Page 1 of The Pucking Date
PROLOGUE
DEFINITELY NOT A DATE
Jessica
The Bell Centre thrums beneath my feet, eighteen thousand voices creating a symphony I feel in my bones.
Just like the man who owns this ice. The man I’m not supposed to want.
Number seventeen. Finn O’Reilly. Six-foot-two of pure, confident chaos. Right winger for the Defenders. Fastest forward in the league, and my biggest headache.
The ice bends to his skates. Every stride is raw power, every turn a dare—tight, explosive, impossibly smooth. He knows exactly how good he is and wants the whole world to watch him.
And they do. Eighteen thousand people, eyes glued to number seventeen.
Especially today.
Today’s not just any game. It’s the Defenders’ first appearance since hoisting the Stanley Cup. An exhibition match in Montreal, part of a post-season charity tour designed to keep the buzz alive and the goodwill flowing. No points on the line, no pressure. Just a sold-out arena and a city hungry to watch hockey royalty take a victory lap.
Tonight’s exhibition benefits youth hockey programs, a cause that looks good in press releases and actually does good in communities. An organization that tries to rebuild trust where the system failed.
It’s supposed to be light. Fun. A celebration.
But Finn is turning it into a performance.
God, he’s lethal. Broad shoulders and long lines, that infuriatingly perfect jaw, the dark gold hair shoved under his helmet in a way that makes him look unfairly casual, like he didn’t spend hours in the gym or years sharpening every inch of himself into a weapon.
And then there are those eyes—amber gaze, always amused, as if he’s enjoying a private joke no one else is in on.
But the joke is on me.
Because when he finds me in the crowd, when he burns through me like fire through glass, it’s not a glance.
It’s a dare and a promise all at once.
And I feel it to my bones. He doesn’t even need to touch me. That stare does all the work—still, certain, patient. Because he knows he’s already won and is just waiting for me to admit it.
I swear this man can sense every flutter of want in my body.
I’ve spent the last year pretending he doesn’t get to me. Pretending I don’t feel it every damn time he walks into a meeting and zeros in—calm, scorching, full of intent. Pretending I don’t notice the way his gaze drops to my mouth mid-sentence.
And he doesn’t even bother to hide any of it, not from the team, not from my brother Adam—his teammate and the Defenders right winger—anddefinitelynot from my father. Coach’s warning glares bounce off him like rubber bullets. My brother’s thinly veiled threats? Wasted breath.
If anything, I think he enjoys defying them.
I know. And I feel every smirk. Every wink. Every intentional, infuriating pass by my office door, checking to see if this is the moment I’ll finally cave.
He staked a claim the day I joined the Defenders. Started to circle and ask me for coffee the same afternoon. Right after what I now know was my father’s locker room warning to the team, his big “stay away from my daughters” speech that made everyone look at me like I was wrapped in barbed wire.
But Finn never blinked. Never backed off.
It was always the same—coffee. Casual. Low stakes. No pressure. At first, I figured it was a joke. A patient flirt wrapped in a cocky grin.
But he kept asking. Lightly. Consistently. Not necessarily trying to get a yes, just wear down my resistance one espresso at a time.
And he does love his damn coffee.
So much that I started making sure there was a double shot waiting for him at every meeting. Black. No sugar. Exactly how he likes it.
