Page 81 of The Pucking Date
His smirk fades, replaced by something far more focused. “You want me to take it?”
I hold his gaze, steady and professional, even as it shreds me inside. “I want you to be smart. The LA contract? That’s clean. It’s a career move; you either want it, or you don’t. But Fanatics?” I shake my head, my voice dropping lower. “That’s where they’ll own you if you’re not careful.”
His eyes narrow slightly, tracking every word now.
“If you even consider signing with them—and I’m not saying you should—you need ironclad provisions,” I continue, keeping my tone clipped and precise. “Controlover your image. Final approval on every campaign. No sob-story narratives about your father. No ‘rise from scandal’ angles. They’ll want to sell redemption because it prints money.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You build your brand on your terms, O’Reilly. Not theirs. No mandatory redemption optics unless you choose them. No media circus dragging up your family name for clicks.”
I take a breath, forcing my tone to stay level when all I want to do is grab him by that damn shirt and make him see how dangerous this is. “Get the paycheck without selling your legacy. That’s the play.”
He studies me, that playful glint replaced by something heavier. Calculating. “And what about the Defenders?” he asks quietly. “What if I’m not ready to walk?”
I force a breath. Keep my spine straight when every part of me wants to waver. “We’re still waiting on Rothschild to step up. Nothing’s guaranteed. Season’s starting, and you’re unsigned. Having LA in your back pocket isn’t just smart, it’s survival.”
His jaw ticks, but his focus stays fixed on me, searching for something I refuse to show. Searching for the truth I can’t give him—that I’m pregnant with his child and terrified he’ll choose LA before I find the courage to tell him.
“You always this ruthless, Novak?” he murmurs. “Or is this how you protect someone you care about?”
The words hit too close to home. “I’ll set up a meeting with Marcus. We’ll go over the terms you’re going to demand.”
I turn before he can see the truth—that every word about him leaving is like a knife to the chest. That I’m not just protecting his career, I’m fighting for our future.
I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I might do something stupid, like tell him I love him, tell him about the baby, tell him that losing him to LA would destroy me in ways I’m not sure I’d survive.
18
TENNESSEE HEAT
JESSICA
The lounge is loud, too loud for thinking, which is probably the point.
It’s the last night of the summit, and the sponsors have loosened their ties while the players trade cocktails for bad song choices and worse harmonies. The karaoke machine in the corner is already responsible for at least three crimes against music, but no one seems to care. Ego, liquor, and adrenaline make for dangerous combinations.
I nurse a glass of club soda, perched at a high-top table safely away from the action. Away from him.
Finn O’Reilly is across the room, surrounded by players, relaxed in that infuriating way only he can pull off. The world bends around his gravity. Every time I glance over, he’s looking at me. Waiting. He knows I’m two seconds from falling.
I drag my gaze away, focusing on Wesley Cain stumbling his way through “Sweet Caroline” to a chorus of off-key ba-ba-baas and drunken laughter. He’s charming enough topull it off—boyish grin, a little self-deprecating flair—but God, he can’t sing to save his life.
The mic squeals as Wesley finishes to raucous applause. He bows like a showman, then points, grinning.
Right at Finn.
My stomach drops.
Finn pushes off the bar, slow and unhurried. He was expecting this. Every step toward that stage feels intentional, like he’s not just walking, he’sdeciding. On something dangerous.
Someone shouts, “Give us a show, O’Reilly!”
He doesn’t react. Just rolls his shoulders, takes the mic with one hand, and scrolls through the song list. The crowd buzzes. My heart stutters.
