Page 24 of The Pucking Date
“Didn’t think you cared where I played.”
“I care when it becomes a PR nightmare,” she fires back. Then, barely softer, ”Rothschild should’ve made a move by now. I don’t know why they’re dragging their feet.”
She starts to turn again. But I catch her wrist gently, enough to stop her. “Stop calling me O’Reilly.”
She arches a brow. “Why?”
“Because you only use it when you’re trying to pretendwe’re nothing to each other.” A beat. “Say it.” She doesn’t speak. So I step closer. “Say my name, darlin.”
Her mouth parts slightly, breath catching like I’ve stolen it from her lungs. Eyes locked on mine, fierce and vulnerable all at once. And then, barely a whisper, like each letter costs her something precious:
“Finn.”
Goddamn. The sound of my name on her lips doesn’t just wreck me, it rebuilds me.
She pulls back. The moment snapping like a stretched rubber band. She straightens, resets, grabs hold of the mask again. But her fingers are tight on the iPad. Her breath uneven. And she doesn’t look back as she walks away.
She thinks she can walk away from this, from us.
She’s wrong. Not even close.
4
THE NAME I CARRY
FINN
The call comes right after media day as I’m peeling off the branded quarter-zip and tossing it over the back of the sectional in my house. I live close to the Hudson, not far from the Defenders’ complex, but far enough from everything else.
The space is quiet. Minimal. Clean lines, dark wood floors, and large windows that frame more sky than skyline. Boxing gloves hang in a shadowbox over the bar cart, my gym bag half-unpacked by the door. The espresso machine hums in the background, but the sound barely registers.
I’m thinking about Novak, how she keeps pretending that night in Montreal didn’t leave a mark.
The way her breath caught when I touched her, the way she kissed me. How she arched when she gasped my name.
And that crack in her voice, every time my Southern slips through, like it knocks the air out of her, makes her forget she’s not supposed to fall.
And shewantsto fall. She’s just terrified I won’t catch her
I saw it in Montreal, when I took control, when I stoppedasking and simplyshowedher. She let go. Unraveled. This woman who commands every room she walks into, who speaks in sharp angles and doesn’t flinch,lovedbeing handled.
She wanted to stop thinking, stop leading. She wanted to be wanted. And she didn’t just let me take the reins, she clung to them.
Novak will appreciate a big gesture. Something loud enough to cut through her armor. Make her forget she’s supposed to resist me. And fuck it, I’m good at grand. One thing the league’s taught me? Show up big or don’t show up at all.
Another date. No cameras, no pitch decks, no jerseys. Her and me, and something unforgettable. Something that pulls her out of her head and into the moment. Not a rooftop, not another sleek reservation with vintage wine. She’s had all that. I want something quieter. Personal. Something that’s important to her.
And yeah, her father’s watching, hovering like he’s got veto power over her life. But I don’t give a fuck. She’s not his player. She’s mine…if she’ll let me be hers.
I’m already half smiling at the thought as I grab my phone, thumbing open the browser to start searching—late-night jazz spots, hole-in-the-wall diners, anything off the radar but impossible to forget.
That’s when a ring cuts through. Aoife.
My little sister doesn’t call. She sends chaos in bite-sized form—memes, GIFs, and grainy clips of her three-year-old twins climbing the furniture like it’s Everest.
A call means something’s wrong. That the decline we’ve all been dreading—the one that visits in the middle of the night, stealing pieces of Patrick O’Reilly we’ll never get back—has stepped out of the shadows.
I swipe to answer before the second ring. “What’s going on?”
