The Pucking Bet (Defenders Diaries #6)

Chapter 1

STARBOY (KIERAN)

Kings don’t take attendance. But the girl tucked in the corner, refusing to look at me, makes me want to start counting.

The house breathes trouble. A big Victorian ten minutes off campus, built for quiet mornings and now reborn as a frat-party cathedral with sticky floors and oversized furniture.

Someone hung a crooked Defenders poster in the hallway, a tribute to my brother with a Sharpie mustache. I leave it. Keeps morale high.

Tonight the entry swells with girls in glitter and expectations stacked low.

My teammates orbit the room, loud and starving for distraction.

The neighbors complain, then wander in for drinks once the bass gets irresistible.

The kitchen reeks of tequila and lime. The living room pulses with sweat and new semester energy.

One spark, and the whole place could go up.

I’m home here. Apex predator in familiar territory. I walk through the crowd, and it bends. Hands brush my shoulders, nails graze my arm, lips angle toward my jaw for selfies. Someone yells my name and cheers answer back. I throw my smirk—my bad idea smirk—and the room lights up.

This is my world. Star winger, senior year, O’Connor bloodline, full ride. BU’s golden boy, even if my brother Liam covers the rent my stipend won’t touch. I score goals on Fridays and collect attention on Saturdays. My boys love me for it, hate me for it, and feed off the spillover.

A cherry dress slides into my orbit with two shots. “For your sins, O’Connor.”

I down both and wink. “Guess I’ll need two more.”

She laughs, curls into me, but before I can decide whether to lean in, a word cuts through the noise, silk over steel. “Boring.”

I don’t turn right away. That’s her trick. I let the word slide down my spine before I slowly pivot.

Isabelle Merteuil stands halfway down the stairs, wrapped in black and the kind of confidence that doesn’t need an audience but always gets one. Diamond studs catch the light. Every inch of her is curated danger.

“Bonsoir, mon chéri.” Her smile is sharp. “Still the same show—girls, drinks, the grin that makes them forget you’re ordinary.”

I meet her gaze, unhurried. “And you? Still grading my performance?”

She descends one step. “Someone has to. You’ve gone mechanical. Same rhythm every night.”

“Consistency wins games.”

“But it isn’t art.” Her eyes glitter. “You used to improvise.”

“You offering inspiration?”

She studies me, mouth tilting. “You’ve turned yourself into a brand, Kieran. Predictable. Marketable. Dull.”

I laugh once. “You say that like winning’s a flaw.”

She hums, unimpressed. Her gaze slides toward the back of the room, where fairy lights bleed into the night and the music softens near the open door. “See her?”

I don’t need to ask who she means. My gaze has drifted there all night.

The girl stands half in shadow, holding a plastic cup like she’s bracing against the noise.

No glitter. No costume. Just jeans, a thrifted jacket, hair pulled back in a ponytail that refuses to behave.

Movement bounces off her, but she doesn’t shrink.

She absorbs it. Compensates. Keeps her own internal tempo.

Isabelle’s voice glides through the air. “So plain. So serious. Always studying. Supposedly the best in her class.” She turns back to me, head cocked. “Rattle her, and maybe I’ll let you have what you’ve been auditioning for since freshman year.”

“Is that so?”

Her tone curls low, velvet threaded with steel. “Any way you want, mon petit prince. Wouldn’t you finally like to know what it feels like to have the queen under you?”

She plays for ego, not emotion. I should laugh her off.

But the rhythm of the room shifts: music, voices, footsteps syncing around that still girl by the door. Everyone else moves on fours and eights; she moves on her own measure. She doesn’t fit the pattern, and that draws me more than Isabelle’s bite ever could.

Isabelle leans in, perfume brushing my jaw. “You think you’re irresistible? Prove it.” Her nails graze my sleeve, a taunt aimed at my pride.

Behind me, Reed whoops. “Yeah, O’Connor, make the ice queen fall for you. Or hand the crown to Weston.”

Laughter explodes. Jace’s phone is up, red light blinking. Someone starts chanting my name like it’s a penalty shot.

Suddenly it’s not a taunt. It’s a bet with half the campus watching.

And the girl by the door hasn’t moved once.

Her balance is perfect—centered weight, grounded heels, relaxed shoulders, gaze tracking in smooth passes. Muscle memory, not nerves. She compensates before contact. No wasted motion.

It shouldn’t fascinate me. But it does. Quietly, like a frequency no one else can hear.

Laughter spikes again. Reed’s voice cuts through the bass. “Go on, O’Connor! Let’s see it!”

The room tilts toward me, waiting.

Maybe that’s why I move. Or maybe it’s because she hasn’t looked at me once.

I roll my shoulders, mask sliding into place. The grin that says I’m the king. “Not even a challenge,” I toss back.

A flicker in my chest disagrees.

Beer breath and grabby hands close in as I push through the crowd. The air thickens, then cools by the open door where she stands with a friend. Red Hoodie clocks me and blinks. The other one holds her ground.

Up close, this girl is trouble disguised as restraint.

Serious face. Long dark hair with one rebellious lock. Clean skin. An unpainted, inconveniently kissable mouth. Oversized sweater. Worn jeans. A repaired shoulder seam.

That loose strand brushes her cheek. She doesn’t fix it. Everything about her is contained. Controlled. Ready.

Her eyes flick to my jaw.

Shit. Lipstick smear.

I drag my thumb across it and probably make it worse, then take the last half step into her space.

“Hey,” I say, flashing the smile that does half the work. “You came underdressed for this zoo. Want a drink? Something stronger than water?”

“No.” Immediate. Clean. “I like my brain working.”

The word slaps. When was the last time anyone told me no?

Okay. Fine.

I adjust.

“Patio’s quieter,” I say, reloading, the rhythm automatic. “Walk with me.”

“No.”

The way she says it stops me. No apology. No hedging. Just a clean strike across the ego.

Most girls would already be halfway to the door. She doesn’t move. She watches me, steady, unimpressed, waiting to see what I’ll do with myself now.

“All right,” I say, slowing down. “I’m Kieran.”

“I know.”

Of course she does.

“And you are…?”

“Wren.”

It fits her. “Beautiful name.”

“It’s cheap,” she says. “Fewer letters. Fewer typos. Hard to mispronounce.”

It almost makes me laugh. I steady myself. “Let me guess your major. Engineering?” Her face doesn’t move, so I keep going. “You fixed that seam yourself?”

“I did. Needle, thread, podcast. No blood.”

“You’re good,” I say, stepping closer. “I could use hands like that in my life.”

Her brows lift. “Shabby pickup line.”

Jace muffles a laugh behind me. Someone mutters something.

The first notes of “Starboy” slam through the speakers, bright and sharp.

“Dance with me.” I tip my chin toward the living room, heat crawling up my neck.

“No.”

Another hit, low and clean.

“You don’t dance?”

“Not with you.”

The words land somewhere under my ribs. My breath goes shallow for half a second—just long enough to notice, not long enough to show.

I rake a hand through my hair, forcing the grin back into place.

“You’re the most interesting person in this house.”

She glances toward the kitchen. “Incorrect. The girl in purple is explaining bridges. She’s more interesting. And nicer. Try her.”

A hoot goes up behind me, my name stretched into a dare.

I ignore it and lift a hand toward the strand on her cheek. “This keeps escaping. Want me to—”

She steps back a fraction. “Hands to yourself, Starboy. Consent.”

Soft. Final.

I pull my hand down. “Fair enough. No hands. One question.”

“Pass.”

I ask anyway. “What’s torque?”

Her eyes flicker. Just once—the first crack in her order. “A tendency of a force to rotate an object about an axis. τ equals r cross F. Change r, change the moment.”

The surge hits—ridiculous, triumphant, undeserved. I can feel the room lean back toward me.

There it is. I’ve got her.

“See?” I huff a laugh, warmth threading through the noise. “Most interesting person here.”

“And yet,” she says, dry, “still not dancing with you.”

She steps past me. I match her, careful not to touch.

“Not giving up yet?” she asks.

“Not my thing.” I grin, thinner now. “You sure you don’t want to give me one minute of your time?”

“One minute you’d spend talking about yourself.”

That one lands. I force a laugh, but she’s already shifting away.

“Enjoy your party, O’Connor.”

Her control gets under my skin. Everyone else reacts to me. She corrects.

I step closer. “Tell me something, Wren.”

She pauses. Looks up. Dark. Steady. Unblinking. For one beat, the noise drops out, and I lose my footing.

“So,” I say, quieter now, “what’s your read on me?”

She studies me, head tilted. “Depends what you mean by read.”

I blink, thrown off. Again.

“When you talk,” she offers flatly, “I see steel blue. Silver threads. Measured. But the edge is red. Irritation. And there’s a pinprick of white static under it. You’re pretending it’s fine.”

The words land hard, even though I don’t know what to do with them. Something in my chest tightens, instinctively defensive, instinctively interested.

I shift my weight, searching for the old angle. The one that always works.

“Walk with me,” I try again.

“No.”

Her gaze slips past my shoulder toward the back of the room.

I follow it. She’s watching a tall, athletic guy with dark hair, wire-rim glasses, and sleeves pushed up over thick, tattooed forearms. He leans in to hear the girl in purple, smiling that reluctant smile people mistake for mystique.

A few feet away, Isabelle lingers near the banister, watching him with a sharp, calculating interest. Wren’s mouth softens, barely, but enough to make my pulse jump. Then she catches herself, color rising in her cheeks.

My gut twists. Sharp. Ugly.

She’s not immune to guys.

Just to me.

“Friend of yours?” I ask, irritation leaking through.

“What?” She deflects, caught.

“Glasses.” I nod toward him. “Mr. Library Model.”

“That’s—” She stops. Breath catches. “Our ride’s here.”

She sets her cup on the counter, sliding it two inches from the edge so no one spills it. Careful. Controlled. Everything I’m not at this moment.

“Goodnight, O’Connor.”

The door shuts behind her. A blue Civic idles at the curb. She slips inside with her friend, composed and unshaken, while half my team watches me flame out.

Isabelle drifts up beside me, perfume curling through the cold air, satisfaction soft as smoke. “Amusant,” she murmurs. “Five no’s. Losing your edge?”

“Shut up,” I snap.

Her laugh is low, mocking. “Puppy growls.” Then, quieter: “New rules, mon cher. Rattling her isn’t enough. Make her fall.”

The word fall doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t sound like a win. It sounds like a warning.

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“I’m the deal.”

Diamonds catch the fairy lights when she smiles. Merciless, glossy, built to cut. “Prove you’re the man everyone thinks you are.”

She turns away, pleased with herself.

I stand there longer than I should, jaw tight, pulse uneven—annoyed at her, and worse, at myself for caring.

That’s the moment it clicks. Not that I’ll lose the bet, but that winning it will cost me something I won’t know how to get back.

And yet, I don’t walk away.

Maybe in her Sartre tragedy, everything collapses before it even begins.

But in hockey, you don’t lose in the first period. You regroup. You grind.

And you finish in the third.