Page 117 of The Pucking Date
“Oh, and Dad?” I pause at the door. “When the media asks why your star PR director quit? Tell them the truth. Tell them Coach Novak thinks pregnant women can’t do their jobs. See how that plays with your female fan base.”
“Don’t you dare—” He follows me to the door, voice rising. “You’re throwing everything away! For what? For some player who’ll be traded next season?”
“For ME!” I whirl around. “For the first time in my life, I’m choosing what I want instead of what everyone else expects. And yes, I’m choosing Finn. I love him, Dad. He’s the only person who’s never asked me to be smaller.”
His expression contorts. “Love? You think this is love? Getting knocked up by?—”
“By the man who sees me. Not Coach’s daughter. Not the PR director. Me.” My words crack. “The one person who is not intimidated by my strength. The one man who knows how to catch me.”
“He’s using you?—”
“No, Dad. He’s not. Finnian O’Reilly is a good man.”
I yank open the door?—
And freeze.
Finn’s standing in the hallway, holding a Sweetgreen salad—the one he brings me every day since he found out. His face is completely still, but his knuckles are white around the container.
Our eyes meet. One second. Two.
He heard everything. Every word. Every declaration. Every way I just made this worse.
“O’Reilly.” My father’s words turn cold as he brushes past me. “This is on you.”
Finn stands his ground. Silent. Steady.
“My daughter is pregnant. She’s walking away from the job she built from nothing. And from the sound of it?” He takes a breath. “She’s doing it alone.”
Finn’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak.
“Coach,” he says, quiet. Calm.
Dad steps closer, voice lowering into something lethal.
“If you leave her holding this by herself, I’ll come for you. And I won’t care what jersey you wear when I do.” Then he turns and walks out, footsteps echoing on the marble floor.
Finn and I stand there, the hallway suddenly too small, the air too thin.
He steps into the office, and I follow him as he sets the salad on my desk with trembling hands. For one heartbeat, his fingers brush mine. Then he pulls away like I burned him. There’s something raw in his eyes. Sadness. Love. Maybe grief. He doesn’t say a word. And that silence—that restraint—is what wrecks me.
He looks at me once more, a look that says everything and nothing, then turns to leave.
“Finn—”
But he’s already walking away, shoulders rigid. I watch him take the stairs, the same man who carried me to bed, who fought for contracts he could have lost, who loved me when I couldn’t love myself.
I stand there, frozen, letting him walk away. Shaking.The phantom warmth of him already fading, like he was never here at all.
Joy clears her throat from behind her desk. “Should I…reschedule your afternoon?”
I can’t find my voice. I just nod, barely, and close the door.
The salad sits on my desk.
Arugula. Dressing on the side. Extra parmesan. The same salad he’s brought me every day for three weeks, even though I’ve barely spoken to him. Even though I broke his heart. Even though he owes me nothing.
I stare at the salad and realize, this is love. Not the grand gestures or passionate declarations. It’s showing up with lunch for someone who destroyed you. It’s caring for someone who chose fear over you.
