Page 79 of The Pucking Date
“The deal’s contingent on LA?” I press, even though I know the answer.
“Naturally. East Coast grit doesn’t sell like West Coast glamour.” He winks, like this is nothing more than goodbusiness. “Besides, Rothschild’s got his golden boy already. Cain’s locked for the Northeast campaign. O’Reilly belongs under the California sun.”
I nod, sharp and efficient. “Send me the full terms. I’ll brief his agent.”
“And Finn?” Grant asks, eyes glinting with that corporate predatory gleam. “You’ll make sure he understands what’s at stake?”
I school my face into perfect neutrality. “That’s my job.”
He smiles, all smug confidence. We’re on the same team, apparently. Never mind that I mentally buried a stylus in his forehead.
I pivot, excusing myself under the guise of a scheduling conflict before I do something that gets me blacklisted from every sponsorship table in North America.
But as I walk away, my stomach knots tighter with every step.
Because this is more than a deal.
It’s a leash, stitched in gold thread, polished to look like freedom, but a leash all the same. The kind that tightens slowly, so you don’t feel it cutting off your air until it’s too late.
And Finn’s the perfect target. Too proud to flinch. Too stubborn to see the trap for what it is. He’ll tell himself he’s in control, that it’s business, numbers on a contract. That moving to LA is his choice. His win.
But I know better.
I’ve watched men like Grant package players into commodities and strip them down until there’s nothing left but a marketable shell. They’ll use his story, his scars, his name, and when the shine fades, they’ll move on to the next headline, leaving him hollowed out and smiling for cameras that no longer care.
My heels click faster against the marble as the weight settles in my chest.
This isn’t my place. It’s not my job to protect him—except it is the only thing that matters to me now. I’m supposed to manage optics, draft statements, and make sure the sponsors stay happy. But somewhere between the first smirk he ever threw my way and the feel of his mouth on my skin the other night, the lines blurred. And now I’m standing on the edge, watching him walk straight toward a cage wrapped in dollar signs.
But I’m not some wide-eyed rookie who freezes when the game turns dirty. I know how this works. I know how to twist the narrative before it twists him. Because Finn O’Reilly doesn’t need saving. He needs someone who knows how to play the sponsors harder than they’re playing him. Someone who can show him that the real power isn’t in signing the deal, it’s in rewriting the terms.
I square my shoulders, pushing past the knot in my chest.
If he’s smart—and God, I know he is under all that swagger—he’ll listen when I tell him how to turn this leash into a launchpad. How to build a brandon his termswithout selling pieces of himself to corporate America.
Protecting Finn O’Reilly is about making sure when he cashes in on his name, it’s him holding the leash.
Twenty minutes later,I’m scanning the ballroom for my real target. Everywhere I look, it’s pressed suits, designer heels, quiet deals made over mineral water and manicured handshakes. Fanatics thinks they’ve won, but I’m about to change the game.
It’s a break between panels. ‘Athlete Influence in Digital Media’ just wrapped, and ‘Sponsorship Trends in Emerging Markets’ is up next. Half the attendees are networking. The other half are pretending not to notice who’s talking to whom.
I’ve done my part. Sat through two panels, fielded three sponsor follow-ups, smiled until my cheeks ached, all while trying to ignore the nausea that’s been clawing at me since morning.
But my patience is gone.
Because Finn O’Reilly’s face is plastered across Fanatics mock-ups. Of course they moved early. Chad probably told them the ink was drying.
Somewhere across the room, the bastard is circling. He hasn’t approached. He won’t; he knows better than to walk into fire without a plan. But I see him. Arm draped over the back of a branded lounge chair, shirt crisp, eyes locked on every move I make. He watches, poised, thinking he’s still owed an update
He’s not.
And I’m done playing quiet.
I spot the Under Armour team by the VIP lounge, two senior execs, half-interested, half-bored, sipping sparkling water with lime, scanning the crowd with curated disinterest. I stride across the floor, tablet under my arm, pulse steady in a tight rhythm. Spine straight, the way Margaret Novak raised me. One of her cardinal rules: you’re tall, so hold your ground and don’t fold for anyone.
“Jessica Novak,” I say, offering my hand with enough pressure to register confidence, not desperation. “PR Director for the Defenders. We haven’t met officially.”
They shake my hand. One of them nods. “We’re familiar.”
