Page 45 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

THREE MISSED CALLS

JESSICA

I almost left it behind.

Finn’s shirt, still folded on my dresser, soft and worn from Fire Island and too many nights pretending I was fine. It still smells like bonfire and him and the night I let myself believe we could be more.

I told myself I was done.

But I never packed it away. And maybe that’s the truth I’ve been avoiding. I never stopped hoping he’d come back for it.

Now I’m not waiting anymore. I’m going to him.

Three missed calls. No answer. No voicemail. No text. Just silence, loud, aching, and deliberate.

I stare at my phone as the Uber winds through Raleigh’s tree-lined streets. It’s beautiful here—big porches, bigger driveways, houses with histories and secrets layered into every brick.

Finn’s house rises behind iron gates—a Southern colonial wrapped in white trim, history, and more than a little guilt. I clutch the handle of my overnight bag tighter.

“Miss?” the driver says, slowing. “This the place? ”

My stomach flips. “Yeah. This is it.”

I’m barely on the top step when the front door swings open. “Well, well,” comes a voice that could slice steel. “You must be the infamous Jessica Novak. In the flesh.”

A girl in her mid-twenties I recognize from that TikTok—Finn’s sister, Aoife—leans against the doorframe. Her arms are crossed. Her expression is not impressed. She looks like Finn—if Finn had better cheekbones and no patience for bullshit.

“Hi, Aoife,” I say carefully.

She steps back without uncrossing her arms. “You’ve got balls. I’ll give you that. Come in. Mam’s been waiting.”

“Waiting?” I ask, heart suddenly pounding.

Aoife shrugs. “Finn told her about you a few weeks ago. Said there was someone he couldn’t stop thinking about. Didn’t give details, just that it was complicated.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Mom figured grief over Dad wasn’t the only thing pulling him apart. Turns out she was right.”

The words land low. Heavy. True.

The foyer opens around me, grand without being cold. Polished floors, high ceilings, a chandelier that probably predates the internet. But there’s life here, too. A worn pair of sneakers by the door. A plastic dinosaur wedged into the banister. A house that’s grieving, but still breathing.

Two toddlers are flopped on the living room rug, transfixed by Bluey . Goldfish crackers are everywhere.

“Boys,” Aoife calls, “say hi to Miss Jessica.”

One waves without looking away from the TV. The other doesn’t blink.

“Charming,” I mutter.

She smirks. “Give it five minutes. They’ll be asking you to marry Bluey and solve a fight over invisible juice.”

From the kitchen comes the sound of chopping, the clatter of metal, and a low, off-key baritone trying to harmonize with Dolly Parton.

Aoife tilts her head. “That would be Nate. Goalies apparently cook when emotionally stressed.”

I follow her into a kitchen that could feed a football team and still have room for dessert. Nate Russo, all six-foot-four of him, is behind the island in joggers and a Defenders tee, wielding a knife like he’s doing surgery on a pile of celery.

“Little more onion, sweetheart,” comes a voice from behind him. “And stop singin’. You’re scarin’ the roux.”

“My mama taught me this recipe,” Nate replies. “I’m following sacred tradition.”

“Well, your mama’s not here. I am.”

Vivian O’Reilly turns toward me, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She’s got Finn’s eyes—clear, cutting—and the kind of smile that says she already knows how this ends.

“And you must be the woman who’s had my son tied in knots.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I say, voice thinner than I’d like.

She looks me over once, not unkindly. “Well. You’re prettier than I expected.”

That throws me.

“And if I can see it,” she adds, folding the towel, “no wonder he hasn’t been right for weeks.”

“Jess!” Nate grins when he spots me. “About damn time. Though I gotta say, bold move showing up with luggage.”

I glance at my bag. “Too optimistic?”

He shrugs. “If everything goes to hell, I’ll bring it back to New York for you. But trust me, your bag won’t be the thing that hurts.”

I try to laugh. It comes out half choked .

Vivian gestures to the island. “You hungry? Nate’s makin’ his mama’s jambalaya. Which means it’s edible and slightly dramatic.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Sit,” she orders, already reaching for a bowl. “Eat. Then you can go track down my son and see if you’ve still got a place in his life.”

I hesitate, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“He left for the gym around lunchtime,” Nate says, sliding onions into the pot. “My guess? He’s either sparring hard or trying to punch a hole in a heavy bag.”

Aoife leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Didn’t say a word before he left. Just grabbed his gloves and bailed.”

Nate looks up from the stove, meeting my eyes. “About time you showed up, Novak.” His voice is calm, but there’s something behind it, solid and sure. “He’s been stuck in the same holding pattern for weeks. If you’re here to break it, do it now. We fly back to New York tomorrow.”

I slip through the gym’s main door. The smell hits me first—sweat, leather, chalk.

The space pulses with raw energy. Not the sharp, adrenal buzz of the arena, but something heavier—sweat-thick and low-slung.

The air tastes like leather and blood. The sounds—metal against concrete, heavy breaths, distant huffs.

Somewhere, a jump rope slaps the ground in a steady rhythm.

Grunts. Impact. Breathing that borders on growling.

There are four heavy bags lined up near the mirrors, each one getting worked by guys too focused to notice me. Shirts soaked, knuckles wrapped, bodies bent to task. A trainer barks instructions from near the ring, voice low but commanding. No chirping here. No swagger. Just repetition and grind.

Inside the ring, two men circle, boots squeaking against canvas, gloves cocked. Finn and someone bigger. He shouldn’t stand a chance.

But Finn moves like smoke. Hips angled, elbows tucked, weight distributed in a way that says he was built for balance. He pivots fast, launching forward, two quick strikes and a pullback that leaves the other guy swinging at ghosts.

His footwork is vicious—precise and relentless. Every movement answers the one before it. Every dodge sets up the next hit. This isn’t just sparring. This is a man exorcising.

He takes a savage shot to the ribs, hard and clean, but doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break stance. Just absorbs it, resets, and shifts his weight like the pain’s got an appointment and it’s running late.

My fingers twitch at my sides. The instinct to run to him, check the damage, stop the hurt, is as strong as it is useless. He crouches slightly, then straightens. Calm. Composed. A fortress in gloves.

I stand frozen by the doorway, part of me wanting to vanish, the other part already too deep in this to change my mind. The men around the ring glance at me; one nods, another wipes his face with a towel, keeps working the bag. No one tells me to leave.

Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m halfway across the floor and someone with a shaved head and inked arms steps forward, blocking the path to the ring.

“New around here?” His voice is low-lunged and friendly, Southern drawl thick. “Name’s Jace. You here to spar…or just show? ”

He doesn’t break eye contact, just shifts his stance a little, easy and loose, the kind of movement that says he knows he fills out a room without trying. Broad shoulders, sweat-slick chest, tattoos curling up one arm and disappearing under the strap of his tank.

“What’s your name, sugar?”

I don’t answer. My gaze is fixed. In the ring, Finn ducks a jab. Delivers a counter. Footwork tight. Controlled. He’s bleeding something raw out with every punch.

“If I’d known a girl like you was gonna be ringside tonight,” Jace murmurs, leaning in close, “I’d have scheduled myself a whole damn tournament.”

I laugh, a little caught off guard. “That your line?”

He grins, shameless. “Only when it’s true.”

His eyes linger, confident, easy, with that smooth, Southern swagger that goes down like good whiskey.

And I feel it, the intent behind the charm.

The way he shifts closer, the slow, familiar lean men use when they’re not just flirting, they’re lining up a shot.

It’s practiced, sure. The kind of move that probably works on most women.

And it does work on some level. It’s got the right pull, the right heat. Just not the right man.

Because it’s not Finn’s heat. Not his gravity. Not the wildfire that curls under my skin every time he so much as looks at me.

Jace’s charm hums.

Finn’s? Burns.

“I’ve got a post-fight tradition,” he continues undeterred. “Usually involves whiskey, trashy movies, and very little clothing. You interested?”

It’s so ridiculous, I snort. “Does that pitch ever work?”

Jace shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, honesty is hot.”

I’m just about to roll my eyes when I catch it, something off. Not the sound, exactly, too much noise in here for that. It’s a shift. A change in rhythm beneath the clatter of gloves and barked commands.

Movements slow.

Energy pulls.

And then, from deeper in the gym, I see it.

Finn, mid-combination, glove cocked, mouth guard in, just…stops.

His sparring partner pulls back, confused. “Yo, you good?”

But Finn doesn’t respond. He’s staring straight past the ropes. Past the row of heavy bags and sparring mats. Right at us. Right at Jace. His jaw tightens. Shoulders coil. That stillness slices through the chaos like a blade.

Then, from somewhere off to the side, a man’s voice cuts through the din. “Hold. O’Reilly, out.”

Finn taps gloves, steps back, and ducks under the ropes. He moves like a man with purpose. There is tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw ticks. The way he spits the mouth guard.

He tosses a towel over his neck, sweat glistening on his skin. Doesn’t even glance at the others. Just zeros in on us.