Page 32 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

TRY ME

JESSICA

W e land at LaGuardia just after four. The late September air is cool, with that clean-edged sharpness that means summer’s finally giving up.

Our driver’s already waiting, and Finn takes charge without asking, grabbing my suitcase, nodding a thank you, tossing both our bags into the trunk. Like we do this all the time.

We don’t.

But it’s starting to feel that way.

The ride to Tarrytown is quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in after too much—too much touching, too much teasing, too many moments that felt dangerously close to permanent.

I’m pressed into Finn’s side in the back seat, head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped solid around me.

We’re both bone-tired, skin still humming, clothes barely hiding what we did to each other all weekend.

He kisses my temple once, then rests his cheek against my hair.

His thumb draws slow circles on my hip, under the edge of my jacket, steady and warm and grounding.

It should lull me to sleep. I’m so close.

But my brain won’t stop. Not with the skyline fading in the rearview and real life rushing up to meet us again.

I need to tell him about the baby. But I keep hearing his voice— not sure I’d get it right —and my courage crumbles. The moment I tell him, everything changes. And I’m not ready to lose this yet.

Finn shifts, pulling me a little closer, his chin grazing my hair. “You good?” he murmurs, words rough from sleep or sex or both.

“Mmhmm.”

“You sure?”

I nod against his chest, too afraid my voice will crack if I speak.

He doesn’t push. Just holds me tighter.

And for a few more blocks, I let myself stay suspended in this moment. Let myself be selfish. Let myself pretend that this—just this—is enough.

That I can hold onto it a little longer.

That the truth can wait for one more day.

But the closer we get to home, the harder it is to pretend.

When the car pulls into my driveway, I reach for the door handle only to see Finn already sliding out. He pops the trunk, grabs both suitcases, and sets them on the curb like this is just what we do now.

I step out, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing?”

He grabs both suitcases, pure mischief in his eyes. “Collecting my plus one. You’re coming home with me, Red.”

“I have work in the morning.”

“So pack heels. You’re going straight to the office from my bed—well fucked and well-fed.”

“Finn,” I warn, hands on hips.

He stops at the front door, turns with that wicked grin. “ You’ve got thirty minutes. I’m starving, and I’ve got at least two more rounds in me. Pack fast.”

I roll my eyes, heart thudding like crazy, but decide to go with it. “Help yourself to an espresso. Frozen fruit’s in the freezer. Protein powder’s in the cupboard. And I think Sophie restocked bananas and oat milk.”

He winks. “God bless that girl. Now hustle, Novak. I want you back in my bed within the hour.” He disappears inside the kitchen, already rummaging through cabinets and muttering appreciatively about my high-end espresso machine.

I step into the hallway just in time to see him toss his jacket over the back of a chair. “You’re awfully comfortable, Carolina,” I call after him, grinning.

He glances over his shoulder. “Give a man one taste of heaven, and he starts redecorating.”

I shake my head, laughing, then turn and head upstairs.

“Smoothie? Espresso?” he calls after me.

“Yes to the smoothie,” I shout back. “Will pass on the espresso.”

“Your loss, Red,” he calls. “More caffeine for me.” A beat. “I’ll keep you awake just fine.”

I shake my head, smiling as I climb the stairs. I like the sound of his voice in my kitchen and the way he moves through my space, filling it out with his energy.

I could get used to this.

The thought lands softly. Again. Then hits hard.

I need to tell him.

Today.

I roll my suitcase into the bedroom, unzip it, and grab my necessities. That will do for tonight. I’m stuffing clothes into an overnight bag when my phone lights up with a push alert .

New Report Raises Red Flags on Endorsements: Finn O’Reilly’s Family Ties Resurface

The words stop me cold. I snatch the phone, tap the article. It’s worse than I expected—positioned as an ethics piece, name-dropping Finn’s father, and rehashing every detail of the financial scandal. No mention of Finn’s own record. No balance. No context.

My phone buzzes again. Unknown Caller. I hesitate, then swipe to answer.

“This is Jessica Novak.”

“Hi, this is Shelby Larson from Under Armour’s athlete brand team. Sorry to call on a Sunday night, but I needed to connect before tomorrow morning. We’re finalizing Finn O’Reilly’s contract terms, and I just saw the article about his father. I’ll be honest, it’s raising some red flags.”

My spine straightens as I sit on the edge of the bed.

“I read it too. It’s a transparent hit piece and doesn’t reflect Finn’s character in the slightest. His record—on and off the ice—is spotless.”

A pause. “We’re very selective about new signings. Our brand targets all demographics. We can’t risk reputational exposure, not with something this sensitive.”

“I completely understand,” I say smoothly. “Let me send you a package—hospital partnerships, youth mentorship programs, charity games. He’s not just clean. He’s the kind of athlete brands dream of.”

Another pause. Then she exhales. “Alright. Please send it tonight. I’ll review it with my team first thing tomorrow.”

“You’ll have it within the hour.”

I hang up with Shelby and quickly text Joy.

Jessica: Need Finn’s PR highlights. UA’s on edge over that article. Can you pull together the community work reel and the youth mentorship stats?

Jessica: Sorry it’s a Sunday. Can you confirm?

She replies within seconds.

Joy: Got you. Give me fifteen. I’ll cc you on the email.

Joy: And I’m always on call for emergencies involving our favorite hockey menace.

I exhale. God, I’m lucky to have her. Always on the ready, always fast. We couldn’t have found a better hire.

Chad’s behind this, I’m sure of it. The timing is too perfect, too calculated. I toss my phone on the bed. Then I pick it back up.

Time to end this once and for all.

I scroll through my contacts and hit call.

“Jessica,” Chad answers, tone smug and syrup-slick. “I knew you’d come around. Needed some time to reconsider, huh?”

I keep my tone steady, intrigued. “Maybe. You said you were serious about the offer. I might be ready to jump.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says. “I meant every word. You’ve been running that team in the shadows long enough.

It’s time the world saw your name on the door.

Novak Communications. Full autonomy. Clients ready to go.

And I’ll even throw in a penthouse on the Upper West Side.

Quick stroll through the park from my place. ”

I glance toward the door, then tap record and switch to speaker .

“Walk me through the terms,” I say, pacing to my dresser. “Let’s make sure we’re aligned.”

“The arrangement is simple,” he purrs. “You run the business by day. At night, I want what we used to have. My key, my visits, whenever I want.”

“And Allegra?”

“A formality. You were always the real fire, Jess. God, the way you used to ride me?—”

I brace against the dresser, stomach churning.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I glance over my shoulder just in time to see Finn, smoothie in hand. His eyes darken the moment he hears Chad’s voice. I hold up a finger.

Stay quiet.

He nods, but the muscle ticking in his jaw says otherwise.

“I’d see you twice a week. More, if I can swing it,” Chad goes on with glee.

“I’ll make sure the penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows.

White leather. The kind of place that fits a woman like you.

We’ll keep it off the books. Just for us.

I’ll get you a card too, for shopping. I remember your taste. ”

Finn’s grip on the glass tightens, and I meet his gaze again.

Stay .

Then let the silence stretch for a long beat.

“Wow,” I say, words smooth as ice. “Thank you for being so clear. Makes it much easier to decide.”

A pause. “Yes. It’s simple and clean.”

“I was on the fence before,” I say, pacing slow now. “But hearing you lay it out like this? I think I’ve made up my mind.”

“Excellent.”

“And so I’m just wondering,” I continue, “how Allegra van Alst will feel about that ‘bonus plan’ you have so helpfully and clearly laid out for me? About how you’ll bend me over the white leather couch? And how you are going to let me pick the position?”

“Jess—-”

I glance at Finn. His eyes are wide now, connecting the dots.

“She won’t believe you,” he snaps after a pause, panic rising in his voice as he realizes. “You wouldn’t dare?—”

“Oh, I would. With great pleasure.” I lean against the doorway, still cool.

“And she definitely will believe me once she hears your voice saying all this. But maybe I’ll save the recording.

In case you ever get bored again and start whispering to sponsors.

Or when I see another article about Finn that’s anything less than glowing. ”

“You recorded this? You can’t record me without?—”

“New York is a one-party consent state, Chad. You should really brush up on the difference between legal consent and the kind you never really understood.”

His tone sharpens. “I’ll sue you. Don’t screw with me?—”

But I keep going.

“You’re going to listen very carefully now. You’re going to slither back into whatever overpriced rat hole you came from, and you’re going to stay the hell away from me. And from Finn O’Reilly.”

“Jessica—”

“If you so much as breathe near another Defenders contract,” I say, my voice like steel wrapped in silk, “or if my boyfriend’s name shows up in one more article that doesn’t read like a damn love letter, I’ll make sure Allegra hears every word of this call.

And if I’m feeling generous, Page Six gets the exclusive. ”

That’s when Finn steps forward, taking the phone slowly from my hand.

“Chad,” he says, calm as a loaded gun. “If your name shows up anywhere near hers again—paper, contract, inbox—I’ll skip the warnings and come straight for you. And know that when I’m done, you’ll need dental records to prove who you were.”

A long pause. Then the call disconnects.

I exhale. Turn to Finn. He’s still staring at the phone like it might bite. Then he looks up at me, smirking.

“Boyfriend, huh?”

I lift a brow. “You gonna make a thing out of it?”

He takes a step closer, eyes sweeping over me with the kind of heat that makes my skin buzz.

“Oh, I’m absolutely makin’ a thing out of it,” he murmurs, his voice all lazy drawl and slow burn. He tips his head, eyes gleaming. “Gotta admit, Red. You know how to make a man feel special.”

I roll my eyes, but he sees it, the flush rising up my neck, the way my body won’t quite settle around him.

“I was making a point.”

“You were makin’ a claim .”

He crowds my space and presses a light kiss on my lips.

“That smoothie for me?” I ask softly.

He blinks once. Then hands it over.

“I’m getting you a new phone,” he mutters. “One with fireproof shielding.”

I smirk. “What, to protect my reputation?”

“No,” he says darkly. “So I can call him back and finish the job. And next time,” he murmurs, “put me on the damn call sooner, girlfriend . Your boyfriend’s got a few suggestions for where Vanderbilt can shove his fucking penthouse.”

Finn tosses the phone on the bed like it’s infected. He doesn’t speak, merely wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against his chest.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

Instead of answering, I bury my face in his shoulder.

He sighs. “You need to finish packing.”

I pull away and grab a dress, a pair of heels, my laptop bag, and a few other essentials, stuffing them into my weekender. Work clothes for tomorrow. A phone charger. War paint.

“I hate that this is still following me,” he says as we head out.

“I’m taking care of it.”

He nods, but it’s not really agreement, it’s surrender. The kind that says he’s used to fighting shadows he didn’t cast.

I kiss his cheek, soft and brief. “Come on. Let’s go, Carolina.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into Finn’s driveway.

His house is tucked on a quiet street. Not huge, but not small either—clean-lined, low-slung, with wide front windows and enough backyard to grill or kick a ball around.

Inside, it’s a mix of wood floors and lived-in furniture.

Neutral tones. Nothing overly styled. A big sectional in the living room, a record player in the corner, a single framed photo of the team on the wall.

And in the far corner, half-shadowed behind the couch, a worn leather boxing bag hangs from a ceiling mount. The kind that doesn’t just sit there. It’s used.

No clutter, no chaos. The space reflects him perfectly—focused, controlled, everything in its place. Even the boxing bag in the corner speaks to his need for order, for channeling energy into something productive.

He drops my bag and pulls me into his arms. “I could get used to having you here.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I tease, even as I melt into him. “I still need to handle the Under Armour situation.”

But as he kisses my neck, I realize I’m the one getting comfortable. And that terrifies me more than Chad ever could.

He groans, full dramatic flop onto the couch. “Fine. But we need food. I’ve burned through my smoothie and my will to live.”

“You poor thing,” I deadpan, heading toward the dining table and flipping open my laptop.

“I’m thinking sushi,” he calls after me. “Maybe three rolls and a side of miso so I don’t waste away.”

“No,” I say, too fast. Sushi is off limits for the time being. Another reminder we need to have that conversation soon.

He pauses. “Okay. Let’s do something else then.”

I don’t look up. “How about Sweetgreen?”

“Alright, alright.” He scrolls on his phone, muttering. “Guess we’re doing kale and quinoa or whatever your power-woman place delivers. But just so we’re clear, this is a one-time deal. First time staying over privilege.”

I glance over my shoulder, shaking my head and biting back a smile. “What happens after the first night?”

He grins. “Negotiations. Coercion. Possibly extortion. But I’ll allow veggie-forward tyranny tonight because you’re here, and I’m planning to keep you.”