Page 43 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

GLADIATORS DON’T CRY

FINN

T he boards vibrate from twenty thousand fans pounding their feet. Shouts. Whistles. The noise bleeds into my bones, hungry and wired. They want a show. We’re here to give it to them.

Coach says it doesn’t count. Just a preseason warm-up. Run the lines. Don’t get injured.

Right. As if gladiators get to play dress-up.

I settle into position—first line, left wing, out of position but not out of place. Adam’s on the right. Liam takes the faceoff. No one speaks.

Across from Liam, Ken from the Titans slides into position with that same smug grin he’s worn since rookie camp. He catches my eye for half a second, then smirks wider. He must sense I’m off balance.

Behind me, Coach barks a single line. “Make it worth it.”

It’s not encouragement. Or trust. It’s a warning, clear, cold, and sharp as a blade.

I don’t owe him anything, but I owe it to myself not to flinch. My teeth clench. Glove flexes. Grip tenses.

He wants a show ?

He’s about to get one.

But then I see her. Not in her usual spot by the tunnel—no headset, no clipboard, no team pin. She’s up near the sponsor’s box.

My sternum tightens like someone wedged a crowbar beneath it and twisted.

I heard her.

I love him.

Finnian O’Reilly is a good man.

She said it to her father, no less. Stood up for me. It should’ve been enough. But something in me slammed shut.

She said it to him. Not to me.

Three weeks of bringing her salads, checking on her, loving her from a distance. And she tells her father she loves me while I’m standing in the hallway like a stranger.

And I still don’t know if she’d stay when it counts. Locking her out hurts less than handing her the match.

I pack it down—grief, want, the ghost of her touch—and lace it under my skates.

The puck drops. Ken gets a stick on it, but Liam beats him by half a second, sweeping it back clean to Dmitri.

Dmitri doesn’t waste time. He pivots on a dime and fires a pass up the boards so fast it sings. Adam picks it up in stride and bolts up the wing.

I cut hard across the zone to the left—unnatural still, but manageable. Haven’t run left wing for a few years. Everything’s mirrored, timing’s tighter, space closes faster.

But the moment the puck hits my tape? It clicks.

Blake from the Titans steps into my lane—too slow. I burn past him.

“Little off your game, O’Reilly?” Ken chirps from the right, already catching up .

“Still behind me, aren’t you?”

I drop the puck to Liam at the blue line and loop wide. Dmitri glides in behind, eyes scanning like a sniper. He taps his stick once, a silent read of the coverage.

Liam snaps the puck cross-ice to Adam, who doesn’t even look. He just taps it forward, blind and confident.

Right onto my blade. I take it mid-stride. Go high glove.

The net ripples and the crowd explodes.

I don’t celebrate. Just turn and skate back toward the bench, heart pounding, stick gripped tight.

Liam coasts beside me, bumping gloves once. “Nice shot.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

His look says otherwise, that he knows exactly what I’m bleeding under all that control. But he lets it go.

The next shift is heavier. Slower. My legs are burning now, lungs dragging heat. But I stay on.

The second period’s halfway gone when I hear him.

TJ McGinty. Titans’ second-line winger.

Five-foot-nothing and powered entirely by spite.

He lines up across from me on a draw, mouth already moving. “Nice goal earlier,” he says, tone syrupy. “Daddy would’ve been proud. You know, before he started screwing over half the junior league kids he coached.”

The ref hasn’t dropped the puck yet. My knuckles clench my stick. McGinty leans in. Low. Just for me. “Whole damn league’s still talking. Took their money. Fucked their futures. You’re not him though, right? Just the guy who hides behind his name while everyone forgets what he really was.”

My chest knots, hard and sudden. There it is, the poison I knew would find me eventually. The thing I thought I could outrun, outscore, out-bleed. He says it now, but I’ve heard it before. In stares. In whispers. In contracts that never made it to the table.

And for a second—just one second—I wonder if Jessica ever thought it too. If that’s why she kept the pregnancy secret. If she was waiting to see if I’d turn out like him.

If it crossed her mind when she was staring at that test, alone. But I shake it off. She told her father I’m a good man. Said she loves me.

And still…she didn’t tell me. Not until it was too late.

The puck drops.

I explode off the line, shoulder past McGinty like he’s made of smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t answer his chirps. Just get through the next shift.

The play flips. Titans rush. Their center makes a cross-zone pass. McGinty catches it—barely—just as he crosses the blue line. Bad angle. Bad decision. Because I’m already there.

I don’t go high. Don’t go late. I just drive through him. Hip-to-hip. Textbook. But full force.

McGinty goes airborne, then hits the ice flat. The boards rattle. The crowd roars.

I skate on. No chirp. No smirk. No penalty. Just the metallic tang of blood and the sharp scrape of air I can’t seem to pull in clean.

Liam’s stick clacks behind me as he scoops the puck. “You good?”

“Perfect.”

But I’m not. Because the thing McGinty said, it’s still in my bones.

He doesn’t come back. Trainers pull him.

But Ken does. He cuts in fast on the boards during a dump-and-chase. Nothing dirty, just a little extra on the shoulder .

Then Dmitri’s there. Silent. Patient. Dangerous. He doesn’t throw a hit. Doesn’t even get in Ken’s way. He just leans in, murmurs something cold and low. No eye contact. No drama.

Just a line, drawn so sharp it doesn’t need to be repeated. Ken’s grin falters. He skates off on the next rotation, jaw tight. I don’t know what Dmitri said. But I know exactly what it meant.

Don’t fuck with the fire when you’re not the one burning.

The final whistle blows. The horn slices through the air like a blade—sharp, cold, final.

Titans take it, 3–2. Tight game. Too tight.

Sweat drips down my spine as I skate off, lungs still burning from a last-minute breakaway that didn’t convert.

I didn’t see her after second period. Didn’t look. But somehow, I felt it when she left. Like a thread pulled tight, then cut.

Dmitri peels off his gloves as he hits the tunnel, helmet swinging from one hand. No smile, no sulk, just the usual heavy silence of a man who’s played too many games to waste emotion on one loss.

I hang back, trailing the line. Let the noise fade. Let the crowd chant themselves out while I follow the edge of the boards, stick dangling loose from my hand.

Behind me, someone mutters, “Could’ve had ’em if O’Reilly hit that wraparound.”

I don’t turn. Let ’em talk.

In the locker room, the lights are too bright. Too white.

“Nice screen on that second goal,” Adam says, toweling off his hair. “What were you doing, auditioning for Phantom of the Opera or just ghosting the puck again?”

“Only trying to keep up with your defense,” Liam fires back, grinning.

I strip in silence. Helmet. Gloves. Jersey. Pads.

Each move methodical, mechanical. Like muscle memory’s doing the work because I’m too damn hollow.

Across the room, Nate Russo slides off his chest protector and drops it with a heavy thunk. “Next time, you all wanna let them live in the crease, maybe I charge rent.”

It’s dry, gruff. Classic Nate. No venom. Just a reminder he was there. Holding the line.

“Tell that to our second line,” Dmitri says, deadpan.

“Tell that to my therapist,” Nate mutters.

Liam lowers onto the bench next to me, voice quieter now. “You good?”

“Fine.”

“Didn’t look like it out there.”

I glance over, jaw set. “We lost by one.”

“You lit McGinty up like he kicked your dog.”

“He had it coming.”

Liam doesn’t argue. Just nods once. “Yeah. He did.”

Dmitri tosses me a towel from across the room. “Hope your head’s cleaner than your jersey.”

A few guys laugh. I force a thin smile. Can’t tell if I’m still bleeding or just empty.

The door opens with a hiss and click.

Coach steps in. No shouting. No clipboard toss. Just his usual—arms folded, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the room like he’s cataloging damage.

“Not our best,” he says. “But not soft either.”

He scans the line. His gaze lands on me. Lingers.

“Hard hit, O’Reilly.” Not praise. Not condemnation. Just a fact. Then he nods once, tight and unreadable. “We clean it up Monday. Media’s waiting.”

And he’s gone.

The speaker kicks on, something with too much bass and too little soul. It fills the space I didn’t know I needed to sit in.

I press the towel to my neck and stare at the floor. Because if I look up, I’ll scan for her again.

And I’m tired of looking for people who leave.

The media room hums with reporters and equipment. I tell myself not to scan for Jessica. Doesn’t work.

She’s not up front. No headset. No clipboard. Not waiting to wave me off or give me a look that says don’t take the bait. My stomach clenches.

Then I spot her—back left corner, half-hidden behind the doorframe. But someone else is running the show tonight.

There’s a girl in front of her. Mid-twenties. Neat ponytail. Blazer one size too stiff. She gives Coach and me the signal. Walk up, sit down. You can feel she’s new.

I don’t make eye contact with Jessica. But I feel her presence like a static charge in the room. She’s standing there like she doesn’t belong. Like she’s already halfway out the door.

Coach takes the seat beside me. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t even glance in her direction. The first question fires before we’re even fully seated.

“Coach Novak, bit of a shakeup tonight with O’Reilly on first line left wing. Was that experimental, or are we looking at a more permanent role shift? ”

Coach’s mouth tightens. “We’re trying combinations. I wanted to see him left side, play off Ken Edwards tonight. It’s preseason. That’s what it’s for.”

“Finn, how’d it feel?”

A different reporter. Younger. Thirsty. I grip the mic. “Fast. Tight. Could’ve executed cleaner in the third, but rhythm was good.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the new girl shift. She’s not looking at me; she’s flipping through cue cards. Jessica taught her that. But her hand jitters when someone shouts from the back?—

“Can you walk us through the hit on McGinty?”

Coach cuts in before I can open my mouth. “It was clean. You’ve got the footage. Next question.”

He doesn’t look at me. But that was protection.

“Finn,” someone else chimes in, “you seemed a little off tonight. Head not fully in it?”

The question hangs.

Jessica shifts.

My hands tighten under the table, but I keep my voice even. “Game was close. We wanted the win. Didn’t get it. Happens.”

A few chuckles. A pen scribbles.

Beside me, Coach exhales slowly. “We’ve got one more preseason game before we lock the roster. We’re working on chemistry. That’s all I’ll say.”

The press girl gives the wrap-it-up signal. Not Jessica’s sharp, subtle nod. This one’s too eager, too fast. Doesn’t land the way it’s supposed to.

We rise. Mics cut.

I look at Coach. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

I glance toward the door. She’s still standing there. But she’s already gone; the distance in her eyes says it all .

For a second, her eyes catch mine, pulling me in like gravity. And I almost slip. Almost forget why it’s a bad idea.

But this? It’s the reminder I needed. Stay locked in. Stay sharp.

She’s finally doing what she always talked about. Taking the plunge. And I’m proud of her. But that doesn’t mean I’m stepping into the fire again.

The reporters gather their gear. Cameras power down. Chairs scrape.

Everyone starts filing out, voices low, already shifting to next week’s narratives.

I uncap my water bottle. Take a long pull, the cold hitting my chest.

She looks at me like she’s ready to say something that’ll change everything. And I look away. Because I’m not sure I can take it if she does.

I focus on the bottle. The floor. The door. Anything but her.

But this isn’t focus. It’s survival in a suit and a too-tight collar.

The press room doors click shut behind me. The suit jacket is stiff on my shoulders, the collar scratchy against the back of my neck. I tug the top button loose and exhale.

It’s quieter out here, just the hum of overhead fluorescents and the tail end of some intern’s laughter trailing down the hall. Everyone’s moving on. Resetting storylines.

And so should I.

Then my phone buzzes. Aoife. My stomach drops before I even swipe to answer.

“Finn?” Her voice is tight, like she’s been holding it together for hours and is letting go only now.

I brace one hand on the wall, the cool plaster grounding me. “Yeah. I’m here. ”

She doesn’t make me wait. “He’s gone,” she says, words breaking. “About an hour ago. He said your name at the end, Finn. He was waiting for you.”

I close my eyes and try to let it land. We knew it was coming. It still hits like a gut punch.

“Okay,” I say, even though none of this is okay. “Tell Mama I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“For a few minutes, he was…clearer than he’s been in months,” she adds softly.

I grip the phone tighter. “He said he was sorry. That he never meant to drag you down with him.” A pause.

Her voice breaks. “He said he was proud of you. Of what you built. That you’re a better man than he ever was.

” Another breath. “He said that one day you’ll be a better father too. That you’ve already broken the cycle.”

My voice snags on grief I haven’t earned the right to speak.

“He asked if you were playing tonight. Said he hoped you won.”

I nod but can’t speak around the pressure climbing up my spine. She can’t see it, but I know she hears it.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends.

The hallway’s too bright now. Too sharp. And then I hear the footsteps.

Light. Familiar. Hesitant.

“Finn?”

Jessica’s words cut through the fog.

I turn. Something shifts in her face the moment she sees mine.

“What happened?” she asks, stepping closer, brushing her hand against mine. Warm. Steady. It takes everything in me not to fold into her .

I swallow hard. “My father died.”

A beat. Her breath catches like it’s been punched from her lungs. She pulls away.

“When?”

“About an hour ago. At the hospital.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice breaks.

I nod. I don’t trust myself to say anything more.

“I’ll come with you,” she says without hesitation. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

I shake my head. “I’ll ask Nate. We don’t have another game for a week.”

The offer breaks something in me. A month ago, I would’ve said yes. Would’ve needed her there. Now I can’t tell if it’s love or guilt driving her.

She hesitates like she wants to say more.

I rub the back of my neck. And for a second, I almost reach for her. But I don’t.

Instead, I walk away.