Page 44 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

AFTERSHOCKS

FINN

I ’m loading the dishwasher with cold toast crusts and smeared peanut butter plates while trying not to hear the groan of coffin ropes still echoing in my skull.

Mam’s upstairs. Said she needed to lie down and took the tissue box with her.

Aoife’s pacing barefoot, towel slung over one shoulder, hair wet, face worn. She’s slicing PB&Js into triangles with surgical precision, chucking crusts in the trash like they personally wronged her.

Nate’s perched on a stool at the counter, cradling a mug of tea between both palms like it’s whiskey he’s trying to will into being. Six-foot-four of coiled power in a hoodie and joggers, posture loose but alert, like he’s tracking the puck even now.

One of the boys—maybe Cian, maybe Brody—stumbles up with a dinosaur in both fists and smacks it against Nate’s leg.

“You be monster.”

Nate raises an eyebrow and leans down to the kid’s level, tone smooth. “Do I get to smash stuff? ”

The kid nods solemnly. “But not Mam’s cup. That one’s special.”

“Copy that.” Nate grins, then lets out a ridiculous low growl that rumbles from his chest.

The kid squeals and bolts. Mission accomplished.

The other twin pokes his head out from under the table, cheeks streaked with grape jelly, curls sticking in every direction. His gaze zeros in on Nate.

“You go to timeout now.”

Nate blinks. “Wait—me?”

“You’re the monster. Timeout forever.”

“I was a dinosaur five minutes ago,” Nate says, deadpan. “I’m getting some seriously mixed signals here.”

“No talking back.” The kid climbs to his feet like a man on a mission, pointing toward the living room with all the gravitas of a three-year-old dictator.

“Couch jail. Now.”

The second twin scrambles up in support, already tugging on Nate’s hoodie sleeve. “We builded it special. With pillows. You will fit.”

Nate glances at me like he’s been issued a bench minor and wants to appeal.

I just shrug. “Welcome to the justice system.”

“You guys better have good legal representation,” he mutters, but he’s already letting them haul him off, his long limbs exaggerated as he lumbers after them on all fours like some great beast pretending not to be housebroken.

“Uncle Nate stomped the giraffe!” one of them announces with dramatic flair.

“I absolutely did not,” Nate calls out, playful and resigned, his words fading into the next room. “I was framed. Monsters always get a raw deal. ”

“Monsters always say that,” comes the reply, muffled by couch cushions.

Aoife snorts into the cutting board. “They’ve got him good.”

“Better than what their father gave them,” she adds a moment later, quieter now, not looking up.

I glance over. Her grip is steady, her jaw tight. She’s slicing the last sandwich into perfect halves.

“Are they asking questions about him?” I ask, soft.

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

I nod.

From the living room: “Is this even OSHA compliant?” Nate asks dryly, his words muffled through a wall of couch pillows.

“Stop moving,” one of the boys orders. “You gonna wreck it!”

More laughter. The good kind. The kind this house hasn’t heard in a while.

One of the twins breaks away from the couch pillow prison setup, feet slapping across the floor in a sticky, half-socked gallop. His curls are plastered to his forehead, and there’s grape jelly on his chin like war paint.

He barrels toward me, fists clutching a crumpled piece of printer paper. “I made for you,” he announces.

I dry my hands and crouch down as he slaps it into my palm. It’s a stick figure with arms the size of telephone poles. One of them is holding a lopsided hockey stick. The other has a heart scribbled over it in orange marker.

“That’s you,” he says proudly. “You got the strong arms.”

I stare at the drawing. The lines are wild and uneven, the way only a kid could make. The smile takes up half the face. The heart on the chest is bigger than the head .

A breath catches in my throat, unsteady and unexpected.

“Thanks, buddy,” I say, trying to smile. My voice comes out tight. “It’s perfect.”

He beams, then runs off yelling something about rocket feet. I stare at that crooked heart and think about Jessica carrying my child. A tiny human who might draw me pictures someday. Who might think I’m worth believing in.

If I don’t screw this up the way my father did.

I’m still holding the paper when Aoife walks past with a stack of clean plates. She pauses just long enough to glance at the drawing.

“They think you’re a superhero,” she says, voice flat. “You should probably try living up to it.”

Then she moves on, leaving me there in the middle of the kitchen, heart suddenly heavier than it’s been all day.

I glance down again. That crooked heart. The joy in the chaos. No doubt in his tiny, sugar-hyped mind that I’m someone worth drawing.

And all I can think is, my dad never hung anything on the fridge.

I remember handing him a certificate in fifth grade— Most Improved in Math . He nodded once, set it on the table, and never mentioned it again.

I remember the time I got benched and still suited up in full gear to sit with the team. He told me it was a waste of clean laundry.

The praise came only when I scored. The love only showed when I won.

This kid doesn’t care if I win. He just wanted me to have arms big enough to hold him. And I want to be the kind of man that kid sees.

Even if I don’t know how .

The house settles into a strange kind of calm. The boys are sprawled on the living room rug under a tangle of couch cushions and sandwich crumbs. Aoife’s disappeared upstairs with a laundry basket and don’t-follow-me energy.

Nate slides back onto the stool next to me, fresh cup of tea in hand. He takes a slow sip, then props one arm on the counter, all loose limbs and quiet watchfulness. I don’t say anything. Neither does he. Then, softly:

“You gonna talk about it?”

I don’t look at him. “About what?”

“You pick.” He sets his mug down gently. “Your dad. The funeral. Or the fact that you’ve been sleepwalking through your own life for the past three weeks.”

My jaw tics.

He doesn’t press. Just lets the silence stretch until it feels like something I have to fill.

“I’m showing up for her,” I say finally.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“I bring her lunch. I check in. I make sure she’s okay.”

“You do,” Nate agrees. “You’re just not really…in the room when you do it.”

I stare down at my palms. “What else am I supposed to do?”

Nate leans in, elbows on the counter. “You tell me, man. Because from where I’m sitting? She’s wrecked. You’re wrecked. And nobody’s saying a damn thing.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “She didn’t tell me.”

“I know.”

“She let me keep showing up like nothing changed. Like I was some dumbass she could just pat on the head and lie to with a smile.”

“She panicked. ”

“She lied .”

That comes out harder than I mean it to. But Nate doesn’t flinch.

“I loved her,” I add, low. “Jesus, I still do. But she made a decision, and now I have to live with it.”

He studies me for a second. “You think she did it to hurt you?”

“No,” I say. “I think she did it because she didn’t trust me.”

That hangs between us. Heavy. “I’m not saying you have to forgive her,” Nate says softly. “But you should figure out if you’re going to hate her for not being perfect, or if you’re just scared of what happens if she hands you the pieces and asks you to stay.”

Standing up, he pats me on the shoulder and heads to the guest room. “I’m gonna do as the boys do,” he says, nodding at the twins passed out in the cushions. “Nap time for this big guy.”

After he leaves, the house falls silent. That afternoon lull where even chaos takes a breath. I rinse out the last mug, dry my hands, and step into the hallway, needing a minute.

Passing the old coat rack by the stairs, I spot Dad’s Hurricanes cap. The salt stained one with the faded brim. Still hanging in its usual spot. Mam never threw it out, even when he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone his glory days.

I walk to the mantel. Half the surface is still cluttered with sympathy cards, votive candles, a framed photo from Aoife and me.

One corner of the frame is chipped. I lift it anyway.

It’s the photo from my first junior league press day—seventeen years old, baby-faced, grinning like mad and wearing my new team’s jacket.

Patrick O’Reilly stands beside me, one hand on my shoulder, the other in a pocket, all polished confidence and teeth. He looked so proud.

The scandal hadn’t broken yet. That came later. Quietly, then loudly. Whispers in the hallway. Journalists in the driveway. Sponsors who stopped calling. Coaches who suddenly stopped using my name in interviews.

I flip the frame over. The cheap cardboard backing peels a little at the corner. Inside, tucked behind the photo, I find it—a folded scrap of paper I forgot was there.

My first draft ranking. His handwriting on the bottom, slanted and bold:

Seventeenth. First to me.

I stare at the words.

That was before the nonprofit. Before the money vanished and the lawsuits followed. Before he stopped looking me in the eye. Before the tumor rewrote what little was left of him.

We never talked about it. Not the shame. Not the fallout. Not the damage it did to both our names.

He never said he was sorry. But then, just before he died, Aoife said he did. That he remembered. That he was proud of me. That I’d already broken the cycle.

The photo trembles in my grip. I breathe through it. Slow. Tight.

I don’t know if I believe it. But I want to.

I set the photo back down, a little more centered this time. Then I turn off the light.

I step out onto the back deck, the late afternoon sun low and soft across the grass. The air smells like dish soap and cut crusts.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Jessica. Missed call .

No voicemail this time. Just the red bubble blinking at me, waiting.

It’s the third one today.

Three missed calls. Each one a question I’m not ready to answer. Each ring another chance to choose fear or faith.

I know what the old Finn would do. The one who hunted her for months. But that man believed she’d choose him back.

This Finn isn’t sure she ever will.

My thumb hovers. I don’t write a text. I don’t call back. Not because I don’t want to.

Because I do.

That’s the worst part.

Because if I listen now, I’ll hear it in her voice. The crack. The regret. The part of her that still believes in us.

I let the screen go dark and slide the phone back into my pocket. She made a choice.

Now it’s my turn.