Page 102 of The Pucking Date
I acknowledge a trainer I don’t recognize. He nods back. I keep walking.
Marcus is waiting outside the conference room, bouncing on his heels, riding the high. It’s as close to a winning lottery ticket as it gets. Eighty-four over six. Endorsement locked. Back-to-back campaigns. The future secured.
“Big day,” he says, clapping me on the back. “This is it, man. You ready?”
I give him one word. “Yeah.” No smile. No joke. No Finn O’Reilly special. Just one syllable.
He hesitates, reading something in my face, then clears his throat. “Under Armour folded in all the amendments Jessica pushed for. Final approval on creative. No legacy angles. No family drama. Just clean campaigns, aggressive tone, no redemption arc bullshit.”
My chest goes tight. Jessica’s fingerprints are all over this deal. Every line. Every clause. She saw the cage before I did and clawed it open before I could walk into it. Even now…she’s still protecting me.
I nod again and swallow hard as I follow Marcus inside.
And there it is.
A small white coffee cup on the table, waiting for me. Espresso. Black. No sugar. Just the way I like it. The way she always had it ready, no matter how early, how chaotic, how far I’d pushed her that day. Every time I came for a meeting, there it would be. Silent proof she knew me. Wanted me ready. Wanted me.
I stare at it too long. That stupid espresso hits harder than losing the Cup in overtime.
Rothschild’s already at the table. So is Coach. Both look up when I enter, and for once, neither of them has a skeptical expression on their face. Coach leans back in his chair, arms folded. “You earned this, O’Reilly. Contract’s aggressive. Sponsor’s clean. We built it off your numbers…and your leadership.”
Rothschild agrees. “And your loyalty.”
I say nothing. Just slide into the chair, take the pen from Marcus’s outstretched hand. Before I can move, Coach speaks again.
“You’ll stay on second line,” he says, voice calm. “But next year, we’re shifting. Recruiting a new right wing, kid out of the Philly Titans’ system. Once that gels, you’re bumping to first. Left wing.”
My jaw tightens. “Why not now?”
“Because we’re going for the Cup again,” Rothschild answers. “And the only way we get there is with a second line this strong. You made that line lethal last year. You were the reason we outskated Boston. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
I nod. No protest. They’re not wrong.
Initial here. Signature there. Done.
Marcus all but beams. Rothschild nods once and stands. Coach pats my shoulder and says something about media day. I don’t really hear it.
Because my phone is burning a hole in my pocket. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked when I held that bottle in my hand. The way she didn’t even flinch when I asked if she was ever going to tell me.
I pull the phone out, thumb hovering for half a second before I give in.
Me: You still nauseous?
Me: When’s the next appointment?
Me: I want to be there
I stare at the screen, waiting.
And then,
Jessica: I’m okay
Jessica: In two weeks
No emoji. No Carolina. No softness.
I exhale slowly and walk out of the room.
