Page 11 of The Pucking Date
From early July to mid-August, I threw myself into language labs, cultural excursions, dumpling-making workshops, and conversation practice with strangers who didn’tknow a single thing about me except that I was trying to learn how to say “I’m fine” without lying.
And maybe it was also a chance to disappear into a city where no one cared that I was Coach Novak’s daughter. Where I wasn’t anyone’s almost or bad decision waiting to happen. Just a girl with a suitcase and something to prove.
My parents had known. Sophie and Adam too. Probably Liam, but no one else—not the team, not the media.
Not Finn. Especially not Finn.
I left without a word, without even leaving a note. Just sheets tangled in silence and my heels clutched in my shaking hands as I crept out like a walk-of-shame cliché.
I knew exactly what message I was sending. Knew exactly how it would land.
Thanks for the good time. Don’t call me, I won’t call you.
The universal language of a one-night stand. Cheap. Disposable. Forgettable.
It was cruel, and I knew it. But I told myself Finn O’Reilly wouldn’t care. Why would he? He probably had women leaving his bed every other weekend. This was just a regular Tuesday for him.
Except.
Except the way he’d held me afterward. The way he’d traced patterns on my skin in the dark, fingers spelling out secrets I was too terrified to read. The way he’d whispered my name.
I knew it was real, the kind of real that ruins you for anyone else. And I couldn’t handle real. Not after Chad.
So I ran. Fast and far and final.
He’d texted me. Once that morning. Twice that night. Again two days later. Nothing dramatic. Nothing demanding.
Just:You okay?
And then:Jessica?
And finally:Tell me you didn’t run because of me.
I never answered. It wasn’t just distance I needed, it was time. Space. Silence. I thought seven weeks would be enough to forget.
It wasn’t.
Now back on Fire Island, the memories flood in with the tide. The burn of his gaze, the brush of his fingers, the way he made me feel like the only woman in the world.
But I can’t go there.
I haven’t seen him since Montreal. And now I have to face him. Look him in the eyes and pretend it didn’t mean a damn thing.
“I’m grabbing a shower,” I announce, mostly to the wind. Sophie’s too busy flirting with her terrifyingly gorgeous boy toy. Everyone else is halfway to tipsy territory and deeply invested in setting the world’s largest porch dinner table.
“I’ll be quick,” I add, not that anyone’s listening.
Dmitri’s house is precisely what you’d expect from a Russian hockey god with unlimited funds—sprawling, sleek, and stupidly gorgeous, like a Bond villain’s beach retreat with better lighting. Everything is top-tier: glass walls, infinity pool, furniture that looks too expensive to sit on.
And then there’s the outdoor shower.
Still luxe, but in a quieter, more intimate way—stone tile underfoot, three rainfall showerheads, and just enough rustic charm to make it feel like a hidden spa tucked into the dunes.
It’s quiet here. The moon’s out, casting silver streaks across the floor. I toe off my sandals, skin still sun-warm from the day.
The air smells of sunscreen and distant bonfires. Mymuscles aren’t tense, not exactly, but there’s a weight I can’t shake. Something heavy behind my ribs. A little leftover heartache. A touch of pride still bruised.
Chad. Ugh.
