Page 34 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

GROUND ZERO

JESSICA

T he words were right there. Hovering between my lips and his skin. His hand on my waist. His come still inside me. His voice in my ear, low and lazy, like the question didn’t matter.

“You on anything, Red?”

Like he wasn’t worried. Like he wouldn’t bail on me either way. If there was ever a moment, that was it. The light. The quiet. The way he looked at me like he’s already made a choice—and it was me.

But then my phone buzzed. And the moment cracked. Just one second. That’s all it took. One second to break the rhythm, to reach for the call, and let the truth slip through my fingers.

Now I’m pacing his living room in his shirt, phone pressed to my ear, listening to Joy’s voice.

“They matched it,” Joy rambles, breathless. “Under Armour signed. Rothschild greenlit the full match with performance bonuses. They gave him eighty-four over six. It’s not just a match; it’s a statement. Marcus is looped in, but they sent the final terms to you, guess they figured you earned it.”

I press a hand to my chest, like that’ll ground me. “Wait—what? You’re serious? They matched it?”

“Yeah.” Joy laughs. “He’ll finally be able to relax.”

She’s not wrong. For weeks, Finn’s been stuck in contract limbo while LA dangled their offer. To everyone else, he seemed chill, but I saw the strain, the way he skated like he was trying to outrun pressure.

And I’ve been holding my breath, not knowing what telling him about the baby would do. Would he run? Would this news trap him here or send him to LA?

So I waited, stalling until I knew his options. But now Under Armour’s in. The Defenders matched. He deserves to know before he makes the biggest decision of his life.

If he’s in? Great. If not? Fine.

Either way, it won’t be just on me anymore. For the first time in months, everything feels possible. Finn will stay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll be a family.

I smile, big, unfiltered, real. “Okay. I’ll call you back.”

“Already formatted. You’re welcome.”

I hang up, still glowing with triumph. When I turn, Finn’s standing across the room—boxers low on his hips, chest bare, hand clenched around the bottle of prenatal vitamins.

I didn’t hear him move. Didn’t feel the air shift.

He’s motionless. Calm. But his eyes are full of thunder.

“This yours?” he asks, holding the vitamins out like they might burn him.

His tone cuts like a blade

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” he asks. “Or was that gonna depend on where I signed?”

“Finn— ”

His words hit like a punch. Because he’s right. All my careful reasons crumble to dust. I should have told him the second I found out.

And now it’s too late to explain.

He laughs, soft and bitter as burned coffee. “L.A. doesn’t get the kid, but New York does? That the game plan?”

I flinch. “That’s not what this is.”

He glances down at the bottle again, then back at me, this time, with something colder behind his eyes.

“So that call?” he asks, jaw tight. “That was about me, wasn’t it? Sounded like I’m stayin’.”

His phone buzzes. He grabs it without looking. One glance, and his mouth pulls into a hard line.

“Marcus,” he mutters. “Looks like I’m getting some good news here.”

He sets the phone down like it’s made of glass. Like he’s afraid he might throw it otherwise. His shoulders shift—tight, controlled—but I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking. He’s coming apart at the seams, but like everything with Finn, it’s controlled. Devastating.

I step forward. “I was trying to find the right time?—”

“To what? Tell me? Or not tell me?” The words fracture as they leave him. “Were you ever gonna say anything? Or were you just hopin’ I’d be gone before it mattered?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” He shakes his head once. “Then help me out. What is fair? You carryin’ this decision alone? Decidin’ for both of us, like I’m some one-night mistake you regret too much to even face?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what happened, Jessica?” His voice drops again, quieter now, but worse. “You didn’t even give me the chance to be part of it. ”

I want to scream. To cry. To crawl out of my skin.

“I didn’t want to make it harder for you,” I say, voice thin, breaking.

“You were already under pressure. No offer from the team, LA dangling a fresh start. How was I supposed to drop this on you? I didn’t want it to be the reason you had to stay.

I didn’t want to take that choice from you. ”

“And so you took this one instead.”

His words stop me cold. My throat closes. My hands are shaking. “I thought I was protecting you,” I whisper.

He exhales. Slow. Rough. “You were protecting yourself.”

The words land like a death sentence. Because we both know he’s right. I chose fear over faith. I chose protecting my heart over protecting us.

The way he looks at me, like I’m a stranger wearing his lover’s face, steals every breath from my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I didn’t mean to?—”

He shakes his head, stepping back. Not far. Just enough.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he says. “You made your move.”

And just like that, I understand. This isn’t about the baby. This is about trust. About me proving that when it mattered most, I didn’t choose him. I chose myself.

The silence that falls between us is deafening. And I can’t stand here one more second, wearing his shirt and his scent and his heartbreak like a bruise I put on both of us.

“I should go,” I say, grabbing my phone with fingers that barely work.

I want to stay. Crawl back into his arms. Apologize with every inch of me, even if I’ll never deserve the grace.

But he’s standing there—silent, distant—staring at something only he can see. And staying would mean watching him decide I’m no longer his.

“Go ahead,” he says softly. “It’s what you do.”

I flinch. He’s right. This is what I do. I run the moment things get real. I ran from Montreal. I ran from telling him. And now I’m about to run again, proving every doubt he’s ever had about me.

My hands shake as I grab my jeans, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the quiet between us. Jacket. Shoes. Phone. Movements jerky, unsteady.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, and something slips. Red lace hits the floor. I freeze.

He sees it.

I hesitate. Just for a second. A breath. Then I turn toward the door.

Behind me, I hear him approach. He picks it up, this scrap of red that once meant possession, desire, claiming. Now he places it gently in my bag like he’s returning something that was never really his.

The tenderness in the gesture breaks me completely. Because this is Finn. Even destroying me, he’s careful with my heart.

But that’s it. He won’t fight for me anymore.

My throat burns. I grip the doorknob with numb fingers. Three months ago, I ran from him because I was scared of how much I wanted him. Now I’m running again, but this time, he’s letting me go.

“I was trying to do things right,” I murmur, still not looking at him. “But maybe I was just scared.”

The silence stretches. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:

“I would’ve stayed, Red. For you. For us. I would’ve stayed.”

Past tense. The finality of it drops me to my knees.

I close the door behind me and finally let myself shatter.