Page 41 of The Pucking Date
“She is evil,” Dmitri declares. “Perfect. But evil.”
I run a hand over my face and toss the phone onto the bench. “She’s gonna drive me plumb crazy.”
Nate claps me on the shoulder. “You’re already halfway there, man.”
The others peel off slowly, grabbing gear, chirping each other, heading toward the showers or the parking lot. Dmitri leaves, muttering something in Russian about American emotional constipation. Wesley offers one last wink before disappearing.
Nate lingers, pulling a hoodie over his damp hair.
“You really like this girl,” he says finally, voice low and even.
I shrug, but it sits wrong on my shoulders.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
He nods once. Doesn’t say more, just leans back against the row of lockers, deciding whether to press further.
“She’s different,” I add. “Not just hot different. Like…oxygen different.”
Nate lets out a soft huff of breath, then slants me a look. “So why’s she dodging you like you’ve got a rap sheet?”
“Hell if I know.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Every time I think I’ve cracked the code, she flips the board.”
“Maybe she’s scared.”
I blink at him. “You get all this from standing still in a net?”
He smirks. “Goalies are the therapists of the ice. We see everything.”
I laugh, but it’s short. “You ever get tired of chasing someone who keeps slipping away? Like every time you think you’re close, she changes the rules of the game, but you can’t quit playing because losing her would be worse than never having her at all?”
Nate’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Maybe she’s not running from you, man. Maybe she’s testing whether you’ll stick around when it gets complicated. Whether you’re the kind of guy who fights for what he wants or just talks about it in locker rooms.”
9
LETTING HER FLY
JESSICA
The rink is empty when I lace up my skates, the clock barely past seven. The lights haven’t fully awakened yet, just that soft fluorescent buzz of a building still deciding whether to start the day. Sharp air cuts through my lungs, my breath forming clouds in the chill. Cold, quiet, exactly what I need.
The players won’t arrive until eight. An hour to outrun the thoughts that have been chasing me for days—the nausea, the exhaustion, the possibility I’ve been refusing to name.
Me and the ice. Nothing else.
I step out and push off hard and fast. My blades cut clean lines through the surface, carving the kind of order my brain hasn’t known in weeks.
Long, clean laps. Crossovers. A sharp pivot here, a fast turn there. The ice gives and resists all at once. It knows me, and it’s glad I’m back.
My arms are swinging wide, lungs filling, body moving without asking permission from my mind. I skate like I used to, before every choice came with consequences, beforeevery want had a price tag, before I learned that letting go meant losing control.
And then, inevitably, Finn’s face flashes in my head, all crooked grins and dangerous charm. That slow Southern drawl that disarms before it cuts. That body built for violence and velvet. Too strong. Too tempting.
Too easy to unravel for. Fall for.
It would be so simple to let him in. Ignore every warning bell and go all in on the way he makes me feel—seen, wanted, undone.
But Finn O’Reilly doesn’t do forever; he does highlight reels and headlines, flash and heat and graceful exits. I’m not about to become another cautionary tale about the coach’s daughter who thought she was different.
