Page 3 of The Pucking Date
The party’s already in full swing. Music, champagne, half the team clustered around couches and bar tables. I spot Joy by the bar, deep in conversation with Wesley, the new kid, all dimples and PR gold. She catches my eye, raises her brows. I wave her off.
I should leave. I should beanywherebut here. Then I feel it, that electric charge that says someone’s watching me. And I know it’s him before I even turn.
Finn O’Reilly. Freshly showered. Button-down open at the throat, sleeves rolled, hair still damp. And he’s looking at me, knowing I tried to resist, and ended up showing up anyway.
“Come with me,” he says, low, steady, confident. He doesn’t doubt that I’ll obey.
I fold my arms in an attempt at defiance. “You don’t get to just…summon me.”
His mouth tilts into a grin. “Wasn’t summoning.”
“Then what was that?”
He shrugs, then steps closer, crowding my space, warmth radiating from him. “I was deciding. You need to see Montreal.”
That voice. That look. He’s already dismissed every excuse I’m about to make
“You can’t just drag me off somewhere,” I say, trying to hold my ground.
“Technically, I could.” His eyes are dancing. “But that wouldn’t be real polite now, would it?”
A beat. Then he leans in, voice dropping to something low and warm. “‘Unless you want me to.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “You’re forward.”
“You’ve nailed it.” His lips curve into that million-dollar smile. “And I’m also real tired of sharin’ you with the Novak security detail.” A wicked, lazy grin spreads over his face. “Just one evening. No Adam starin’ me down from the buffet table. No Coach Novak eyeing me like I’m one look away from benching. Just seein’ how good we get along when there ain’t nothin’ in the way.”
I bite back a laugh. God, that hits a nerve.
Because they do hover. Adam with his constant presence and subtle glares. Dad with his stone-faced, old-school rules about “team professionalism” that conveniently translate tono one touches my daughter. Ever.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m sick of feeling like the team’s forbidden fruit.
“They both act like I’m still fifteen,” I mutter. “Last I checked, I’m a grown woman.”
“I know,” Finn says, easy and smooth, the Carolina drawl sliding over his every word like honey. His voice dips lower. “Believe me, darlin’, I’ve noticed.”
The look he gives me is heat and hunger, feeling dangerously close to a claim.
I should say no, that’s what smart Jessica would do. But I’m tired of being smart Jessica, the one who always follows the rules. For once, I want to be the woman who takes what she wants.
He’s giving me exactly what no one else has in months—freedom. Choice. Space to be seen as something other than Coach Novak’s daughter or the woman every guy on the roster is too afraid to talk to. A few hours outside the suffocating bubble my dad wrapped around me.
“Novak,” he murmurs, his voice smoke. “Give me a chance.”
And this time, when he offers his hand, I take it. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and sure. The pressure is light, but the message is clear:
I want you.
We slip out the back of the hotel. He doesn’t let go. And I don’t want him to.
The city stretches out in front of us, warm summer air curling through the streets, the hum of music and life spilling from patios and rooftop bars. Montreal at night is made for romance. Cobblestone alleys. Twinkling lights. Laughter bouncing off old stone walls.
He walks, confident and calm, like he’s had this mapped out for weeks.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying not to sound breathless.
He glances over, his grin lazy. “To ruin you for all other cities.”
