Page 74 of The Pucking Date
On top of it, the Defenders need him.
He might be second line on paper, but Finn’s a top scorer, lethal against softer matchups, explosive on the rush. Spreading the offense between him and Liam is more than good strategy; it’s a winning ticket. They carried the team last season. Without both of them, a repeat Cup run is a fantasy.
He shifts and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Fanatics Sportswear likes him. If he signs out West, they’ll light the fuse. That’s his best option.”
Chad—the puffed-up, calculating ass—doesn’t care about what’s best for the Defenders or for Finn. It’s merely another move on his chess board.
I push back my chair, reaching for my bag. His hand shoots out, fingers grazing mine, light enough not to draw attention, heavy enough to make my skin crawl.
I freeze, my gaze locking onto his. “What are you doing, Chad?” My voice slices through the low hum of the restaurant. “You asked me here to talk about player contracts. And now we’re done talking.” He smiles, and I pull my hand away. “And don’t touch me ever again.”
His eyes narrow just a breath, but the mask stays firmly in place. “Jess—” he starts, trying to be charming. But my stomach churns.
“If you’ve got updates on the summit profiles, let’s hear them. If not, stop pretending we’re friends,” I cut in sharply.
A beat of silence. Then he drops his voice. “It’s not about the summit. Or contracts.”
I exhale slowly, the tension between my shoulder blades tightening.
He shifts forward, elbows on the table, tone dipped in that familiar coaxing register I know too well. “I want to offer you something...mutually beneficial.”
A warning bell rings in my gut. I keep my tone flat. “Mutually beneficial. What could you possibly offer me?”
He’s already ten moves ahead, presenting his offer like a gift instead of the poison it is. “Your own firm—Novak Communications. Seed money, office space, contracts ready to go. Apex, the summit, half a dozen others already signed.”His smile sharpens as he delivers the hook. “We just need to stay...friendly. Like we used to be.”
My throat burns. But I hold his gaze.
“I care about you, Jess.” His voice drops to that intimate register I remember too well, the tone he used when he wanted something. “I want you to have something that’s yours. Power. Autonomy. No more chasing approvals. No more glass ceilings.” He lets the silence stretch long enough to let it sink in. “You need a partner. Someone who matches your ambition. Not someone you have to clean up after.”
“You mean Finn O’Reilly?” I ask sweetly.
He lifts his glass and takes a slow sip. “Come on, Jess. O’Reilly? He’s not your endgame. He’s a distraction. Beneath you.”
I stare at him. At this soulless bastard who once convinced me he was worth believing in. Who now thinks I’m desperate enough to crawl back under him.
“You think Finn’s beneath me?” I laugh, low and deliberate. “That’s where you’ve got it backward, Chad. Finnian O’Reilly isn’t just built like a god, he fucks like one too.” I let the words sink in. “The worst part?” I smile. “You wouldn’t measure up if you trained for a decade. And unfortunately, I know that firsthand.”
The flicker in his eyes—rage, ego, something cracking—tells me I hit bone. “I know exactly what this is,” I continue, voice low. “You get headlines with your heiress and keep me tucked away for when you need to remember what power feels like.” I lean in, slow and sure, locking eyes with him. “Tell me, Chad, are you offering me a business…or a collar?”
His mask slips.
“You’ve always been the one,” he blurts out, panic bleeding into every word. “We were good together, weren’t we?”
I laugh. Soft. Cold. A death knell. “Good?” I echo, savoring the sting. “Chad, you’re not even playing the same sport.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s final.
“Let’s not pretend this is business. You want a mistress. In exchange for startup capital and a brand with your fingerprints all over it.” I cover my mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, sorry, was that too blunt? A bit too...slum-adjacent for your curated palette? You always did prefer your power plays in candlelight and contracts.”
His jaw tics. And the disgust in my gut burns clean now. I’m more than angry—I’m done.
“You want your pristine heiress for the headlines and me for the backrooms. Your public princess and your private whore.”
He doesn’t deny it. But his composure cracks. A man staring at his reflection never likes what he sees.
“I’d burn my career to the ground and salt the ashes before I let you touch me again. You had your chance, Chad. You threw it away the moment you decided I wasn’t worth keeping.”
I stand, fast enough to make the chair screech against the marble.
