Page 119 of The Pucking Date
“Of course he did.” He pauses, tuning serious. “You okay?”
I shake my head weakly. “Not even close.”
“Good. Means you’re taking it seriously.”
Liam lifts the coffee like a toast. “To Jessica Novak. Owner. Legend. Destroyer of old white men’s expectations.”
“Put that on your business cards,” Adam says, nudging me with a half-smile.
And for the first time today, it doesn’t feel impossible to laugh. I glance between them—Adam, who’s never let me fall, and Liam, who chose to show up like family—and something shifts. Something that almost feels like hope.
“I do need clients,” I say, my voice steadier now. “You two game?”
“Done,” Liam says immediately. “All in.”
“Same,” Adam adds. “And I’ll talk to a few guys. You’ll have a full roster by Friday.”
He hesitates. His smile falters just a little. “I’m glad you’re doing this, even with the timing. It’s been a long time coming.”
They share a look.
“And Finn…” Liam says. “That’s something you have to figure out. Just don’t mistake his silence for indifference. He didn’t walk away because he doesn’t care, Jess.” He pauses. “He walked away because he does.”
29
GLADIATORS DON’T CRY
FINN
The boards vibrate from twenty thousand fans pounding their feet. Shouts. Whistles. The noise bleeds into my bones, hungry and wired. They want a show. We’re here to give it to them.
Coach says it doesn’t count. Just a preseason warm-up. Run the lines. Don’t get injured.
Right. As if gladiators get to play dress-up.
I settle into position—first line, left wing, out of position but not out of place. Adam’s on the right. Liam takes the faceoff. No one speaks.
Across from Liam, Ken from the Titans slides into position with that same smug grin he’s worn since rookie camp. He catches my eye for half a second, then smirks wider. He must sense I’m off balance.
Behind me, Coach barks a single line. “Make it worth it.”
It’s not encouragement. Or trust. It’s a warning, clear, cold, and sharp as a blade.
I don’t owe him anything, but I owe it to myself not to flinch. My teeth clench. Glove flexes. Grip tenses.
He wants a show?
He’s about to get one.
But then I see her. Not in her usual spot by the tunnel—no headset, no clipboard, no team pin. She’s up near the sponsor’s box.
My sternum tightens like someone wedged a crowbar beneath it and twisted.
I heard her.
I love him.
Finnian O’Reilly is a good man.
