Page 27 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

EAST VS. WEST

JESSICA

B y mid-afternoon, my heels are killing me and I’ve smiled so much my cheeks ache, but the sponsors are still circling, drawn to the scent of opportunity.

I shift the tablet in my hand, nodding along as the Fanatics Sportswear rep—Grant something, too polished to bother remembering—launches into his pitch. Except this isn’t a pitch. It’s a victory lap. Because in his mind, Finn O’Reilly is already theirs.

“He’s the full package,” Grant says, adjusting his designer cufflinks, settling into the glow of a done deal.

“Top scorer, media-friendly, dangerous but clean enough to sell. That Southern charm? Plays everywhere. And LA—” He spreads his hands, presenting it as the inevitable next chapter.

“That’s a stage built for stories with teeth. ”

My grip tightens around the stylus, but my smile stays flawless. “Finn O’Reilly’s focus is on the season ahead. Wherever that plays out.”

Grant chuckles, amused, as if I’ve told a cute joke.

“Jessica, come on. We both know this is bigger than hockey.” He leans in, lowering his voice to that conspiratorial tone men use when they think they’re letting you in on a secret.

“This is about more than points on the board. It’s about narrative. About resonance.”

I arch a brow, letting him dig his own grave.

He taps his tablet, spinning it around to show me a mock-up—Finn lacing up skates, wearing Fanatics gear, that cocky grin aimed straight at the consumer’s wallet. Behind him? A tagline that makes my stomach twist.

“Rewriting Legacy: The Rise of O’Reilly”

Grant sees my reaction and smiles wider. “We don’t hide from his past, we sell it. The son of a disgraced legend, carving his own path? It’s the American dream with a redemption arc. People eat that shit up.”

I force a nod, my nails digging into the leather case of my tablet. “And what exactly are you expecting from him?”

“Full campaign, docuseries, the works. We position him as the face of second chances.” The tagline makes my stomach turn; they want to sell his trauma as inspiration.

Hearing Finn’s pain packaged into a marketing slogan makes something bitter rise in my throat.

“And his father?” I ask, testing how far they’re willing to go.

Grant shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Ancient history. That scandal was, what, a decade ago? The public loves a comeback. We control the narrative, make Finn the guy who didn’t just outrun his father’s shadow, but burned it to the ground. Hell, we’ll probably sell more because of it.”

Of course they will. Because nothing moves product like a man who bleeds for the camera and smiles through it.

“The deal’s contingent on LA?” I press, even though I know the answer.

“Naturally. East Coast grit doesn’t sell like West Coast glamour.” He winks, like this is nothing more than good business. “Besides, Rothschild’s got his golden boy already. Cain’s locked for the Northeast campaign. O’Reilly belongs under the California sun.”

I nod, sharp and efficient. “Send me the full terms. I’ll brief his agent.”

“And Finn?” Grant asks, eyes glinting with that corporate predatory gleam. “You’ll make sure he understands what’s at stake?”

I school my face into perfect neutrality. “That’s my job.”

He smiles, all smug confidence. We’re on the same team, apparently. Never mind that I mentally buried a stylus in his forehead.

I pivot, excusing myself under the guise of a scheduling conflict before I do something that gets me blacklisted from every sponsorship table in North America.

But as I walk away, my stomach knots tighter with every step.

Because this is more than a deal.

It’s a leash, stitched in gold thread, polished to look like freedom, but a leash all the same. The kind that tightens slowly, so you don’t feel it cutting off your air until it’s too late.

And Finn’s the perfect target. Too proud to flinch. Too stubborn to see the trap for what it is. He’ll tell himself he’s in control, that it’s business, numbers on a contract. That moving to LA is his choice. His win.

But I know better.

I’ve watched men like Grant package players into commodities and strip them down until there’s nothing left but a marketable shell.

They’ll use his story, his scars, his name, and when the shine fades, they’ll move on to the next headline, leaving him hollowed out and smiling for cameras that no longer care .

My heels click faster against the marble as the weight settles in my chest.

This isn’t my place. It’s not my job to protect him—except it is the only thing that matters to me now.

I’m supposed to manage optics, draft statements, and make sure the sponsors stay happy.

But somewhere between the first smirk he ever threw my way and the feel of his mouth on my skin the other night, the lines blurred.

And now I’m standing on the edge, watching him walk straight toward a cage wrapped in dollar signs.

But I’m not some wide-eyed rookie who freezes when the game turns dirty.

I know how this works. I know how to twist the narrative before it twists him.

Because Finn O’Reilly doesn’t need saving.

He needs someone who knows how to play the sponsors harder than they’re playing him.

Someone who can show him that the real power isn’t in signing the deal, it’s in rewriting the terms.

I square my shoulders, pushing past the knot in my chest.

If he’s smart—and God, I know he is under all that swagger—he’ll listen when I tell him how to turn this leash into a launchpad. How to build a brand on his terms without selling pieces of himself to corporate America.

Protecting Finn O’Reilly is about making sure when he cashes in on his name, it’s him holding the leash.

Twenty minutes later, I’m scanning the ballroom for my real target. Everywhere I look, it’s pressed suits, designer heels, quiet deals made over mineral water and manicured handshakes. Fanatics thinks they’ve won, but I’m about to change the game .

It’s a break between panels. ‘Athlete Influence in Digital Media’ just wrapped, and ‘Sponsorship Trends in Emerging Markets’ is up next. Half the attendees are networking. The other half are pretending not to notice who’s talking to whom.

I’ve done my part. Sat through two panels, fielded three sponsor follow-ups, smiled until my cheeks ached, all while trying to ignore the nausea that’s been clawing at me since morning.

But my patience is gone.

Because Finn O’Reilly’s face is plastered across Fanatics mock-ups. Of course they moved early. Chad probably told them the ink was drying.

Somewhere across the room, the bastard is circling.

He hasn’t approached. He won’t; he knows better than to walk into fire without a plan.

But I see him. Arm draped over the back of a branded lounge chair, shirt crisp, eyes locked on every move I make.

He watches, poised, thinking he’s still owed an update

He’s not.

And I’m done playing quiet.

I spot the Under Armour team by the VIP lounge, two senior execs, half-interested, half-bored, sipping sparkling water with lime, scanning the crowd with curated disinterest. I stride across the floor, tablet under my arm, pulse steady in a tight rhythm.

Spine straight, the way Margaret Novak raised me.

One of her cardinal rules: you’re tall, so hold your ground and don’t fold for anyone.

“Jessica Novak,” I say, offering my hand with enough pressure to register confidence, not desperation. “PR Director for the Defenders. We haven’t met officially.”

They shake my hand. One of them nods. “We’re familiar. ”

“Perfect,” I say. “Then we can skip the preamble.”

They watch me, faces unreadable. I don’t flinch. “You’re waiting. Watching. Seeing where he lands.”

They know who I’m talking about. And they don’t deny it.

“Fanatics deal hinges on O’Reilly going west. L.A. gets the player. Fanatics gets the narrative. That’s a win for our competitor on the ice…and yours at the sponsor table.”

That lands.

I step in closer, tone low and even. “The Defenders want him in the East. Under Armour wants traction here. If we move together, we anchor him where he belongs, and you don’t just get the player, you get the city.”

One of them leans in, intrigued. “And what do you want?”

I let the pause stretch. Then I smile, calm, unshaken. Just enough edge to keep them guessing.

“I want Finn O’Reilly built right, as the man he actually is, not the broken narrative the Fanatics want to sell. No redemption arc. No tortured legacy. Just power, precision, and presence. A campaign that reflects what he is now, not what the league thinks he’s running from.”

I flip the tablet, tap the screen. Pull up the mock-up I built this morning—Finn in the middle of a city street, snow falling, Defenders beanie pulled low, Under Armour hoodie sharp against steel and grit. Polished enough for credibility, edgy enough for sales.

No beaches. No backstories. Only the present moment.

One exec leans forward. “What’s your timeline?”

“Finn’s deciding this week. Fanatics is pushing hard with their LA angle, but they’re selling his trauma as marketing gold. You can offer him something better, a brand built on who he is now, not who he’s running from. ”

The other exec nods slowly. “And the Defenders organization supports this?”

“The Defenders want him in New York. You want East Coast market penetration. It’s a perfect match—if you move fast.”

Their expressions shift, no longer bored, no longer detached. They hear it now.

“He’s not waiting,” I say. “So if you are, you’ll miss him.”

The Under Armour execs exchange glances. I can see the wheels turning. Good. Let them think. Let them move. Because Finn O’Reilly deserves better than being packaged and sold like commodity meat.

I pivot without waiting for permission, shoulders squared, heels clicking behind me. I’m already pulling out my phone.

“Joy,” I say as soon as she answers. “I need a concept deck built for Under Armour. Call it O’Reilly slash NY Grit. I’ll send over a one-pager with visual direction. Include campaign tone, engagement metrics, urban brand angles, and Q3 influencer heatmap. Light on legacy, lean into momentum.”

She’s already typing. “Deadline?”

“Three hours. I want it in their inbox before dinner.”

I’m still riding the adrenaline high when I spot him across the room. Finn O’Reilly, leaning against the bar like he owns the place. Time to see if he’s as smart as I think he is—and whether he’ll let me help him stay in control.

He’s sin wrapped in black fabric—fitted shirt hugging every line of that infuriatingly perfect body, sleeves pushed up, showing forearms that have no right being that distracting. One hand around a glass, the other casually tucked in his pocket.

His stare burns. Locked on me. Steady. Unapologetic. Tracking every move I made since I walked into the room. Like he knows I’m two seconds from combusting.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let what happened between us two nights ago dictate my steps, and march straight toward him. His smirk deepens, radiating lazy confidence as I stop in front of him.

“Red,” he drawls, low and smooth. As if we’re seamlessly picking up where his hands left off.

“Save the swagger, O’Reilly,” I snap, keeping my tone cutting enough to draw blood through whatever game he thinks he’s playing. “This isn’t personal.”

He quirks a brow, amused. “Funny, considering how personal things got the other day.”

“Business,” I bite out, ignoring the flush threatening my neck.

I pull my tablet from under my arm. It’s a shield.

“You’ve got two offers on the table. LA wants to sign you—roster spot, strong contract, immediate ice time.

And Fanatics Sportswear is circling with a sponsorship deal—seven figures, national campaigns. ”

His smirk fades, replaced by something far more focused. “You want me to take it?”

I hold his gaze, steady and professional, even as it shreds me inside. “I want you to be smart. The LA contract? That’s clean. It’s a career move; you either want it, or you don’t. But Fanatics?” I shake my head, my voice dropping lower. “That’s where they’ll own you if you’re not careful.”

His eyes narrow slightly, tracking every word now.

“If you even consider signing with them—and I’m not saying you should—you need ironclad provisions,” I continue, keeping my tone clipped and precise.

“Control over your image. Final approval on every campaign. No sob-story narratives about your father. No ‘rise from scandal’ angles. They’ll want to sell redemption because it prints money. ”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You build your brand on your terms, O’Reilly. Not theirs. No mandatory redemption optics unless you choose them. No media circus dragging up your family name for clicks.”

I take a breath, forcing my tone to stay level when all I want to do is grab him by that damn shirt and make him see how dangerous this is. “Get the paycheck without selling your legacy. That’s the play.”

He studies me, that playful glint replaced by something heavier. Calculating. “And what about the Defenders?” he asks quietly. “What if I’m not ready to walk?”

I force a breath. Keep my spine straight when every part of me wants to waver. “We’re still waiting on Rothschild to step up. Nothing’s guaranteed. Season’s starting, and you’re unsigned. Having LA in your back pocket isn’t just smart, it’s survival.”

His jaw ticks, but his focus stays fixed on me, searching for something I refuse to show. Searching for the truth I can’t give him—that I’m pregnant with his child and terrified he’ll choose LA before I find the courage to tell him.

“You always this ruthless, Novak?” he murmurs. “Or is this how you protect someone you care about?”

The words hit too close to home. “I’ll set up a meeting with Marcus. We’ll go over the terms you’re going to demand.”

I turn before he can see the truth—that every word about him leaving is like a knife to the chest. That I’m not just protecting his career, I’m fighting for our future .

I don’t look back.

I can’t.

Because if I do, I might do something stupid, like tell him I love him, tell him about the baby, tell him that losing him to LA would destroy me in ways I’m not sure I’d survive.