Page 33 of The Pucking Date
I finish getting dressed, letting the noise fade into the background as my thoughts drift south. Literally.
Raleigh. Dallas.
Both offers sitting in Marcus’s inbox. Both with numbers that would make most guys pack up without a second thought.
But I’m not most guys. And I’m sure as hell not going back to North Carolina, not to play in my father’s shadow, not to have every goal I score measured against his scandals. New York is where I became myself, separate from his legacy. This is where I want to stay.
I grab my phone from my locker, Marcus’s latest text glowing on the screen like an ultimatum. I’m not ready to answer him, not until I know exactly what I’m fighting for. And lately, that answer has green eyes and a talent for making me want things I shouldn’t.
As I head out, Liam falls into step beside me, keeping his voice low. “Seriously, Finn. You good?”
I glance at him, smirking. “Since when do you worry about me?”
He shrugs. “Since I realized you’re the only one dumb enough to flirt with Novak’s daughter under his nose. Even after seeing what he pulled off with me because of Sophie.”
I chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. “Relax, Captain. I’m always good.” But as I push through the doors and into the cool hallway air, I know that’s a lie.
Twenty minutes later,I’m walking into a conference room that smells of tension and freshly pulled espresso. Glass walls, sleek table, the kind of setup meant to look transparent while every conversation behind it is anything but.
A double shot sits waiting at my place—hot, strong, perfect. No sugar, no milk. Exactly the way I take it. The kind of detail only someone who’s been watching would know.
She won’t admit it, hell, she’ll probably pretend it was Joy or some assistant, but this is pure Jessica.
A silent move on the board. A signal that she’s interested. That she doesn’t hate the idea. And it slowly dawns on me that it’s her way of sayingI’m not a fucking coffee date.
I catch her eye across the table—slow, pointed, laced with heat. My look saysI saw it. I know it was you. And I’m coming for you.
Her mouth curves, just barely. That quiet, wicked smile she gives when she’s winning. Her eyes dance like she’s already three steps ahead.
She wants me. I know it. Ifeelit. So why the hell does she keep saying no?
The moment settles between us like a quiet promise,and I take my seat. Marcus is already there, flipping through his tablet. Blazer crisp, smile cutting. “About time,” he mutters under his breath.
Rothschild walks in next—silent, rigid, carrying all the charm of a cease-and-desist letter. He drops into the chair beside Jessica without so much as a glance. To him, we’re only numbers on a spreadsheet.
Coach Novak stands behind his chair, arms crossed. I’ve seen that look before, when he’s about to send a rookie to the minors.
And then there’s Joy, perched on the edge of her seat like she’s waiting for a pop quiz, wide eyes darting between faces. She’s got a notebook, a Moonbeans cup, and a Defenders hoodie that practically swallows her whole.
“I’m just observing,” she whispers when I glance her way, cheeks pink. “Social strategy. Player features.”
“Welcome to the deep end,” I murmur back.
Coach clears his throat. “Let’s keep this simple,” he says, voice rough. “You’re one of the top-performing forwards in the league. Second line or not, you pulled your weight last season, pushed us all the way to the Cup. No one questions your value. We’ve looked at the lines, and yeah, we’ve considered moving you up. Slotting you in at left wing on the first.” He pauses, eyes steady on me. “But truth is, this lineup works. It’s balanced. Keeps the pressure steady across both lines. You on second gives us depth, makes us lethal. I’d rather have two strong lines than one stacked.”
The silence stretches. “That said, I know your worth. I know what you’ve earned. We’re waiting on a couple key sponsorships to land before we can make the kind of offer you’d actually consider. One that reflects the impact you bring—on and off the ice.” He glances toward Rothschild, then back to me. “You’ve worn the A for two seasons now.You’ve earned it. Guys follow you. They trust you. And that matters.”
Marcus lifts a brow, mildly impressed. “Nice to hear that said out loud. Now if only it came with numbers.”
Coach doesn’t bite. “We’re working on it. But sponsor alignment’s lagging. Our cap is tight, and we’re not throwing out offers we can’t honor. Not when the math’s this close.”
Rothschild cuts in, tone clipped, “It’s not only about the dollars, it’s the optics. We need the right narrative. Legacy, loyalty, performance—we want the full package aligned before we move.”
Translation: We see your value. We just haven’t figured out how to pay for it yet.
Marcus leans forward, voice cool but firm. “Then maybe stop acting like you’re the only team with ice. Raleigh and Dallas are ready now. Full support, full money, full visibility. If you want to keep him, act like it.”
Coach’s jaw tightens. “We’re not letting him go without a fight. Don’t twist what this is.”
