Page 13 of Unleashed

“I keep telling myself I could handle it differently,” I whispered. “Show his strength instead of his weakness. His leadership. But Malone...” My voice cracked. “You know what he’ll want. The drama. The controversy. He’ll take Jack’s story and turn it into some twisted cautionary tale about pride and stubbornness.”

“So don’t let him.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

The weight of compromise settled on my shoulders like lead. Because it wasn’t simple. Nothing about Jack Vignier was simple—especially not the way my heart raced every time he was near. The way I wanted to protect him even while considering exposing his most vulnerable moments for the world to see.

God, I was such a hypocrite.

Chapter Six

Viggy

Hockey Rule #17: What happens in the locker room stays in the locker room

Media Rule #17: Everything is content

SevenyearsI’dlivedin this neighborhood. Seven years in an overpriced condo. And seven years since I’d discovered this little dive bar tucked away on a side street. A ghost town Sunday to Thursday, the joint spun jazz music and draped string lights over a tiny patio. Over the years, this place had become my sanctuary.

Tonight, though, Lily fucking Sutton invaded that sanctuary.

The woman sat at a table in the corner, dark hair catching the glow of the lights. My pulse kicked up a notch before I could shut it down. What the hell was she doing here? This wasn’t her scene. Not a chance in hell. She was all bright lights and fancy cameras. Ms. Hollywood with her microphone and nosy-ass questions. Not the kind of woman to hole up in a dimly lit bar, hunched over a laptop.

And Christ, those shorts again? Almost eight months of professional pantsuits, but here was Ms. Hollywood flashing bare legs in another pair of those tiny shorts designed to wreck my self-control. One leg curled up in the chair, the other stretched beneath the table, that sexy heeled sandal kicked off and laying forgotten on its side. And apparently just the sight of her bare legs could make my dick twitch in my jeans.

Get it together, Vignier.

As if Saturday hadn’t been bad enough, now she was in my space. We’d made it through most of the season with her tucked into tailored suits and a professional distance that made it easier to keep my head down. Brief interviews. Curt exchanges. Enough to keep things contained. I’d kept my distance, boxed up the pull I had no business feeling—for a woman who stood for everything I resented about modern hockey.

But now?

How the hell was I supposed to deal with her in my private space? In my personal spot?

The urge to stride over there and demand to know what she was doing here clashed with seventeen years of maintaining control. A captain didn’t lose his cool. Didn’t let anyone—especially some producer or showrunner or whatever the fuck she was—get under his skin.

She tapped away on her laptop, the screen’s glow casting shadows across her face. That damn white cat of hers poked his head out of a backpack in the second chair, fixing me with the same annoyed expression from the lake. Great, even the cat judged me.

Beer in hand, muscles tight with the effort of not looking her way, I settled at a table a few feet from hers. The first cold swallow did nothing to bank the heat churning just under my skin. She was lost in her work, brow furrowed, fingers tap-tap-tapping away. The picture of focused concentration.

Bullshit. No way she didn’t know I’d arrived. This laser focus on her work was all for show. Had to be. People like her always had a motive. I wouldn’t make it easy on her. She wanted to pretend she wasn’t waiting for me? Fine. Game on.

Minutes passed. She divided her attention between her laptop and tablet, never once looking past that damn cat perched next to her. Never scanning the patio. Never looking my way. The studied indifference sparked something dangerous in my chest.

I would wait her out. She’d make her move eventually. I took another pull of beer, letting the cold burn fade while I drank her in. Couldn’t help myself. She looked different tonight, without her Hollywood armor. Softer. The messy bun exposed the delicate curve of her neck, dark strands breaking free to tease against her skin. My fingers itched to brush them back, to test if they felt as silky as they looked.

No power suit. No sharp edges. Just Sutton—Lily— stripped down to something raw and real. The way her teeth worried at that stylus, dragging against her bare lower lip... Christ. She had no idea what that did to a man’s concentration. Every little nibble sent blood rushing south.

Her toes flexed against her abandoned sandal strap, the unconscious movement drawing my attention to long, tanned legs. Legs that would feel incredible wrapped around...Lock it down, Vignier.

But my traitorous mind had already gone there. Already imagined how those legs would look tangled in my sheets. How that lip would taste without the usual bright red paint. How those escaped strands of hair would feel wrapped around my fingers while I…

Fuck me.

Here I sat, in my own damn sanctuary, letting this woman mess with my head. It didn’t make sense. She represented everything wrong with how the game had changed—the constant cameras, the manufactured drama, the invasion of private moments. Having her this close should piss me off.

Instead, my body hummed with awareness. Every shift of her shoulders, each absent swipe of her tongue across her lips, registered like an electric shock to my system.

I took another long pull of beer, but it barely registered. The bartenders knew better than to bother me—let me sit, let me think, let the noise fade. Most nights, that worked. Not tonight. Tonight, the low light caught the slope of her collarbone, and that damn V-neck left just enough skin visible to drag my focus exactly where it didn’t belong.

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