Page 30 of The Pucking Date
He hums, that maddening little sound he makes when he knows I’m pretending not to react. “Fire suits you, Red.”
I stop short of the rink entrance, turning to face him. “Are you always like this, or is it just me you enjoy tormenting?”
His grin is slow and wicked. “Wouldn’t be fun if you didn’t fight it.”
Before I can snap back, I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck. The weight of a gaze that’s sharper than any blade on this ice.
Dad.
My eyes flick upward, barely for a second, but it’s enough. There he is, stationed in the observation deck like a general surveying his troops. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That signature Novak scowl carved into his face.
Of course he’s watching. He always is.
Not coaching today, not officially. Captain’s skate rules say this is player led. But that’s never stopped Mark Novak from looming like a storm cloud over both his team and his daughters.
Finn follows my gaze. His smile only deepens, amusementflickering in those dangerous eyes like this is his favorite game, and my father’s glare is gasoline on the flames.
I swear my molars might crack from how hard I’m grinding them.
I’m twenty-eight years old. I run point on every crisis this franchise survives. I’ve negotiated deals that keep this team profitable, navigated scandals that would sink lesser organizations, and still, Dad hovers, guarding me from the big bad hockey players.
My fingers tighten around my purse strap, knuckles whitening. This is exactly why that file of business plans on my kitchen counter keeps calling my name. Why the idea of breaking free—of building something mine—doesn’t feel so reckless anymore.
Because no matter how sharp my strategies or how high I climb, I’m forever Daddy’s little girl in his eyes. Stuck under his shadow, dodging his warnings and sidelong glances every time a player so much as breathes in my direction.
And Finn doesn’t breathe. He devours.
Inching closer, testing boundaries he knows I can’t push back. Not with Novak eyes drilling into us from above. His voice drops to that dangerous register that fries my brain. “Tell me, Red…does Daddy glare like that at every guy who gets close to his little girl or just the ones you dream about in the dark?”
My heart thuds with equal parts frustration and something far more dangerous. “Keep talking like that,” I snap, my voice tight with warning, “and you’ll be dreaming about extra laps instead of me.”
He leans in, that damn smirk playing at his lips like he’s already won. “Worth it.”
My pulse skips as I take a sharp step back, forcing air between us before I do something truly regrettable. Like let him win.
“Get on the ice, O’Reilly,” I bite out, loud enough to carry. “Or I’ll make sure your PR profile includes ‘chronic underachiever.’”
His grin doesn’t slip, but I catch it, a flicker in his jaw, the briefest pause before he tips his head in mock surrender. He backs away slowly, turning toward the rink. But not before tossing one last glance up at my father—bold and unapologetic.
I don’t need to look to know Dad’s cataloging every second of this exchange.
And I’m so damn tired of it. Tired of being policed. Tired of pretending I don’t notice Finn. Tired of playing by everyone else’s rules.
Yeah... Maybe it’s time I start writing my own.
I barely make it two steps toward the exit before I hear it, the unmistakable bark of authority wrapped in paternal disapproval.
“Jessica. A word.”
I close my eyes for a heartbeat and turn to find Dad striding down from the observation deck, his steps clipped and purposeful. He gestures toward one of the empty conference rooms off the hallway.
Here we go.
The door shuts behind us with a softclick, but the tension is anything but quiet.
“You want to tell me what that was out there?” he starts, arms crossing over his chest in that way that used to make me squirm when I missed curfew.
I arch a brow, feigning innocence. “You’ll have to bemore specific, Dad. I manage a lot of disasters before breakfast.”
