Page 23 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

THE COLD FRONT

FINN

T he cable machine groans under the strain, my grip white-knuckled around the rope. I lost count somewhere around rep eight, but I don’t stop. I’m not counting anymore; I’m chasing the edge where thought shuts off and only muscle remains.

The hotel gym is dim and understocked, but it’s open and empty. Right now, I need something to fight that won’t land me on Rothschild’s shit list.

Behind me, the lock clicks.

“Morning, sunshine,” Wes calls out, light and unbothered until he steps in. His gaze sweeps the room. He sees the stacked weights and the twitch in my jaw.

“Damn,” he mutters, grabbing a towel. “You gunning for a personal best in rage reps, or exorcising demons?”

I grunt and reset the stack. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He watches me pull, his brow lifting. “This about your contract? Or…?”

He doesn’t finish. I yank the handle down again, muscles coiled tight.

Smartly, he doesn’t press. He heads to the treadmill, towel around his neck, coffee still in hand. “You know, there’s a fine line between focused and feral. You’re toeing it, O’Reilly.”

I ignore the jab.

“Whatever it is,” he calls over the whir of the belt, “you could always talk it out. You know, use your words instead of annihilating your joints.”

I don’t answer. My last set shakes. My breath hitches. I rack the weight with a bang and lean forward, gripping the cable machine frame to keep me from throwing a punch at the nearest wall.

“Right,” Wes mutters. “So, silence and borderline violence it is.”

I head for the water station. He continues to run. The silence stretches.

Then the gym door opens again.

“Morning, boys.”

Chad Vanderbilt strolls in, smug in every step. Designer joggers. Crisp white tee hugging his chest. Rolex flashing under the overhead lights. He doesn’t glance at Wes, but his eyes find me and hold.

“Well, well,” he says, grabbing a towel. “Figured you’d be in here. One of the perks of league partnerships, I get to squeeze in a few workouts with the pros.” He smiles, sharp and polished. “Might even pick up a few tricks.”

I stare him down. He’s built—lean, cut, every line engineered to photograph well. Probably lives on protein powder, black coffee, and self-restraint. No grit. No wear. His hands are soft, posture too relaxed. He’s never braced for a hit that mattered.

Wes drops his pace on the treadmill. “Bet he’s carb-intolerant by choice,” he mutters between breaths. “Bulks on his own reflection. ”

I exhale through my nose. Not a laugh. More like pressure bleeding off.

Chad steps closer, still looking at me. “You’ve got moves, O’Reilly. That footwork last night? Crowd-pleaser.”

His smile is light, but the edge underneath betrays him. He didn’t just see me take Jessica upstairs; he saw the sponsors locked in on the way I moved, tracking every step, every beat, already cutting the ad in their heads. Watching the campaign write itself in real time.

And it pissed him off. Because I made his deal-making irrelevant.

I chug my water. Toss the bottle. But he doesn’t read the room. He keeps going, all cool delivery and hidden blades. “You training for a charity TikTok? Or trying to stir the pot?”

I bite down hard. Wes’s pace slows.

Chad continues jabbing. “Smart. Always best to get a warm-up in before the real performance.”

He doesn’t say Jessica’s name. He can’t, not with a fiancée flashing a ring that made last week’s lifestyle coverage. So he’s standing here pretending it doesn’t matter to him, except it clearly does.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend to FaceTime?” I ask, voice flat.

His eyes flicker, the smile thinning. “Always so charming in the mornings.”

Wes coughs into his hand, half laughing. “Hey, Finn, you spotting?” He doesn’t wait. Getting off the treadmill, he loads the bench with plates. I follow, towel slung around my neck, hands settling on the bar.

Chad moves to the dumbbell rack. Picks up a pair of thirty-fives. Decent weight. Enough to look strong without risking sweat. He positions himself in front of the mirror and starts curling .

Three reps. Adjusts his grip. Checks his phone. Switches sides. He’s not working, he’s performing.

Wes glances at me as he racks the bar. Merely a look. No words needed.

I keep spotting. Keep lifting. Chad’s watching. Not obvious. But enough for us to see—the tilt of his head, the way his jaw clenches when Wes grunts through a hard set.

“He’s not subtle,” Wes mutters, low.

I nod and reposition the bar. Every part of me wants to turn, to meet Chad’s stare and shut this polite charade down. But I let him posture.

The next half hour is a quiet war of sweat and silence. Metal clanks. Breathing sharpens. No one speaks.

Chad finally picks up his phone and water bottle, lingering a beat longer to make his point before heading for the door. “Catch you later,” he tosses over his shoulder, like we’re old friends instead of barely restrained enemies.

The door shuts behind him. Wes exhales, then glances at me. “Glad you didn’t kill him. Would’ve been a hell of a mess to clean up before breakfast.”

I drag a hand down my face, tension coiling at the base of my neck.

Wes swings his legs off the bench. “You good?”

“TBD.”

He tosses me a towel. “You’ve got an hour to rinse off, protein up, and slap on that sponsor-approved smile, preferably without decking Vanderbilt.”

The breath I huff out doesn’t reach my chest. I’m about to walk into that conference hall and pretend I’m fine.

That I didn’t spend the night with Jessica Novak wrapped around me.

That she didn’t vanish before dawn. That the smug bastard still sniffing around her doesn’t make me want to put a fist through the nearest wall .

She left before dawn. Again.

But this time, I’m not letting her get away with it.

In my head, I hear the echo of her breathless moans when she came on my tongue. When I woke up, her perfume still lingered on the sheets, faint vanilla and salt. She left no trace but that scent and memory.

And Jesus, what a memory.

The way she said my name when I touched her. The way her nails dug into my shoulders, wanting to get close enough to merge. Her skin under my hands, slick with heat and want. Her voice, breaking apart when she came—sharp, soft, then silent.

But I should’ve known she’d wake up and put herself back together, pretending it never happened. Slip into that armor of hers—clean lines, red lips, and zero margin for error. Untouchable Jessica Novak. PR queen. Coach’s daughter. My favorite sin.

An hour later, I’m showered, suited, and wearing the performance mask that pays my bills. The conference hall buzzes with familiar energy—sponsor reps, media vultures, and players working the room. Time to be Finn O’Reilly, marketing dream, while pretending my world isn’t tilting off its axis.

A Fanatics rep intercepts me near the coffee station. “Hell of a performance last night, O’Reilly. You choreograph that footwork, or was it pure improvisation?”

I flash the sponsor-approved smile. “Little of both. Keeps things interesting.”

After forty minutes of playing the charming, marketable athlete, I’m stepping off the stage.

The panel on ‘Athletic Branding in the Digital Age’ went exactly as scripted; I delivered the rehearsed anecdotes, hit the approved talking points, and made the sponsors feel like they were getting their money’s worth.

But my attention’s already drifting across the room to where Jessica stands in her element—blazer crisp, iPad in hand, running her war room with scary efficiency.

And when our eyes meet, there is nothing. No flicker. No softness. A curt nod—professional, polite—and she turns back to her conversation. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just another player in the lineup.

Not the man who was inside her six hours ago.

Not the one she begged not to stop.

Not the guy who fell asleep with her curled against his chest.

She starts walking our way, an unreadable expression plastered on her face, and my chest constricts.

Rage, confusion, lust—they all hit me in the same breath.

I bite down hard on the urge to storm across the room, drag her somewhere private, and demand she look me in the eye and say it meant nothing.

“Merch showcase in fifteen,” she snaps, cool and clinical, as if she didn’t spend last night clawing at my back.

Wes gives a low whistle. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jessica doesn’t even blink. “Save it for the cameras, Cain.”

She turns on her heel, dismissing us—dismissing me . Does she think that’s the end of it?

Not a chance in hell.

I catch her wrist, not rough, but firm enough to remind her exactly who she was writhing under last night.

“Red,” I murmur, voice low and dark. “We’re not doing this again.”

She stops. Slowly turns. Her gaze flicks to where my fingers are wrapped around her skin, but she doesn’t pull away.

When her gaze lifts to mine, it’s stripped of all emotion. “Doing what?”

“Pretending you didn’t fall apart in my arms.”

Her eyes flash, her throat works, but her expression stays locked down. “Last night was a lapse in judgment,” she hisses under her breath, her words biting, informing me of a conclusion she’d apparently come to in the dark hours before dawn. “It won’t happen again.”

I step closer, my composure slipping. Close enough for her perfume to mess with my head, close enough that I hear the breath she doesn’t mean to hold.

“You can tell yourself whatever you need to, Red. But we both know…” I let it draw out slow. “You’re so fucking mine .”

Her eyes blaze—anger, denial, need—it’s all there, pulsing beneath the surface.

“You think last night changed things between us?” she mutters under her breath. Chin high. Voice strained to match it.

I lean in, my mouth barely shy of her ear.

“No,” I murmur, heat curling around the word. “But it sure as hell reminded you of who you belong to.”

Her pulse jumps; I feel it beneath my hand. Her lips part, whether to argue, deny, or beg, I don’t know. Because before she can say a word, Chad’s voice cuts in.

“Jessica.”

I release her wrist, never breaking eye contact as she steps back, adjusting her blazer, thinking her poise is worth a damn against me. She turns toward him, professional mask back in place. He’s tailored perfection, hands in his pockets, owning the air.

“Chad.” Jessica straightens, cool and professional .

My pulse pounds in my temple.

“Quick word about the Summit Sportswear campaign?” he asks, eyes sliding from her to me and back again. “We’ve also got the Nike rep waiting.”

He nods at me, then leads her away, his hand hovering just shy of her lower back. Close enough to mark territory. Far enough that Jessica doesn’t notice.

My fists clench, muscles coiled, stance instinctive. I not only want to snap him in half, I know exactly how I’d do it. The blood pounds in my ears, the pulse of rage syncing with muscle memory.

Breathe. Hold.

A hand lands on my chest. “Easy, killer,” Wes mutters, sliding in front of me before I do something that tanks my entire career.

His tone’s casual, but his eyes are cutting and focused.

He seems to sense how close I am to losing it.

“Drop him here, and you’ll be signing jerseys in Siberia by next week. ”

I glare past him, watching Jessica disappear into the crowd.

“I want to smash that bastard’s face.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Wes mutters, dropping his voice. His gaze flicks between me and the hallway Jessica disappeared down. “Didn’t realize Vanderbilt was still circling. Isn’t he engaged to that Alst heiress?”

I don’t answer, heat crawling up my neck.

Wes studies me, head tilted. “So…you finally stopped pining and made a move?”

I shoot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.

“Jesus, O’Reilly,” he mutters. “You look ready to burn the room down. Remind me never to get between you and a girl.” He steers us toward the booths. “Come on, you can brood over your whiskey later. Right now, you’ve got a brand to protect.”

I let him drag me away. I move through the rest of the day like a mannequin in a custom suit, smiling, posing, half an inch from boiling over.

I’m nursing a sparkling water and trying not to stare at Jessica when I spot Marcus weaving through the crowd. The look on his face—focused, urgent—means either very good news or very bad news.

“Finn,” he says, appearing at my elbow with his phone already in hand. “Got a minute? Something big just came in.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to pull me out of this circus.” I sigh.

He chuckles, reaching for his phone. “You’ll thank me for this one.”

My eyes flick to Jessica, who is now deep in conversation with an Under Armour rep, before turning to him.

“Call came in from LA an hour ago. They’re offering six years, front-loaded, signing bonus, all the perks. First-line winger spot’s yours.”

I keep my expression neutral, even as something twists in my gut.

“Big market, big paycheck, long-term security,” he adds. “This is the kind of deal you lock in before thirty. After that, you’re chasing short-term contracts and hoping your knees hold.”

“How serious?” I ask, voice low.

“High eight figures over six,” Marcus says, slick and confident. “Plus bonuses. And I’ve already got a West Coast sponsor sniffing around—fitness, lifestyle, the full California package. They want a face. You’re it.”

I drag a hand down my jaw, exhaling slow .

This is the kind of deal you get once in your career. The kind that makes you set for life. Legacy. Security. Everything I’ve worked for.

Marcus watches me a beat, then adds, “Turning down that Defenders extension back in January might’ve been the smartest move of your career. This is your payoff.”

It’s everything I should want—security, fame, a future that doesn’t depend on anyone else’s decisions.

But all I can think about is the woman across the room, the one who’s pretending I’m just another player in a suit.

LA means leaving her behind. And I’m not sure I can do that, even for eight figures.

“And the Defenders?” I ask, clipped.

Marcus’s grin fades. “Still waiting. Rothschild’s being careful. Wants a few more sponsorships locked in before he puts anything on paper.”

So that’s the holdup. Money. Optics. Politics.

Marcus leans in, voice smoothing over again. “Look, Finn, I know you’ve got ties here. But LA’s clean. Big payday, star spotlight, no strings. You’d be crazy not to consider it.”

I nod, eyes still locked on Jessica.

“Appreciate it. But I’m not ready to jump.”

He lifts a brow. “You waiting on New York to match?”

“I have a feeling they will.”

He sighs. “I’ll keep the Falcons warm. But don’t sit too long, this is your last big one. Sweet deal like this doesn’t wait forever.”

I give a tight nod, done with the conversation.

She thinks she can compartmentalize what happened between us, file it away under ‘mistakes’ and move on. But some hungers can’t be ignored. And I’m about to prove to Jessica Novak that I’m one of them.