Page 36 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)
SIGNED AND SEALED
FINN
T he Defenders complex is already awake when I walk in. For once, no earbuds, no post-practice grin, no smartass quip loaded and ready. Just me. And the weight in my gut.
I acknowledge a trainer I don’t recognize. He nods back. I keep walking.
Marcus is waiting outside the conference room, bouncing on his heels, riding the high. It’s as close to a winning lottery ticket as it gets. Eighty-four over six. Endorsement locked. Back-to-back campaigns. The future secured.
“Big day,” he says, clapping me on the back. “This is it, man. You ready?”
I give him one word. “Yeah.” No smile. No joke. No Finn O’Reilly special. Just one syllable.
He hesitates, reading something in my face, then clears his throat. “Under Armour folded in all the amendments Jessica pushed for. Final approval on creative. No legacy angles. No family drama. Just clean campaigns, aggressive tone, no redemption arc bullshit. ”
My chest goes tight. Jessica’s fingerprints are all over this deal. Every line. Every clause. She saw the cage before I did and clawed it open before I could walk into it. Even now…she’s still protecting me.
I nod again and swallow hard as I follow Marcus inside.
And there it is.
A small white coffee cup on the table, waiting for me.
Espresso. Black. No sugar. Just the way I like it.
The way she always had it ready, no matter how early, how chaotic, how far I’d pushed her that day.
Every time I came for a meeting, there it would be.
Silent proof she knew me. Wanted me ready. Wanted me.
I stare at it too long. That stupid espresso hits harder than losing the Cup in overtime.
Rothschild’s already at the table. So is Coach.
Both look up when I enter, and for once, neither of them has a skeptical expression on their face.
Coach leans back in his chair, arms folded.
“You earned this, O’Reilly. Contract’s aggressive.
Sponsor’s clean. We built it off your numbers… and your leadership.”
Rothschild agrees. “And your loyalty.”
I say nothing. Just slide into the chair, take the pen from Marcus’s outstretched hand. Before I can move, Coach speaks again.
“You’ll stay on second line,” he says, voice calm. “But next year, we’re shifting. Recruiting a new right wing, kid out of the Philly Titans’ system. Once that gels, you’re bumping to first. Left wing.”
My jaw tightens. “Why not now?”
“Because we’re going for the Cup again,” Rothschild answers. “And the only way we get there is with a second line this strong. You made that line lethal last year. You were the reason we outskated Boston. That doesn’t go unnoticed. ”
I nod. No protest. They’re not wrong.
Initial here. Signature there. Done.
Marcus all but beams. Rothschild nods once and stands. Coach pats my shoulder and says something about media day. I don’t really hear it.
Because my phone is burning a hole in my pocket. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked when I held that bottle in my hand. The way she didn’t even flinch when I asked if she was ever going to tell me.
I pull the phone out, thumb hovering for half a second before I give in.
Me: You still nauseous?
Me: When’s the next appointment?
Me: I want to be there
I stare at the screen, waiting.
And then,
Jessica: I’m okay
Jessica: In two weeks
No emoji. No Carolina. No softness.
I exhale slowly and walk out of the room.
The espresso’s still burning in my chest an hour later when I suit up for practice.
Pads go on. Tape wraps tight. The rest of the guys are loud, joking, stretching, tossing around nicknames like it’s just another Tuesday. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like something cracked open and didn’t close .
It’s just a light skate—game day routine—but my limbs are tight and my brain won’t quit. I need this. The noise. The glide. The hit of speed under control.
Nate’s already on the ice, chirping from the far zone.
Out on the ice, Coach runs us through a light sequence. Zone drills. Puck movement. Nothing heavy, just rhythm, and timing.
I’ve got none of it.
Nate skates up beside me. “Look who’s fancy now,” he says. “Contract’s barely dry, and you’re already missing passes?”
I don’t look at him.
“Still can’t believe they gave you eighty-four mil to stay sexy and score goals. Must be the hair.”
“Not today, guys,” Liam cuts in from the other end of the line. “Let’s focus on the ice.” Calm, but sharp. The warning lives in his tone.
Nate backs off, mutters something about chill pills, but doesn’t push it.
I skate the drills. Breathe through the weight. Fumble a puck again and catch Coach’s eyes flick to me, then away.
Liam shadows me through the entire practice . He’s not hovering, but I can tell he’s letting me know that he’s there and that he knows.
I want to hit the boxing ring. Burn this tension off with gloves and sweat and a target that won’t flinch. But we’ve got Guardians tonight, and Rothschild will have a coronary if I show up bruised.
Thirty minutes pass. Then we’re back in the locker room. Steam, towels, protein shakes. The playlist thumps. Guys are talking lines and ice time, plans for after.
Guardians. Preseason rivalry. Tickets are comped, but the stands will still be packed .
I towel off in silence, peeling my socks off slowly, methodically, pretending my mind isn’t chewing itself raw.
My phone buzzes on the bench, and for a wrenching second, I think it’s her. Not that she’d come fix it. Not that I’d let her, even if she tried.
Aoife: You around?
Aoife: Call me when you can
Aoife: It’s about Dad
I call her right there, tucked in the corner near the cold tub while the guys argue about playlist rights.
She picks up fast. No hello.
“He’s not doing well,” she says quietly. “You should come home soon. If you want to see him.”
My stomach knots. “Is he asking for me?”
A beat.
“No. He barely talks anymore. Just smiles. But...I thought you’d want the chance.”
I close my eyes. “He hasn’t been there in a long time.”
“I know,” she says. “But this version? He’s almost gone.”
The ache deepens. Old and familiar and sharp as ever.
“I’ve got a game tonight,” I say.
“I know,” she answers. “Just...don’t wait too long… You know how fast things can change.”