Page 73 of The Pucking Date
I glance down at the table. The candlelight’s low. Napkins folded into crisp little triangles. The corner booth is too private.
This is not a meeting. It’s a setup.
“I’ll stick to water, thanks,” I say, picking up the glass. His smile flickers, tight, then smooth again.
“Fair enough.” He adjusts with an air of indulgence, treating me as though I’m being difficult. “O’Reilly…” he starts, dragging the name out. “He’s drawing interest. Serious numbers. But we both know he’s not turnkey.”
My spine goes stiff.
“Finn’s the top scorer on the team,” I say coolly. “He’s disciplined. Marketable. And a hell of a lot more coachable than half the veterans on the roster.”
Chad leans back, lips curling with a familiar condescension. “Sure. But brands want more than stats. They want someone stable. Professional. Not a loose cannon with a bad last name and worse impulse control.” He straightens his cuff. “There’s a deal on the table for him, though,” he adds casually, as if he had brokered the deal. “Fanatics. Nationalcampaign. Seven figures. Year-round visibility. Commercial spots, digital push, the whole machine.”
He lets that sit a beat. Then adds, tone a touch too satisfied, “But they make it conditional on O’Reilly signing with LA.”
And there it is. The catch. The knife wrapped in cash.
I breathe deep. Force myself to stay still and cold. But inside, I’m screaming.
This is business. Finn’s just another player heading west—and me making sure the paperwork’s clean when he goes.
I press my nails into the meat of my palm, grounding myself in the pain.
Get your shit together, Novak.
It’s the curse of being a woman in this game. You either play like the men do—measured, logical, unflinching—or you’re dismissed as emotional.
I clear my throat, my voice smooth even as my pulse pounds.
“If the offer’s finalized, send it over,” I say. “I’ll brief O’Reilly and loop in his agent.”
Satisfied, Chad nods and signals the waiter with a flick of his wrist, effortless entitlement, used to a world that’s waiting to serve him.
“We’ll take the chef’s special,” he says before I can open my mouth.
I snap my tablet shut, spine stiffening. “I can order for myself.”
He waves a dismissive hand, that infuriating smile still plastered on his face. “It’s braised salmon, Jess. Your favorite. Can’t run the league on caffeine and ambition alone.”
I glare at him over the rim of my water glass, biting back the dozen ways I could tell him exactly where to shove his unsolicited order. And I can’t evensmellsalmon latelywithout having to gag. All I want is watermelon. And cucumber. And maybe to slap him with a fillet.
“So,” he drawls, shifting back, giving the relaxed vibe of an old friend catching up. “How was your summer? I saw you on Fire Island for Labor Day.” He swirls his wine, watching me intently. “Did you ever take that Mandarin course in Shanghai like you planned?”
My stomach dips. For a beat, I see Finn. The way I slipped out of his bed and ghosted him all summer.
Chad tilts his head, lips curling into a lazy grin. “That busy, huh? Must’ve been one hell of a summer.”
I don’t bite.
He moves closer. “You used to tell me your plans.”
I set my water glass down slowly. “If you’re finished walking down memory lane, I’ll take the contract details so we can wrap this.”
He sighs, leans back, unhurried.
“Summit’s locked. Cain’s in—golden boy, clean numbers, a marketer’s dream. No drama, no headlines, just smooth sailing,” he says, lifting his glass. “Under Armour showed interest in O’Reilly, but I redirected them. He’s not the right fit, too rough around the edges. Image matters.”
But Under Armour isn’t just a campaign, it’s a turning point. A deal that could shift Finn’s entire trajectory, solidify his brand, and help lock him into New York for the next half a decade.
