Page 37 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

SMOKE SIGNALS

JESSICA

T he Hudson Valley is putting on a show today. The trees are blazing in reds and golds, sunlight spilling through the canopy in a steady rhythm. The air carries a faint edge of woodsmoke and apple peel, that brief, perfect window where the world feels crisp but not cold.

I’ve been staying with Sophie and Liam since Monday. Which is a gentle way of saying they’ve staged a soft coup of my autonomy.

They won’t let me go home.

Apparently, crying into a throw blanket and passing out in your sister’s guest bed activates a full-house lockdown. For six straight days, I’ve been under tight surveillance. Sophie’s been timing my bathroom breaks, and Liam’s taken to “accidentally” leaving green smoothies on my nightstand.

They mean well. It’s very loving. Also slightly terrifying.

There’s always someone around. Always a check-in. Always eyes on me, which is wildly uncomfortable and also...kind of nice .

Turns out having people who won’t let you disappear into your own spiral has its perks.

Sophie insists on driving me. Liam drops off a decaf cappuccino and a lecture about protein. I’m basically under house arrest—with decaf coffee.

Especially when the one person I want to hear from has frozen me out like a rejected Netflix password.

Finn texts in corporate-speak. “How are you feeling? Let me know if you need anything.” No emojis.

No flirting. No chaos. Just sterile concern, because now it’s about the baby, not me.

He swings by after Liam, drops off Sweetgreen and electrolyte water, then disappears.

It’s both thoughtful and gutting.

So yeah. Maybe I haven’t pushed to go home because being around Sophie and Liam feels safer than the silence waiting in my home. Or because I’m not sure I’m ready to be alone with my own thoughts, especially the ones that sound suspiciously like you did this, you ruined it, you pushed him away.

The Novak house appears—white clapboard, dark green shutters, a wide porch that wraps around and holds it steady. It’s rooted. Familiar. Safe.

Dad and Adam are deep in a chess game that’s been going since lunch. Neither looks up when we arrive.

“Touching,” Sophie murmurs, cutting the engine. “Father-son bonding meets slow-burn caffeine withdrawal.”

We step out, gravel crunching underfoot. Adam lifts a hand without lifting his eyes. “The sisters grace us with their presence.”

“You’ve been out here since lunch?” Sophie calls.

“Endgame,” Dad mutters.

“We bring dessert and witty conversation. Show some appreciation,” I scoff .

Dad shifts a pawn. “Hi, girls,” he says, still not looking, just enough warmth in it to make something twist behind my ribs.

Before I can reply, the screen door swings open. Mom steps out with a tray of cocktails. Gray-streaked black hair twisted up, barefoot, wrapped in a pale linen tunic over jeans.

“There you are,” she says, voice calm and sure. “I was just about to text.”

“We hit some traffic,” Sophie replies, slipping into a hug.

I stay back for a moment.

Mom centers the space without trying. She always has. Watching her now, grip steady on the tray, gaze sweeping over us with quiet recognition, I feel something shift. Tighten. Crack.

She hands Sophie a glass and then holds one out to me.

I hesitate.

Her eyebrow arches. “I’m good,” I say, stepping back. “Just water for me.”

“Still on that workout kick?” she asks, brushing it away. “Did Dad give you a new routine to try out?”

“Something like that.”

She hums. Says nothing more. Just sets the extra cocktail on the rail.

We settle onto the porch swing—me, Sophie, and Mom all in a row. The air smells like grilled onions from somewhere down the street. A dog barks, kids shout in the distance, and the sunlight slants warm across the floorboards.

On the other end of the porch, Dad and Adam are still locked in a chess battle that’s starting to resemble a cold war standoff.

“Still the same game?” I murmur .

“One piece moved,” Sophie mutters. “It went backward.”

Mom smiles, watching them.

“Titans’ guy’s joining next season,” Dad announces. “Big winger. Quick hands.”

Adam nods. “He’ll be a brick wall with me and Liam.”

“Nope.” Dad slides a knight forward. “Finn’s moving to left wing. You and him on the flanks, Liam down the middle. That first line? Unstoppable. Just need a second line to match the muscle we’ve got now.”

Adam lifts a brow. “Assuming Finn doesn’t implode.”

“Yeah, well, the kid needs to clean up the optics,” Dad mutters. “Wouldn’t kill him to look sponsor-safe.”

“Maybe start with fewer women draped over him outside bars,” Adam adds, bone-dry.

“That’s not fair,” I snap, something fierce rising in my chest. “You all worship at the altar of stats—until it’s him. He’s top-tier on paper, and you still treat him like a liability based on gossip and assumptions.”

Dad’s eyes narrow. “Right. And Finn just happens to be loitering around the third floor more than anyone else on the roster.”

My fists clench. “Maybe because I’m good at my job. Or maybe he’s just not the monster everyone’s made him out to be based on a pile of auntie-level gossip and assumptions that he inherited his dad’s moral compass.”

He doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms and fires off the kill shot.

“What was that on the ice the other day, then? You two skating around like some gold medal pair?” His tone drips contempt. “What’s next, he switching to figure skating now?”

My spine snaps straight. “Wow. Really? That’s where you’re going with this? ”

He presses on. “He had his hands all over you, Jessica. Those weren’t drills.”

“We were skating,” I grind out. “Not hooking up in a supply closet. People do it at Rockefeller Center in front of tourists.”

“Didn’t look innocent to me,” he fires back. “He was lifting you. Hands everywhere.”

My blood spikes. “How the hell do you expect him to lift me without touching me, Dad? Telekinesis?” I hiss. “You think he was copping a feel? It was a skating lift, not a lap dance.”

But if I was honest, that lift—God. My feet weren’t even on the ice, but I’ve never felt more grounded. More claimed. More his. For one perfect moment, I was exactly where I belonged.

I swallow hard and attack. “You’re blowing it out of proportion.”

“I saw what I saw.”

“Right,” I lash out. “Two adults skating. Scandalous. Quick, someone call the virtue brigade.”

“I’m a guy, Jess. I know the moves. You think I didn’t catch the way he was holding you? Like he earned you? “

The words hit like a physical blow. Because yes, he did earn me. Not with charm or swagger, but by showing up every single time I ran. By catching me when it counted. By loving me when I couldn’t love myself.

And I threw it all away. The heat surges—sharp, indignant, impossible to contain. “What now, you gonna ground me?” I bite out, fury and despair curling tight in my chest. “Not allowed to be alone with a boy?”

Dad’s eyes frost over. “Not with that boy. He’s here to score goals. Not my daughter. ”

Sophie chokes on her drink. “Wow. Okay. Can we all please check our calendars and note that it isn’t 1954?”

“Great logic,” I fire back, steamrolling right through Sophie’s sarcasm.

“You know what’s actually infuriating? That I can’t choose anyone.

Not one guy. Because every man I work with treats me like I’ve got a biohazard sticker on my forehead thanks to your big ‘hands-off-my-daughters’ locker room decree.

So forgive me if I’m not thrilled that my romantic prospects are reduced to swiping through finance bros on Tinder. ”

Dad stiffens. “That wasn’t to punish you. It was to protect you. Most of these guys? They’re looking for one thing. They’re not good enough.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, right. And Chad was? Ivy League. Runs Daddy’s firm. Pedigree straight to the Mayflower. That guy was a walking résumé, and rotten to the core.”

“Liam’s good enough,” Sophie squeaks.

Adam lifts his glass. “Yeah, he slipped through, that scoundrel. And from the looks of it…” He cuts a glance my way. “History’s on a loop.”

Dad’s eyes flash. “Not this time.”

I short-circuit. “Your son’s one of those guys, Dad.”

The air snaps tight. Adam’s brows lift, caught between offense and ‘oh shit.’ “Whoa. I’m standing right here, people.”

Mom, calm and surgical, cuts in. “Mark. The table.”

Adam sighs, already rising. “Come on, Dad, it’s time to retreat before Mom cross-examines us under oath.” As he ushers Dad inside, he throws me an exasperated, questioning look.

They disappear into the house, and the silence they leave behind is deafening. I sit there, trembling, dangerously close to complete collapse. I look away, tears pooling in my eyes. Whatever just broke inside me is still echoing.

Mom sets her glass down and reaches across Sophie to brush a strand of hair from my face. Her fingers are cool. She’s done this a thousand times, held the edges of me together before I even realized I was coming apart.

“You want to tell me what that was?” she asks, words soft but cutting.

I don’t mean to shatter. But the sob rips out of me before I can stop it—raw, ugly, the sound of something vital breaking. My chest caves in, and suddenly I can’t breathe around the weight of what I’ve lost.

Sophie shifts beside me, her hand landing on my knee. Mom stands, walks around the swing, and lowers herself onto the other side, so I’m tucked between them. She drapes an arm around my shoulders, steady and warm. I press my palms to my face and let out a jagged laugh. “I fucked it up.”

Mom speaks softly. “Start from the middle, girlie. And skip the PR spin.”

I draw a shaky breath. “I fell for him,” I whisper. “Hard. The charming Southern boy with the easy drawl and all the right moves. No matter how many times I tried to talk myself out of it.”

“She’s right, Mom,” Sophie adds. “That man’s weaponized swagger.”

Mom lets out a soft laugh. “I’ve seen him work a room. Finn O’Reilly could sell ice to a polar bear.”