Page 2 of The Pucking Date
It started like that. Just a little tease. Light banter to pass the time.
And then Chad happened.
Vanderbilt Junior swept in, all polished smiles and perfect timing, and Finn stepped back without a word. No drama, no push. Just…gone.
And when the bastard shattered me three months later, Finn was there again—flirty, steady, patient as ever.
But I still said no.
Because coffee with Finn O’Reilly isn’t harmless. It’s a door I know better than to open. The man has one foot in the next city and a fanbase in every time zone. Charming, infuriating, and never seen twice with the same woman.
I’m not signing up to be someone else’s temporary obsession.
But tonight, Finn is skating like sin in motion and looking at me like I’m the only thing he wants.
He cuts across the neutral zone, hips low, stick handling the puck easily. A quick deke, a sharp pivot, and he burns past the opposing defender who should’ve known better. The crowd rises with a collective gasp just as he pulls the goalie wide, then flicks the puck top shelf so fast, I barely register the goal light before the horn goes off.
The Bell Centre erupts, pure, unfiltered chaos.
But Finn?
He doesn’t raise his arms. Doesn’t slam the glass or pound his chest.
He just skates backward, slow and steady, savoring the chaos he caused.
Then he finds me in the crowd. That cocky smile curves at the corner of his mouth, satisfaction laced with dark intent. And then, he points.
Not a casual salute. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nod.
A full, deliberate,I-see-you-and-I-want-youpoint.
My breath catches. My chest tightens. And for one dizzying second, I forget how to stand. How to breathe. Because there are eighteen thousand people on their feet, screaming his name. And Finn O’Reilly has his eyes on me. Not giving a damn that I’m Coach Novak’s daughter. Or that I’m the Defenders’ PR director. The one woman he has absolutely no business claiming in front of this many sponsors, execs, and cameras.
Beside me, Joy chokes on her champagne. “Okay, let’s just be clear. O’Reilly’s in love with you.”
“It’s optics,” I say automatically, though it scrapes out.
“More like a mating call.”
I force myself to look away and pretend my pulse isn’t drumming a rhythm I haven’t felt in months. Pretend my stomach didn’t just do that wild, traitorous thing it does around him. Flirty. Cocky. Stupidly beautiful in that smug, slow-grin way that makes my skin hum.
I lean against the glass, arms crossed tight. “He’s playing to the crowd.”
Joy snorts. “He’s playing toyou, my friend.”
I open my mouth—probably to deny it again—but I don’t get the chance.
Because the final buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts.
The game ends in a blur of congratulations. An hour later, I’m still in the press corral, fielding questions and steering interviews, when my phone vibrates with a message I should’ve seen coming.
Finn: Wait for me. 30 mins. Hotel rooftop. Don’t make me come find you.
My heart skips a beat. I ignore it. Focus on the press.
By the time I’m finally done—my phone lightning up with a dozen unread messages from Joy and one annoyingly smug “I’m serious” from Finn—the last place I should be heading is the hotel rooftop.
I told myself I would stay away. But I end up there anyway.
