Page 78 of The Pucking Date
I smile, a slow, dangerous thing. “See, that’s where we’re different. I don’t negotiate when it comes to her.” I drop my hands to the back of his chair, my shadow swallowing him whole. His shoulders stiffen, the first crack in that polished veneer.
“Careful,” he says, voice tight despite himself. “Wouldn’t want anyone to misunderstand your...enthusiasm.”
I laugh, low and dangerous. “See, Chad, you’ve got your contracts and your daddy’s money. But I’ve got something you’ll never have.”
He raises a brow. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Her.”
I let that land, watch his grip tighten on the stem of his glass. “So let me make this simple. You keep your deals, your sponsors, and your pathetic power plays away from my girl. Because the next time I see her walk out of a room looking like that…” I let the promise hang, my grip tightening enough for him to feel it. “We won’t be having a conversation.”
Chad huffs a demeaning laugh. “Yourgirl?” He leans in, voice dripping with disdain. “Please. She was mine first. You’re just getting my leftovers.”
I go still.
“Let me remind you,” I murmur, my smile a loaded weapon. “Gladiators don’t walk away until there’s blood on the floor.”
His throat works, but he doesn’t speak.
Smart.
“Find another board, Vanderbilt. Because this one’s mine. And if you come near her again, you’ll discover just how bloody that floor can get.”
17
EAST VS. WEST
JESSICA
By mid-afternoon, my heels are killing me and I’ve smiled so much my cheeks ache, but the sponsors are still circling, drawn to the scent of opportunity.
I shift the tablet in my hand, nodding along as the Fanatics Sportswear rep—Grant something, too polished to bother remembering—launches into his pitch. Except this isn’t a pitch. It’s a victory lap. Because in his mind, Finn O’Reilly is already theirs.
“He’s the full package,” Grant says, adjusting his designer cufflinks, settling into the glow of a done deal. “Top scorer, media-friendly, dangerous but clean enough to sell. That Southern charm? Plays everywhere. And LA—” He spreads his hands, presenting it as the inevitable next chapter. “That’s a stage built for stories with teeth.”
My grip tightens around the stylus, but my smile stays flawless. “Finn O’Reilly’s focus is on the season ahead. Wherever that plays out.”
Grant chuckles, amused, as if I’ve told a cute joke. “Jessica, come on. We both know this is bigger than hockey.” He leans in, lowering his voice to that conspiratorial tone menuse when they think they’re letting you in on a secret. “This is about more than points on the board. It’s about narrative. About resonance.”
I arch a brow, letting him dig his own grave.
He taps his tablet, spinning it around to show me a mock-up—Finn lacing up skates, wearing Fanatics gear, that cocky grin aimed straight at the consumer’s wallet. Behind him? A tagline that makes my stomach twist.
“Rewriting Legacy: The Rise of O’Reilly”
Grant sees my reaction and smiles wider. “We don’t hide from his past, we sell it. The son of a disgraced legend, carving his own path? It’s the American dream with a redemption arc. People eat that shit up.”
I force a nod, my nails digging into the leather case of my tablet. “And what exactly are you expecting from him?”
“Full campaign, docuseries, the works. We position him as the face of second chances.” The tagline makes my stomach turn; they want to sell his trauma as inspiration.
Hearing Finn’s pain packaged into a marketing slogan makes something bitter rise in my throat.
“And his father?” I ask, testing how far they’re willing to go.
Grant shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Ancient history. That scandal was, what, a decade ago? The public loves a comeback. We control the narrative, make Finn the guy who didn’t just outrun his father’s shadow, but burned it to the ground. Hell, we’ll probably sell more because of it.”
Of course they will. Because nothing moves product like a man who bleeds for the camera and smiles through it.
