Page 29 of The Pucking Date
Joy blinks wide as she spots the chaos—Dmitri leading a pre-skate warm-up, Nate and Adam arguing over Spotifyrights, and Wesley Cain looking like he wandered into a documentary on athlete psychology.
“I love it,” she whispers.
“Of course you do,” I mutter as we reach the edge of the viewing corridor.
And that’s when I spot him.
Finn O’Reilly stands at the railing, his jersey clinging to his frame, skates glinting under the arena lights. A titan at rest. His navy Defenders jersey clings to damp shoulders, pads bulking beneath the sleeves, the hem tucked loosely into black compression pants. His dark hair’s pushed back from his face, a little damp, like he’s just come off the ice…or is about to tear it apart.
And that grin of his—slow and lethal. He knows I’m watching. And he wants me to keep doing it.
My stomach tightens and my pulse stumbles. Because of course he’s here. And of course, he looks like that.
Joy spots him too. “Should I give you a minute with your favorite distraction?” she murmurs, sipping her coffee.
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
She grins. “Relax. I’m just observing the mating rituals. From a respectful distance.”
“Keep it that way,” I deadpan as Finn pushes off the railing, water bottle dangling from one hand, blades gliding with ease. He towers in his skates like some Roman god of sweat and bad decisions, his gaze locked on me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m the only one in the damn arena.
“Morning, Novak,” he says, slow and smooth. That Southern drawl, sharpened just for me.
“Back on your PR-approved behavior?” I murmur, keeping my face neutral and my pulse under control. But barely.
He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his gaze dragdown, then up, with all the subtlety of a heat-seeking missile. Then he glances at Joy. “Don’t think we’ve met.”
She steps forward like she might evaporate from nerves. “Joy Preston. Social. Not new, but…new-ish.”
Finn smiles, easy and practiced. “Welcome back, then.”
“I’ve seen you on camera,” she blurts. “I mean, not like that. Notcreepy. Just stats. And clips. I’m gonna stop talking now.”
His grin softens into something warmer. “You’re doing great.”
Joy blushes straight down to her sneakers.
“She’ll be assisting me and also running team content this year,” I interject. “Behind-the-scenes, reels, player features. Keep the thirst traps subliminal.”
Finn lifts a brow. “You sure that’s not your specialty, Novak?”
I blink, a tight smile on my lips. “Save it for the rookies, O’Reilly.”
“Wouldn’t be half as fun.”
Before I can snap back, Marcy from HR swoops in, tablet in hand, chirping about payroll forms and locker room permissions. Joy shoots me a quick, knowing look before being ushered off.
Which leaves me exactly where I swore I wouldn’t be—alone with Finn O’Reilly and a hallway full of sexual tension thick enough to cut with a blade. And judging by the tilt of his mouth, Finn knows exactly how much that’s going to cost me.
He watches them go. Then, like clockwork, his attention slides right back to me. His eyes drag over me again with familiar heat, a slow grin curving his mouth like we’re sharing a secret no one else can hear. “Guess I should enjoy the view while it lasts.” He grins easily, but there’s a hint ofsomething else in his voice. “Before you disappear halfway across the world again.”
My pulse skips. I roll my eyes and start walking. “Save the drama for the cameras, O’Reilly.”
“Still with the last name?” he calls, falling into step beside me. “Come on, darlin’. Thought we were past that.”
He matches my stride without trying, enough to be in my space. Close enough that the heat of him wraps around my senses. His arm brushes mine, casually intentional. “I like the red,” he murmurs, low and for my ears only.
Of course he does. I keep my gaze locked forward. “Me too.”
