

“I always do.”

“And modest, too.” That devastating smile spreads over his lips. “I was hoping to catch you after the skate panel today.” His voice dips low. “Grab a coffee. But you vanished.”

“Coffee?” The word comes out sharper than intended. “It’s always coffee with you.”

He tilts his head, that maddening smirk playing at his lips. “And what’s wrong with coffee, exactly?”

“It’s safe,” I shoot back. “No expectations. No risk. Enough to say you made an effort without actually doing much.”

His smile shifts, less play, more precision.

“Is that what you think happened in Montreal?” His tone drops to that dangerous register that makes my pulse stutter. “Because I remember a night that ended with you riding my cock and leaving claw marks down my back.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, fire rushing straight to my core as the memory crashes over me.

“You said it wasn’t a date,” he murmurs. “But, darlin’...it had all the pieces. The lookin’. The laughin’. The fuckin’.”

His gaze lingers, hot and unrushed, letting me feel every second of it. I swallow hard as a lightning bolt shoots down my spine. My skin prickles, remembering the scrape of his stubble on my thighs, the weight of his body pressing mine into the wall, into the mattress.

My breasts are already sore—achy and swollen from hormones—and the way his gaze drags over me is torture.

My nipples tighten beneath the silk of my dress, hypersensitive to every shift, every breath.

He hasn’t even touched me, and I’m already wrecked, burning and straining and one well-placed whisper away from unraveling.

It’s more than desire now; it’s the crushing weight of secrets, of knowing that everything he thinks he wants from me comes with consequences he can’t imagine.

The truth burns in my throat; he needs to know about the baby. But right now he’s looking at me like I’m his entire universe, and I can’t bear to watch that change.

“If what you want is a real date,” he drawls, voice low, steady, “one where I actually get to know what’s underneath that armor...I’ll keep showing up. Because you keep shutting me down. But I’m not giving up. I’ll figure out what will make you trust me.”

The way he says it—suggestive, playful, full of intent—makes my skin flush all over again. I hate that he’s so good at this. I can’t tell if it’s real or just part of his usual game.

Then his fingers graze mine. A light touch. But every nerve lights up. He leans in, voice rougher now, intimate. “You know what’s funny? I finally got you alone in Montreal...and you sneaked out while I was still sleeping.”

The hit is soft, but it lands deep.

I look away. “I had a flight.”

He chuckles, low and slow. “Yeah. Right after I made you come all night long.”

I stab at my asparagus. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he drawls, that Southern grin flashing. “You do that for me.”

I pull back slightly, needing air, needing space. He looks at me like he still wants all of me, and not just the skin. That’s what scares me most .

“Some of us don’t get to show up, score, and skate away.”

“Ouch.”

“Truth.”

“Fair.” His gaze slides over me, weighing the risk. Then, lighter, but no less pointed, “Still. You avoided me again today.”

I shrug, aiming for casual. “Meetings. Panels. Herding rookies.”

He doesn’t buy it. “But no coffee breaks?”

His tone shifts, quieter now. Not quite teasing. Like he’s noticed the space I’ve been keeping.

“Not a single one,” I reply, sipping my water, trying to hide the mess in my eyes. “A girl’s got standards.”

His lips curve, slower this time. Intentional.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and sure. “Because I’m not offering coffee anymore.” A beat. His eyes darken, heat curling in the air between us. “Next time I ask...it’ll be a real date. With all the toppings. And this time, Novak, you’d better say yes.”

Before I can answer—or deflect—a voice slices through the air behind me.

“Jessica. O’Reilly.”