Page 28 of The Pucking Date
Sanity in this job doesn’t come from spa days or meditation apps; it comes from being stronger than whatever the league throws at me. And not only in heels and boardrooms.
I swipe a towel across my neck and head for the shower. The blast of cold water is supposed to reset me. It doesn’t. Neither does the protein shake waiting in the kitchen—kale, banana, espresso shot thrown in like caffeine can fix career-induced existential dread.
My body’s out of sync. A beat behind. Like a song I can’t quite hear the melody to anymore. A long pull from my smoothie doesn’t chase away the nausea that’s been lurking for days like an unwelcome truth. Probably the jet lag, I tell myself. Or the stress.
Or the possibility I’ve been refusing to name, sitting heavy in my chest.
The house is quiet when I step out. A modern haven tucked inside a colonial frame, much like me—polished exterior, strategic design, clean lines, tall windows catching the early light, and walls no one gets past.
My phone buzzes, the reminder glowing up at me.
Captain Skate. 7:45 a.m. Arrival.
Right. Another season of babysitting egos and dodging landmines in the all-boys club. Another year of Dad hovering like my job comes with a curfew.
Going independent.
The thought flickers, uninvited but persistent, like every other dream I’ve shelved to play by their rules. Building something that’s mine. Something that doesn’t come with a father’s approval or a boardroom full of men who see me as Mark Novak’s daughter first, Jessica second.
I lean against the counter, letting the idea hang there for a breath too long.
It’s reckless. Risky. No guaranteed paycheck. No team resources. No safety net if I fall.
But also...no more answering to anyone but myself.
My phone pings again, snapping me out of it.
No time for fantasies. Not yet.
I lock up the house behind me and step into the crisp Tarrytown morning. Sunlight filters through gold-tinged leaves like some kind of poetic encouragement.
But I’m not buying it.
By the time I’m on the road, Finn O’Reilly’s smirk has barged into my thoughts, uninvited. Because of course it has. I queue up a playlist that’s more battle anthem than background noise and focus on the fifteen-minute drive ahead.
Another season. Another war to fight.
When I pull into the Defenders’ complex, the parking lot is filling up fast—testosterone on wheels, every car a shiny reminder of where I am and exactly who this world was built for. I grab my tote, shrug on my blazer over the silk red blouse and head for the doors.
Time to remind them all why I’m here.
“Jessica!”
I glance over to see Joy Preston trotting toward me, her Moonbeans cup nearly sloshing over the lid. She’s flushed and breathless, which, given the pace she keeps, is about right.
“I wasn’t sure if I should wait in reception or just...follow the scent of testosterone.” She grins, shifting her tote higher on her shoulder.
“It’s thick in the air this time of year,” I deadpan. “Peak ego season.”
Joy laughs. “I know I’m not new-new, but this is my first start-of-season, so…do I look as overwhelmed as I feel?”
She does. In high-waisted ice-wash jeans, white sneakers, and a Defenders hoodie slouched off one shoulder, she’s the walking embodiment of curated casual. Gen Z cool with enough caffeine in her system to power a ring light.
“You’ll adjust,” I say, gesturing for her to follow. “Come on, I’ll walk you in.”
We step out of the tunnel into the viewing corridor right above rink level, where the sharp slice of blades on ice echoes up through the rafters.
“It’s called a captain’s skate,” I explain. “No coaches. No staff. Just alpha posturing and passive-aggressive chirps about who trained harder this summer.”
