Page 35 of The Pucking Date
“Good.” His jaw ticks. Then his voice hardens. “Because this next part? It counts too.” A pause. And then, like he’s been building to it all day, “Jessica’s more than PR.” His words land heavy. No room to misinterpret. “She’s not some puck bunny you flirt with after practice,” he continues. “Not a one off, not a story for the boys, not a feature on your socials.” I hold his stare, pulse steady. “She’s smart,” he continues. “Driven. Way out of your league, if I’m honest. And she’s got enough on her plate without winding up as someone’s regret.”
His meaning is clear. Crystal.
Back off.
I wait a beat before responding. “Did you approve of Chad?” That lands. He doesn’t blink, but I see the flicker. “I waited,” I say. “Out of respect, I kept my distance. But I saw what happened.” Another pause. Silence stretching taut. “I won’t be another mistake,” I finish. “And I won’t stand by watching someone else slide by me again.”
We lock eyes. His shoulders tense like he’s bracing for a hit that doesn’t come. Finally, he gives a single, clipped nod. Nothing warm about it. “Good,” he says. “Then I trust we understand each other.” And just like that, he walks out.
I stay where I am, the air still humming from the charge he left behind. I know what that nod was. It wasn’t permission.
It was recognition.
That I’m not some rookie he can intimidate. That I won’t be scared off. That I see her,reallysee her, and I’m not here to mess around.
He might not like it. Hell, I wouldn’t either if I were him. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not going anywhere.
Not when she’s the one I want.
7
OPTICS
JESSICA
There’s a headache blooming behind my right eye and a cold, metallic taste coating my throat. Dread, slow and familiar, settles in like an unwelcome guest.
I skim the sponsor brief for the third time, willing the copy to rearrange itself into something less hollow. Redemption. Legacy. Turning the page. It’s all marketing theater, and Finn O’Reilly is center stage.
I hated Park City last year.
Everyone else acted like it was a prize. A preseason getaway, all luxe mountain charm and shiny sponsor dollars. Team bonding, brand activations, and endless photo ops where the players got paraded around with their team numbers splayed across their backs.
But I knew what it really was. An audition. For the rookies, for the top line, for the team itself. For me.
Back then, I was six months into the job, wearing my last name like armor, convincing myself I belonged in rooms where everyone had a legacy, a trust fund, or a penis.
That’s where Chad Vanderbilt first slithered into my life.His firm, Vanderbilt Strategies, was one of the event’s headline sponsors, which meant he was everywhere that week, giving keynotes on athlete portfolio growth, moderating panels on post-retirement branding, hosting cocktail hours like they were curated for aVanity Fairspread. He had the easy charm of a man who knew everyone’s net worth—and exactly how to double it.
We crossed paths on the second night, after a panel on “maximizing visibility in contract years.” He found me near the exit, complimented my dress, made a dry remark about the sponsor seating cards and how clever it was to put all the biggest money on the left side of the room, closest to the stage. Then he asked what I thought of the optics, said he admired a woman who could read a room like a campaign.
Later that day, he asked to buy me a drink.
After that, he kept appearing. At panels, in the hallway, by the elevator. Always with something warm to say, always a little closer than necessary. And I let him. God, I let him. Because for once, someone seemed to see past the Novak nameplate on my door. Past the whispers about nepotism and Daddy’s girl. He made me feel like Jessica first, Mark Novak’s daughter second, like I was worth knowing for my own mind, my own talent.
Within weeks, we were together. Until the morning he casually mentioned that what we had was ‘fun" but not ‘serious,’ that I was smart and driven, but not quite what the Vanderbilt family had in mind for long-term. He paid for brunch, kissed my cheek like nothing had changed, and left me sitting there with my heart bruised and my pride wrecked. The ambitious girl who’d mistaken herself for marriage material.
And now he’s back in my orbit. Offering ‘notes’ on my work. Park City’s going to test me—my focus, my composure,my ability to stand three feet from the man who once made me feel like I was the wrong pedigree in the right dress.
I keep telling myself this is the last one. One more campaign under Rothschild’s thumb, one more summit built for sponsor optics instead of player agency. After this? I build something on my terms.
“Jess?” Joy pokes her head in, gripping her phone. “Rothschild signed off on the Park City campaign copy, but Chad had a few ‘language notes’ he wants to run by you. Should I loop him in on the next call?”
“Jesus.” Frustration mounts, and I drop the tablet onto my desk.
Of course he saw the deck. Rothschild probably handed it over with a bow, grateful for the chance to have Vanderbilt Strategies “lend their expertise.” That’s what Chad calls it—consulting.But it’s really just a license to meddle. To reframe. To control the narrative from a boardroom six floors up and five degrees colder.
Chad’s not on the payroll, not officially. But he brokers half our sponsor relationships, and Rothschild wants to keep those six-figure checks flowing. So now Chad gets to leave comments in the margins.
