Page 21 of The Pucking Date
FINN
The Defenders complex smells like fresh paint, new gear, and testosterone.
We’re in the third-floor media suite, transformed into a professional-grade PR circus. Cameras line every wall, backdrops display sponsor logos, and spotlights rig the space to fry your retinas. Through it all, Jessica Novak paces like a five-star general preparing to wage war on bad soundbites.
I adjust the collar of the sleek black Defenders quarter-zip they make us wear for media day. Logo sharp across the chest, number seventeen stamped on the back, media smile locked and loaded.
I miss the hoodie I lived in all summer. The calluses on my knuckles from too many hours in the boxing gym with the guys who call meGolden Boytrying to piss me off. Afternoons with my sister, letting her twins climb all over me like I’m their personal jungle gym. Long runs. Late-night diner stops. No cameras, no pressure. Nothing but sweat, noise, and people who don’t give a shit about my stats.
“You’re up after Cain,” an intern says, clipboard in hand, avoiding eye contact like I might bark.
Wesley’s in front of the cameras now, shoulders too tight, stance all wrong. He blinks into the lights like someone dragged him straight off a frozen lake and dropped him into a studio.
Jessica slides into frame beside the camera and crouches down to talk to him, voice low, words cutting but gentle.
“You’re not on trial,” she says. “You’re telling a story. Be the guy your teammates already believe in.”
Wes breathes in. Nods. And when he answers the next question, his voice steadies.
She’s good. Scary good.
And I watch her work because knowing every angle of her is how I make this girl mine. Timing is everything. I’ll make my move when it matters.
One corner of the suite has a setup for one-on-one video interviews, another has a row of mics for press Q&As. There’s a social media station where a new comms hire is trying to get TikToks of 200-pound athletes doing trend dances.
Good luck with that.
Across the room, I spot Nate giving a toothy grin to a lifestyle reporter, Dmitri refusing to smile as he poses for a sponsor shoot, and Adam Novak—TikTok’s unexpected darling—deep in conversation with one of the stylists about whether or not his jawline counts as its own brand. Another one quizzes him about his summer workout routine. Apparently, viewers can’t get enough of him stretching on the ice.
Stretching.
Welcome to the algorithm.
But it’s Jessica Novak that owns the room. Slate-gray dress, heels that command attention, iPad doubling asclipboard clutched in manicured hands. She’s moving fast, delegating, coordinating, pointing out branding placements, correcting a lighting angle with a flick of her fingers. Her hair’s swept back in a clean, sharp ponytail that makes her cheekbones look even deadlier than usual.
She doesn’t see me yet. But I see everything about her.
The curve of her waist. The way her calves flex with each step. That expression on her face—fierce, commanding, daring the universe to get in her way.
God, she’s devastating when she’s in command. Confident. Untouchable. Completely in charge.
But I’ve seen the other side of her too—the one that let go. That let me claim her. The way she melted when I took control. Trusted me with every gasp, every inch of skin, every shudder that saidmore,please, don’t stop.
She owns this room right now. But I know how it feels when she’s pinned underneath me. And yeah, I’d trade every contract offer, every spotlight, every damn thing just to feel that again.
A few feet away, I hear Dmitri mutter to Nate, “There she is. The Executioner returns.”
“Think she’ll let us live if we behave?” Nate replies.
“She might spare you. But I’m already a dead man walking,” I cut in, approaching them, my eyes never leaving her.
Jessica glances over just then, eyes sweeping the room like radar until they lock onto mine. For one heartbeat, something flickers between us—raw, electric, dangerous. Then she lifts one brow with the tiniest curve of her mouth, cool and controlled as winter steel.
Game on.
Wesley finishes his interview and practically bolts from the camera. I clap a hand to his shoulder as I pass. “Not bad,Alaska. You only sounded like you were being held hostage once.”
He grins, flushed. “I’ll get better.”
