Page 68 of The Pucking Date
“Don’t you have a girlfriend to FaceTime?” I ask, voice flat.
His eyes flicker, the smile thinning. “Always so charming in the mornings.”
Wes coughs into his hand, half laughing. “Hey, Finn, you spotting?” He doesn’t wait. Getting off the treadmill, he loads the bench with plates. I follow, towel slung around my neck, hands settling on the bar.
Chad moves to the dumbbell rack. Picks up a pair of thirty-fives. Decent weight. Enough to look strong without risking sweat. He positions himself in front of the mirror and starts curling.
Three reps. Adjusts his grip. Checks his phone. Switches sides. He’s not working, he’s performing.
Wes glances at me as he racks the bar. Merely a look. No words needed.
I keep spotting. Keep lifting. Chad’s watching. Not obvious. But enough for us to see—the tilt of his head, the way his jaw clenches when Wes grunts through a hard set.
“He’s not subtle,” Wes mutters, low.
I nod and reposition the bar. Every part of me wants to turn, to meet Chad’s stare and shut this polite charade down. But I let him posture.
The next half hour is a quiet war of sweat and silence. Metal clanks. Breathing sharpens. No one speaks.
Chad finally picks up his phone and water bottle, lingering a beat longer to make his point before heading for the door. “Catch you later,” he tosses over his shoulder, like we’re old friends instead of barely restrained enemies.
The door shuts behind him. Wes exhales, then glances at me. “Glad you didn’t kill him. Would’ve been a hell of a mess to clean up before breakfast.”
I drag a hand down my face, tension coiling at the base of my neck.
Wes swings his legs off the bench. “You good?”
“TBD.”
He tosses me a towel. “You’ve got an hour to rinse off, protein up, and slap on that sponsor-approved smile, preferably without decking Vanderbilt.”
The breath I huff out doesn’t reach my chest. I’m about to walk into that conference hall and pretend I’m fine. That I didn’t spend the night with Jessica Novak wrapped around me. That she didn’t vanish before dawn. That the smug bastard still sniffing around her doesn’t make me want to put a fist through the nearest wall.
She left before dawn. Again.
But this time, I’m not letting her get away with it.
In my head, I hear the echo of her breathless moans when she came on my tongue. When I woke up, her perfume still lingered on the sheets, faint vanilla and salt. She left no trace but that scent and memory.
And Jesus, what a memory.
The way she said my name when I touched her. The way her nails dug into my shoulders, wanting to get close enough to merge. Her skin under my hands, slick with heat and want. Her voice, breaking apart when she came—sharp, soft, then silent.
But I should’ve known she’d wake up and put herself back together, pretending it never happened. Slip into that armor of hers—clean lines, red lips, and zero margin for error. Untouchable Jessica Novak. PR queen. Coach’s daughter. My favorite sin.
An hour later, I’m showered, suited, and wearing the performance mask that pays my bills. The conference hall buzzes with familiar energy—sponsor reps, media vultures, and players working the room. Time to be Finn O’Reilly, marketing dream, while pretending my world isn’t tilting off its axis.
A Fanatics rep intercepts me near the coffee station. “Hell of a performance last night, O’Reilly. You choreograph that footwork, or was it pure improvisation?”
I flash the sponsor-approved smile. “Little of both. Keeps things interesting.”
After forty minutes of playing the charming, marketable athlete, I’m stepping off the stage. The panel on ‘Athletic Branding in the Digital Age’ went exactly as scripted; I delivered the rehearsed anecdotes, hit the approved talkingpoints, and made the sponsors feel like they were getting their money’s worth.
But my attention’s already drifting across the room to where Jessica stands in her element—blazer crisp, iPad in hand, running her war room with scary efficiency.
And when our eyes meet, there is nothing. No flicker. No softness. A curt nod—professional, polite—and she turns back to her conversation. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just another player in the lineup.
Not the man who was inside her six hours ago.
