Page 8 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

MEDIA FRENZ

FINN

T he Defenders complex smells like fresh paint, new gear, and testosterone.

We’re in the third-floor media suite, transformed into a professional-grade PR circus. Cameras line every wall, backdrops display sponsor logos, and spotlights rig the space to fry your retinas. Through it all, Jessica Novak paces like a five-star general preparing to wage war on bad soundbites.

I adjust the collar of the sleek black Defenders quarter-zip they make us wear for media day. Logo sharp across the chest, number seventeen stamped on the back, media smile locked and loaded.

I miss the hoodie I lived in all summer.

The calluses on my knuckles from too many hours in the boxing gym with the guys who call me Golden Boy trying to piss me off.

Afternoons with my sister, letting her twins climb all over me like I’m their personal jungle gym.

Long runs. Late-night diner stops. No cameras, no pressure.

Nothing but sweat, noise, and people who don’t give a shit about my stats .

“You’re up after Cain,” an intern says, clipboard in hand, avoiding eye contact like I might bark.

Wesley’s in front of the cameras now, shoulders too tight, stance all wrong. He blinks into the lights like someone dragged him straight off a frozen lake and dropped him into a studio.

Jessica slides into frame beside the camera and crouches down to talk to him, voice low, words cutting but gentle.

“You’re not on trial,” she says. “You’re telling a story. Be the guy your teammates already believe in.”

Wes breathes in. Nods. And when he answers the next question, his voice steadies.

She’s good. Scary good.

And I watch her work because knowing every angle of her is how I make this girl mine. Timing is everything. I’ll make my move when it matters.

One corner of the suite has a setup for one-on-one video interviews, another has a row of mics for press Q&As. There’s a social media station where a new comms hire is trying to get TikToks of 200-pound athletes doing trend dances.

Good luck with that.

Across the room, I spot Nate giving a toothy grin to a lifestyle reporter, Dmitri refusing to smile as he poses for a sponsor shoot, and Adam Novak—TikTok’s unexpected darling—deep in conversation with one of the stylists about whether or not his jawline counts as its own brand.

Another one quizzes him about his summer workout routine.

Apparently, viewers can’t get enough of him stretching on the ice.

Stretching.

Welcome to the algorithm.

But it’s Jessica Novak that owns the room.

Slate-gray dress, heels that command attention, iPad doubling as clipboard clutched in manicured hands.

She’s moving fast, delegating, coordinating, pointing out branding placements, correcting a lighting angle with a flick of her fingers.

Her hair’s swept back in a clean, sharp ponytail that makes her cheekbones look even deadlier than usual.

She doesn’t see me yet. But I see everything about her.

The curve of her waist. The way her calves flex with each step. That expression on her face—fierce, commanding, daring the universe to get in her way.

God, she’s devastating when she’s in command. Confident. Untouchable. Completely in charge.

But I’ve seen the other side of her too—the one that let go. That let me claim her. The way she melted when I took control. Trusted me with every gasp, every inch of skin, every shudder that said more , please, don’t stop .

She owns this room right now. But I know how it feels when she’s pinned underneath me. And yeah, I’d trade every contract offer, every spotlight, every damn thing just to feel that again.

A few feet away, I hear Dmitri mutter to Nate, “There she is. The Executioner returns.”

“Think she’ll let us live if we behave?” Nate replies.

“She might spare you. But I’m already a dead man walking,” I cut in, approaching them, my eyes never leaving her.

Jessica glances over just then, eyes sweeping the room like radar until they lock onto mine. For one heartbeat, something flickers between us—raw, electric, dangerous. Then she lifts one brow with the tiniest curve of her mouth, cool and controlled as winter steel.

Game on.

Wesley finishes his interview and practically bolts from the camera. I clap a hand to his shoulder as I pass. “Not bad, Alaska. You only sounded like you were being held hostage once.”

He grins, flushed. “I’ll get better.”

“You will,” I say, meaning it.

Then it’s my turn. The lights hit. The reporter’s prettier than she needs to be, all polished smiles and practiced tilt-of-the-head. But I’m not looking at her.

Not really.

Because six feet behind the camera, jaw tight enough to crack glass, stands Jessica Novak.

“So, Finn,” the reporter starts, lips glossy, voice sweet as syrup, “what’s your mindset heading into the new season?”

“I’m focused,” I say, letting the words roll smoothly. “Ready to win—on the ice and off.”

It’s safe, clean, team-friendly. Exactly what Jessica would approve of. But when I glance her way, she doesn’t even blink.

The reporter smiles. “Off the ice, what keeps you grounded?”

I tilt my head slightly. Let my voice drop a notch, low and slow, like whiskey in a glass.

“A good story. Strong espresso. A pretty face who knows how to keep me in check.”

Her brow lifts, amused. “That sounds suspiciously specific.”

I glance past the camera. Right at Jessica. Cool stare. iPad clenched. Not impressed.

I wink.

“Does this pretty face have a name?” the reporter asks, leaning in, heat chasing her voice.

“If she does,” I say, keeping my tone soft, measured, laced with warning, “she’d kill me for saying it out loud.”

A beat. Jessica’s lips press tight .

I smile. Enough to provoke.

“But let’s just say…she’s unforgettable.”

There it is—the flicker. A barely-there breath, a twitch at her jaw.

And then I twist the knife.

“Especially in red.”

The words hit their mark exactly as intended. Jessica moves fast, silent, surgical, lethal. She steps into frame, smoke in heels, camera-ready, voice PR-smooth.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, cool as ice. “Just a reminder that sponsor-facing content should stay focused on team messaging.”

Translation: shut your mouth, O’Reilly.

The reporter laughs, flustered. “Of course. One more before we wrap?”

Jessica nods, already walking away.

Then comes the hook. “There’s been a lot of buzz about your contract situation. Can fans expect to see you in a Defenders jersey this season?”

I hold the smile. Even as I watch Jessica freeze just outside the edge of the frame.

“I’ve always said, I play where the game feels right. Where I can win. Where I can build something real. That hasn’t changed.” Diplomatic, but sharp enough.

“And the rumors about teams in the south making a push?”

I slowly chuckle. “There’s always talk. Offers come in. But nothing’s signed.” Pause. “Yet.”

Jessica doesn’t look back. But I can feel the heat rolling off her. The reporter, wisely, moves on. And I stay smiling. Because that? That was for her.

Two minutes later, just like I knew she would, Jessica’s hand closes around my arm—cool fingers, firm grip, thinking she’s in control.

Let her think it a little longer.

Without saying a word, she grabs my arm and steers me down the hallway, heels slicing the tile. The hum of the lights fades. So does the media-day chaos.

All that’s left is her heat. And mine.

And the echo of every damn thing I shouldn’t have said.

“I swear to God, O’Reilly,” she hisses, low and sharp, “if you hijack one more interview with that smirk, I’m going to staple your media sheet to your forehead.”

“I thought I was charming.” I grin.

“Charming gets us canceled.”

“And yet...” I lean just a little. “You’re still watching me.”

She folds her arms. “Because it’s my job.”

“Right.” I take a slow step forward. “Sure it’s not jealousy?”

She blinks—only once.

Bullseye.

But she masks it with a sharp glare. My mind drifts anyway.

I could’ve been gone by now. Two Southern teams are circling with contracts that would set me up for life. But Raleigh’s too close to the ghost of my father’s legacy, and I’ve spent too many years outrunning that shadow to skate back into it now.

And after visiting him this summer, seeing what’s left of the man who once broke everything in me, I know I’m not skating backward into that shadow.

And then there’s her . The way she looks at me, like I’m her last nerve and the one man she keeps circling back to, even when it infuriates her.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snaps, brushing past. I pivot with her. We stop, toe to toe in the narrow hallway. She hesitates for a beat. Her eyes flick to my mouth before she lifts her chin.

Yeah, darlin’. I’ve been thinking about tasting you too.

She tries to slide past me. I shift, blocking her. Just enough.

“Problem?” she asks, voice tight.

Instead of responding, I reach out, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of her arm. And when I trail my hand down to her elbow, her entire body stills. She doesn’t pull back or protest, my touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Jesus.

It undoes me.

“You sure you’re not jealous, Red?” I murmur, voice dropping, rough and intimate.

Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp and defiant. “You’d know if I was.” She steps back. But it’s not escape. It’s retreat with teeth.

And just when I think she’s done, she flicks me a look over her shoulder. There’s a crack in her mask.

“And for the record,” she says, “I heard about the offers.” I smile. Of course she did. “You planning to run off to Raleigh or Dallas without telling anyone, O’Reilly?” she adds. “Or are you just holding out for the drama?”

“Didn’t think you cared where I played.”

“I care when it becomes a PR nightmare,” she fires back. Then, barely softer, ”Rothschild should’ve made a move by now. I don’t know why they’re dragging their feet.”

She starts to turn again. But I catch her wrist gently, enough to stop her. “Stop calling me O’Reilly.”

She arches a brow. “Why?”

“Because you only use it when you’re trying to pretend we’re nothing to each other.” A beat. “Say it.” She doesn’t speak. So I step closer. “Say my name, darlin.”

Her mouth parts slightly, breath catching like I’ve stolen it from her lungs. Eyes locked on mine, fierce and vulnerable all at once. And then, barely a whisper, like each letter costs her something precious:

“Finn.”

Goddamn. The sound of my name on her lips doesn’t just wreck me, it rebuilds me.

She pulls back. The moment snapping like a stretched rubber band. She straightens, resets, grabs hold of the mask again. But her fingers are tight on the iPad. Her breath uneven. And she doesn’t look back as she walks away.

She thinks she can walk away from this, from us.

She’s wrong. Not even close.