Page 37 of The Pucking Date
He falls into step beside me, lazy and confident. “So it’s a pity invite.”
“It’s a strategy. The Defenders need you.”
He hums low in his throat. “And here I thought I was the redemption story of the season.”
“You’re the redemptionface,” I correct, keeping my voice light. “Big difference.”
“And you’re the genius spinning it into gold.”
There’s heat in the way he says it. Something heavy under the flirtation.
“You gonna babysit me the whole trip?” he teases, trailing behind. “Or just give me a shock collar and a list of approved adjectives?”
“I’ll be managing the player appearances,” I say crisply, ignoring the curl of something warm under my skin. “Wes and you. Try not to embarrass me.”
He leans in, voice low. “Can’t make any promises. But I do like it when you’re watching.”
Instead of responding, I keep walking, steady on the outside, even as something twists low and hard in my stomach.
He holds the door open for me, gaze lingering a second too long. I step inside first and spot the espresso on the table—hot, no sugar, exactly how he likes it. Exactly how I told the staff to prepare it. A signal, precise and deliberate. A tellI can’t help but leave, even when I’m trying to keep my hands clean.
I steal a glance as he notices—the pause, the slight tilt of his head, then that slow, devastating grin that says he knows exactly what this means. That I’m thinking about him. That I remember how he likes things. That I can’t help myself, even when I should.
He looks up, catches me watching, and smirks. The bastard knows he’s already won something.
My jaw clenches. I glance over the player profiles on the screen, faking disinterest.
The meeting drags. Sponsor activations, media blocks, photo ops—all framed like strategy, but I know what this is. A sales pitch. A stage. A glossy, pre-season auction where the league pretends this is about legacy and loyalty, when it’s really about one thing: making the numbers work for Rothschild’s end-of-year bonus.
This is my job, and I play along. But by the time I make it back to my office, the weight is unbearable. My head is pounding. My stomach’s twisted. I close the door, sink into my chair, and finally let the mask slip.
I don’t want to go to this summit. Not when it feels like I’m selling off parts of Finn to pad a balance sheet.
If I had my own agency, I’d still be doing events like this, but the power would be mine. The narrative would be mine. And players like Finn wouldn’t be reduced to redemption stories they never needed to write.
This trip is supposed to save the season, lock down Finn’s contract, prove I can deliver the impossible. So why does it feel like I’m the one about to shatter? Like every step toward securing his future is another step away from mine?
8
STILL NOT A DATE
FINN
The puck rings off the post and ricochets into the corner with a sound like a gunshot.
“Jesus, O’Reilly,” Nate mutters from the crease, adjusting his mask. “You aiming for the parking lot or just trying to give me a concussion?”
“Keeping your reflexes sharp,” I call back, circling toward center ice with more force than finesse.
He snorts. “Tell that to the guy who almost lost a kidney.”
We reset. I drop my shoulder, pivot on the toe of my blade, and send another shot screaming toward the net. This one misses wide too—clean, fast, and completely off target.
Nate lets it fly. “You trying to prove something? Or just hate that goalpost in particular?”
“Thought I’d make it earn its keep,” I say, dry. But the edge in my voice gives me away.
He eyes me under his mask. Doesn’t press. The way only a friend can. Clocking my every move and saving it for later.
