Page 48 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

SUNDAY DINNER

JESSICA

T he white clapboard colonial rises behind the row of turning maples, just the way it always has—green shutters, wraparound porch, light flickering on it as we pull into the drive. But the knot in my stomach is new.

Finn’s hand rests warm and steady on my thigh. We haven’t spoken since we left his house, and we don’t need to. I’m wound tight. He’s coiled calm. We balance.

As we step out of the car, the front door swings open.

“There you are!” My mom greets us, tall, poised, dressed in a soft gray cashmere sweater and tailored dark jeans, hair swept into a low twist.

Then her gaze lands on Finn, and something wicked flashes in her smile. “So this is the man who made my daughter quit her job and glow like she’s fresh off a yoga retreat.”

Finn straightens but doesn’t flinch. “Ma’am,” he says smoothly, offering a bouquet we picked up on the way. “For the hostess. ”

She takes it with a pleased little hum. “Thoughtful and tall. My, my.”

We kick off our shoes in the entryway, laughter still lingering from something Finn whispered on the drive over. From the front room, sharp words cut through in Mandarin: “Tell him to take off his shoes! No street outside in the house!”

Wai Po. Of course.

“She’s already judging you,” I murmur.

Finn just grins. “Good. Means I got a shot to win her over.”

“She doesn’t impress easy.”

He leans in, tone low. “That’s all right, darlin’. As you well know, I’ve got range.”

We step into the living room where Wai Po sits like a queen in her wingback chair, perfectly composed in a slate-blue blouse and dark slacks, her silver-streaked hair twisted into a sleek clip.

One hand wraps around a porcelain teacup.

A stack of bamboo steamers rests on the console beside her, still warm under a folded cloth napkin.

Her expression says she’s already dissecting Finn’s soul.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just sips her tea, sets it down gently, and tilts her head.

“So,” she says in Mandarin, calm but pointed. “This is the one who wouldn’t give up.”

Finn doesn’t catch the words, but the tone makes his posture shift, shoulders squared, voice smooth as silk.

“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” he says with an easy smile. “I’ve heard you’re the real boss of this family.”

Wai Po narrows her eyes. Not disapproving, just measuring.

Mom appears behind us with a tray of glasses, glancing Finn’s way as she passes. “She says she understands now why it was impossible to resist you.”

Finn chuckles. “That’s high praise. I’ll try to stay worthy.”

Wai Po lifts her teacup again. “Smart boy.”

Mom sets the tray down and shakes her head. “Careful, Mama. He’s got all the girls wrapped around his finger. Don’t be next.”

“He’s working on it,” I mutter.

Wai Po stands slowly, still graceful, and waves a hand toward the dining room. “I want him seated next to me. So I can monitor his aura after the chicken.”

Finn offers his arm, playful. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“You will,” she says dryly. “We all do.”

He laughs, and so does she, just barely.

We stop in the kitchen, where Sophie is helping Mom plate food while Liam uncorks mineral water and passes a bottle to Adam, who’s just come downstairs in a black tee and joggers, hair still damp.

“Jesus, O’Reilly,” Adam says, eyeing Finn. “You sure you’re not here for a job interview? You brought flowers.”

“Raised right,” Finn replies, accepting the water.

The dining room is already set, soft autumn light slipping through the tall windows, bowls of roasted vegetables, ginger-soy chicken, herb rice, and perfectly cubed sweet potatoes. The table is warm, inviting, and suspiciously macro-balanced.

“Everything’s clean protein, smart carbs, and plenty of greens,” Mom says, setting down the salad. “And I made extra for the pregnant one at the table.”

She gives me a look that’s part maternal warmth, part tactical reinforcement, and I almost tear up over a platter of bok choy .

Sophie slides into a seat next to Liam, their hands laced under the table like they’re still hiding from Dad. Adam drops into the chair across from me and grabs a breadstick like he’s been fasting all day.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“Still in the shower,” Adam replies. “We went for a few sprints earlier. He’s probably stress-shampooing.”

Wai Po takes her seat next to Finn and reaches for a rice ball. She gives him a sideways glance.

“You look less nervous than I expected.”

Finn smiles easily. “First period’s always for reading the ice.”

She hums in approval, a smirk dancing on her face.

And just as her teacup clinks gently back into its saucer, I hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Familiar. Steady. I straighten automatically.

Dad appears in the doorway. Button-down shirt.

Clean shave. That expressionless, stone-silent face he wears behind the bench, the one I used to mistake for strength.

Now it just looks like armor. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I blew up on him and quit the Defenders.

And now I’m here, in his house, with Finn beside me, a baby bump under my dress, and not a single apology in sight.

He steps into the dining room, eyes sweeping the table. He takes us both in—me, Finn, the swell of my belly. No flare of anger. No smile, either. Just a long, slow scan.

“You came,” he says to me. His words aren’t warm. But they are not cold either. Just heavy with everything unspoken.

I nod once. “It’s Sunday.”

His gaze shifts to Finn, reading him like he’s a first-year on the wrong side of morning skate .

Finn doesn’t blink. “Sir.”

Another moment of silence. Then, finally, “You clean up okay, O’Reilly.”

Finn almost grins. “You too, Coach.”

That earns him a snort, maybe even the ghost of approval, before Dad drops his gaze to the table like he’s just remembered food exists.

“Let’s eat,” he says.

And we do, carefully. Everyone moves with that cautious, too-polite energy that makes forks clink a little too precisely against plates.

Liam asks about the next road trip. Finn mentions the homestand.

Adam complains about morning conditioning being designed by sadists.

Mom passes platters and refills water with clinical efficiency.

There’s no wine. No beer. Not with three players deep in season. And not with me…in my current state.

I eye the sparkling water and mutter, “God, I could use a strong shot of something.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. I give him a look. “Relax. I’m pregnant. Not reckless.”

That earns the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But not nothing.

Dinner eventually finds its rhythm. The food is flawless. Clean fuel. Season approved.

Finn tries to be discreet going back for seconds. He fails spectacularly.

“Boy eats,” Wai Po mutters, spooning more potatoes onto her plate. “Strong babies need strong fathers.”

Sophie grins. “If they’re anything like Jess, they’re already running strategy meetings in the womb.”

Finn nudges my foot under the table, and I bite back a smile .

Adam raises his glass. “To the bold, the stubborn, and the ones who never take the easy path. Cheers to the Novak legacy.”

Even Liam snorts.

The laughter fades naturally, and then my father clears his throat. The whole table stills.

“Finn,” he says.

Finn sets his fork down. Dad studies him for a long beat. “Still think dating your coach’s daughter was a dumb move.”

Finn doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. But she’s the one. And I didn’t have a choice.”

Dad exhales, not quite a sigh. “If she chose you…” His gaze flicks to me. “Then I can live with dumb.”

Finn nods. “Appreciate that, sir.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Liam blurts, gesturing wildly. “He gets a one-liner? I had to run suicides until I couldn’t feel my legs!”

Coach turns slowly. “You were hiding it. And Sophie’s younger. Needed to vet you harder.”

Liam gapes. “So I got punished for discretion?”

Coach shrugs. “Timing. And we made the cup last year, did we?”

Liam huffs but doesn’t argue. Adam raises his glass again. “Welcome to the table, man.”

Finn lifts his water in return, and Dad grunts. “My whole damn locker room’s in my dining room. We’ll need a new table.”

Finn leans toward me. “You promised pot roast and medieval torture. I got chicken and emotional ambush. Bit of a bait-and-switch.”

Before I can reply, Mom chimes in. “Pot roast doesn’t meet your macros, sweetheart. Win the Cup again, and I’ll feed you like a retired man. ”

Finn raises a brow. “That a challenge?”

She smirks. “It’s extra motivation.”

Laughter ripples around the table, soft and real. And for the first time in weeks, something in my chest loosens.

Then, “Jessica.”

Dad’s voice cuts through gently.

I turn to him.

“I was wrong,” he says. “About how I handled things. About trying to protect you from something you never needed protecting from.” My throat tightens.

“I didn’t see what you were building. But your mother’s been telling me.

And now I do.” He pauses. “Landing the Morrison Group account in your first month? That takes guts. And talent.” Silence. “I’m proud of you.”

I nod once. “Thanks.”

But he’s not done. He briefly looks to my stomach.

“This isn’t how I pictured it for you. No ceremony, no announcements, no neat timeline. But life’s messy.” A pause. “And these babies,” his words soften just slightly, “they’re still a blessing. No matter how they got here.”

Wai Po raises her eyebrows. “As if you did it differently?”

Dad snorts. Mom doesn’t even looking up from her plate, but a knowing smile appears on her face.

Finn leans toward me, confused. “Wait, what are we talking about?”

I stab a piece of bok choy and mutter, “Nothing. I’ll explain later.”

Finn slides his hand under the table, finding mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow, steady, grounding.

I glance at him, and he gives me that look, the one that says we made it . And for the first time in a long time, I believe it .

The house hums around us with laughter rolling from one end of the table to the other. My family. My future. My beautiful chaos and quiet calm.

It’s not perfect.

But it’s real.

And it’s ours.