Page 75 of The Pucking Date
Chad watches me, lips twitching. “Think about it, Jess. Pride doesn’t buy empires.”
I don’t answer. But as I turn on my heels, sharp strikes against marble, something shifts. Not just anger. Resolve. He’s right about one thing: pride doesn’t buy empires. Not for men like him, born with trust funds and country club pedigrees. But I come from a different line. Second-generation, self-made, built-from-scratch grit. My prideisthe empire. And I don’t need his name, his deals, or his shadow to build mine.
I walk faster. Straighter. The name comes to me like a revelation: NOVA Strategies. Not Novak Communications, beholden to family legacy. Something new. Something mine. A star burning bright enough to eclipse every man who thought he could control me.
I shove through the doors into the cool night air, lungs burning with fury. The terrace is nearly empty, just a few scattered tables under the soft glow of string lights. That’s when I feel it, that familiar electricity that always precedes him. The way the air shifts when he’s near.
I lift my eyes, and there he is. Finn O’Reilly, seated with Marcus at a corner table like a storm barely contained. One hand wrapped around a glass, the other clenched on the table. His gaze finds me instantly, as if he’s been waiting.
As if he felt me. And he’s asking one thing.
Who do I have to destroy?
Our eyes lock.
His mouth flattens.
Then his chair scrapes back.
16
BLOOD IN THE RING
FINN
Marcus is talking, but I’m not hearing a damn word. Something about once-in-a-lifetime offers. Career peak. Legacy deals.
“…this is what we worked for, Finn,” he says, his tone low and insistent. “Seven years in the league, leading scorer, cleaned-up image. LA’s not just knocking, they’re offering you the kingdom. You don’t turn down that kind of money. Not when you’ve got a name to rewrite.”
My jaw ticks.
Yeah. The name.
O’Reilly, the name I’ve been scrubbing since the day my old man pissed it away and then vanished into a shell of himself. He smiles now. Nods at the right moments. But he’s not there, not really. And you can’t ask him why. Can’t ask what the hell he thought he was doing to the name I’ve spent my whole life trying to fix.
Marcus thinks this is what I want—the money, the clean slate, the chance to be someone other than Patrick O’Reilly’s son. But staring at Jessica through that window, I know thetruth. LA could offer me the world, and it wouldn’t matter if she’s not in it.
She’s sitting across from Chad Vanderbilt in a booth that’s too private, under lighting that’s too soft, with a bottle of wine that doesn’t belong in a business meeting.
My grip tightens around my glass until the condensation drips down my knuckles.
Marcus keeps going, oblivious. “Look, I get it. You’ve got ties to New York. But loyalty doesn’t cash out, Finn. LA’s offering endorsements on top of the contract. This is generational money. You’d be insane not to take it.”
I watch Jessica’s posture shift—arms crossing, chin lifting in that way I know too well. She’s pissed. Chad leans in, all aristocratic entitlement, like he’s already sealed whatever deal he thinks he’s making.
A muscle in my jaw twitches.
I set my glass down before I shatter it.
“Finn?” Marcus prompts, sensing my silence. “You hearing me?”
I drag my gaze away, long enough to give him a look. “Yeah. You’re saying sell my soul for sunshine and a bigger paycheck.”
Marcus sighs, leaning forward. “I’m saying, this clears your slate. Whatever stain your father left on the O’Reilly name, this buries it. LA doesn’t care about old scandals. They care about stars. And you’re at your peak. You don’t get to hesitate when the league hands you the golden ticket.”
I used to think this was it. Big contracts. Clean slates. LA sunshine to bleach out every bad headline with a better one.
But none of that shit matters if I lose the one person I want.
