Page 24 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

EMPIRE OF ONE

JESSICA

I spit the mouthwash into the sink, a pathetic attempt to scrub the night off my tongue. To erase the taste of him.

But it lingers—salt, heat, and everything I’m trying not to crave. His mouth. That growl. The way he moved over me.

I brace both hands on the marble counter of the hotel bathroom and glare at my reflection.

Lipstick: reapplied.

Hair: redone.

Outfit: flawless.

Perfect Novak polish. No hint that I ran out of his bed before sunrise, barely holding it together.

The morning started with nausea—sharp and sudden, curling low in my gut and dragging me out of bed on a breathless lurch. I slipped from beneath the covers, a thief in my own story, careful not to shift the mattress and wake him.

The bathroom was cold. The tiles unforgiving. I spent ten minutes crouched over the toilet, one hand braced against the wall, willing the queasiness to pass.

By the time I stood, flushed and shaky, the panic had already set in.

I need to tell him.

But the idea made my chest cave in. I should have felt settled. Like something clicked into place.

Instead, I felt stripped bare. Not because of what we did. But because of what it meant. That wasn’t just sex. Not to him. Not to me. And that’s what terrified me.

If I stayed, if I looked him in the eye and said the words, I wouldn’t be able to take them back.

And if he answered wrong…or worse, if he didn’t say anything at all?

I didn’t know if I’d ever recover.

The fear crawled beneath my ribs, sharp and suffocating.

I walked back into the bedroom, my steps unsteady. Finn was still sleeping, his body loose. Peaceful. Exposed.

When my phone buzzed with a notification, I grabbed it like a lifeline—anything to quiet the voice in my head screaming that I needed to tell him about the baby.

I swiped open the screen, and there it was, a notification from someone who’d tagged me in a TikTok video.

@hockeywivesanonymous. My stomach dropped before I even clicked it.

And that’s when everything unraveled.

When Finn O’Reilly says he’s got “plans” but you catch this instead...

#CityNights #HockeyWAGs #NotSoSingle

A ten-second video, grainy but clear enough. Finn walking out of a hotel bar with a woman—stunning, effortless, the kind of girl who wakes up gorgeous. His arm around her shoulders, her hand on his chest, both of them laughing. Easy. Intimate. Like they’d known each other forever.

No tags. No context. Only a time stamp and the slow crawl of jealousy through my veins.

All that heat between us. The way he looked at me. Like I was more than a moment.

And then…this.

I watched it three times before I shut my phone off. The easy way he touched her shoulder, leaned in close, every move saying she was the only person on the planet.

And the worst part? I don’t even have the right to be mad.

I’m the one who left and ghosted him at the start of the summer. It was one night. One incredible, earth-shattering night.

He’s Finn O’Reilly. A man like that doesn’t sit around waiting for a woman who ran halfway across the world without leaving so much as a forwarding address.

God, I’m being ridiculous. It’s hormones. But it doesn’t stop the sting.

I sit on the edge of the tub, stomach swirling again, but it’s not the baby this time. It’s something heavier. Something that feels a lot like heartbreak. Too familiar. Too recent. The same hollow twist I felt when Prince Charming chose someone more suitable.

I pull out my phone and hit the call button.

Call: Sophie

She answers on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up? You alive out there in sponsor-land?”

“I slept with Finn again,” I blurt out.

Silence. Then, “Shit. When?”

“Last night. And Sophie...someone posted a video on TikTok. Him with another woman. Walking out of a hotel bar, laughing, his arm around her.” The words crack as they leave me. “It looked intimate.”

“Jess—”

“I know what you’re going to say. I ghosted him for months. I have no right to be jealous.”

“Actually,” Sophie says quietly, “I was going to tell you that Finn was asking about you all summer. Kept asking Liam if you were okay, where you were. Liam said he looked wrecked.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“You left him on read the whole time you were in Shanghai. And now you’re acting like he’s the one who let you down.”

The words hit like a physical blow. “I have to go. Chad’s waiting.”

“Jess—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Two hours later, I’m in the hotel elevator, armor fully restored. Chad suggested dinner instead of a proper meeting, and I should have shut it down immediately. But I need those contract details. I need to know exactly what Finn’s walking into.

I clock the wine before I even reach the table.

Two glasses. Red. Already poured.

I stride across the restaurant’s polished floor, heels clicking with every step. My navy suit is tailored sharp. No dress tonight, no softness, no slip. Power blazer, white blouse, everything calculated to scream one thing: this is business .

But the second I spot Chad leaning back in his chair with that airbrushed familiarity, I know I’ve walked into a trap.

“Jessica,” he says smoothly, rising just enough to pretend we’re still something. He tilts in to brush the air beside my cheek; I step past him and into my chair without breaking stride.

“Chad,” I reply, placing my tablet between us, a clean divide. “You said you had updates on the Summit Sportswear profiles.”

He nods toward the wine, presenting it as a peace offering when it’s clearly a power move. “Take a breath. It’s dinner. I even picked your favorite, Tempranillo.”

I glance down at the table. The candlelight’s low. Napkins folded into crisp little triangles. The corner booth is too private.

This is not a meeting. It’s a setup.

“I’ll stick to water, thanks,” I say, picking up the glass. His smile flickers, tight, then smooth again.

“Fair enough.” He adjusts with an air of indulgence, treating me as though I’m being difficult. “O’Reilly…” he starts, dragging the name out. “He’s drawing interest. Serious numbers. But we both know he’s not turnkey.”

My spine goes stiff.

“Finn’s the top scorer on the team,” I say coolly. “He’s disciplined. Marketable. And a hell of a lot more coachable than half the veterans on the roster.”

Chad leans back, lips curling with a familiar condescension.

“Sure. But brands want more than stats. They want someone stable. Professional. Not a loose cannon with a bad last name and worse impulse control.” He straightens his cuff.

“There’s a deal on the table for him, though,” he adds casually, as if he had brokered the deal.

“Fanatics. National campaign. Seven figures. Year-round visibility. Commercial spots, digital push, the whole machine.”

He lets that sit a beat. Then adds, tone a touch too satisfied, “But they make it conditional on O’Reilly signing with LA.”

And there it is. The catch. The knife wrapped in cash.

I breathe deep. Force myself to stay still and cold. But inside, I’m screaming.

This is business. Finn’s just another player heading west—and me making sure the paperwork’s clean when he goes.

I press my nails into the meat of my palm, grounding myself in the pain.

Get your shit together, Novak.

It’s the curse of being a woman in this game. You either play like the men do—measured, logical, unflinching—or you’re dismissed as emotional.

I clear my throat, my voice smooth even as my pulse pounds.

“If the offer’s finalized, send it over,” I say. “I’ll brief O’Reilly and loop in his agent.”

Satisfied, Chad nods and signals the waiter with a flick of his wrist, effortless entitlement, used to a world that’s waiting to serve him.

“We’ll take the chef’s special,” he says before I can open my mouth.

I snap my tablet shut, spine stiffening. “I can order for myself.”

He waves a dismissive hand, that infuriating smile still plastered on his face. “It’s braised salmon, Jess. Your favorite. Can’t run the league on caffeine and ambition alone.”

I glare at him over the rim of my water glass, biting back the dozen ways I could tell him exactly where to shove his unsolicited order. And I can’t even smell salmon lately without having to gag. All I want is watermelon. And cucumber. And maybe to slap him with a fillet.

“So,” he drawls, shifting back, giving the relaxed vibe of an old friend catching up. “How was your summer? I saw you on Fire Island for Labor Day.” He swirls his wine, watching me intently. “Did you ever take that Mandarin course in Shanghai like you planned?”

My stomach dips. For a beat, I see Finn. The way I slipped out of his bed and ghosted him all summer.

Chad tilts his head, lips curling into a lazy grin. “That busy, huh? Must’ve been one hell of a summer.”

I don’t bite.

He moves closer. “You used to tell me your plans.”

I set my water glass down slowly. “If you’re finished walking down memory lane, I’ll take the contract details so we can wrap this.”

He sighs, leans back, unhurried.

“Summit’s locked. Cain’s in—golden boy, clean numbers, a marketer’s dream. No drama, no headlines, just smooth sailing,” he says, lifting his glass. “Under Armour showed interest in O’Reilly, but I redirected them. He’s not the right fit, too rough around the edges. Image matters.”

But Under Armour isn’t just a campaign, it’s a turning point. A deal that could shift Finn’s entire trajectory, solidify his brand, and help lock him into New York for the next half a decade.

On top of it, the Defenders need him.

He might be second line on paper, but Finn’s a top scorer, lethal against softer matchups, explosive on the rush. Spreading the offense between him and Liam is more than good strategy; it’s a winning ticket. They carried the team last season. Without both of them, a repeat Cup run is a fantasy .

He shifts and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Fanatics Sportswear likes him. If he signs out West, they’ll light the fuse. That’s his best option.”