Page 105 of The Pucking Date
I hesitate.
Her eyebrow arches. “I’m good,” I say, stepping back. “Just water for me.”
“Still on that workout kick?” she asks, brushing it away. “Did Dad give you a new routine to try out?”
“Something like that.”
She hums. Says nothing more. Just sets the extra cocktail on the rail.
We settle onto the porch swing—me, Sophie, and Mom all in a row. The air smells like grilled onions from somewhere down the street. A dog barks, kids shout in the distance, and the sunlight slants warm across the floorboards.
On the other end of the porch, Dad and Adam are still locked in a chess battle that’s starting to resemble a cold war standoff.
“Still the same game?” I murmur.
“One piece moved,” Sophie mutters. “It went backward.”
Mom smiles, watching them.
“Titans’ guy’s joining next season,” Dad announces. “Big winger. Quick hands.”
Adam nods. “He’ll be a brick wall with me and Liam.”
“Nope.” Dad slides a knight forward. “Finn’s moving to left wing. You and him on the flanks, Liam down the middle. That first line? Unstoppable. Just need a second line to match the muscle we’ve got now.”
Adam lifts a brow. “Assuming Finn doesn’t implode.”
“Yeah, well, the kid needs to clean up the optics,” Dad mutters. “Wouldn’t kill him to look sponsor-safe.”
“Maybe start with fewer women draped over him outside bars,” Adam adds, bone-dry.
“That’s not fair,” I snap, something fierce rising in my chest. “You all worship at the altar of stats—until it’s him. He’s top-tier on paper, and you still treat him like a liability based on gossip and assumptions.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Right. And Finn just happens to be loitering around the third floor more than anyone else on the roster.”
My fists clench. “Maybe because I’m good at my job. Or maybe he’s just not the monster everyone’s made him out to be based on a pile of auntie-level gossip and assumptions that he inherited his dad’s moral compass.”
He doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms and fires off the kill shot.
“What was that on the ice the other day, then? You two skating around like some gold medal pair?” His tone drips contempt. “What’s next, he switching to figure skating now?”
My spine snaps straight. “Wow. Really? That’s where you’re going with this?”
He presses on. “He had his hands all over you, Jessica. Those weren’t drills.”
“We were skating,” I grind out. “Not hooking up in a supply closet. People do it at Rockefeller Center in front of tourists.”
“Didn’t look innocent to me,” he fires back. “He was lifting you. Hands everywhere.”
My blood spikes. “How the hell do you expect him to lift me without touching me, Dad? Telekinesis?” I hiss. “You think he was copping a feel? It was a skating lift, not a lap dance.”
But if I was honest, that lift—God. My feet weren’t even on the ice, but I’ve never felt more grounded. More claimed. More his. For one perfect moment, I was exactly where I belonged.
I swallow hard and attack. “You’re blowing it out of proportion.”
“I saw what I saw.”
“Right,” I lash out. “Two adults skating. Scandalous. Quick, someone call the virtue brigade.”
