Page 16 of Unleashed

Then she shrugged. “You know how a person can fool you? Let’s just say I learned the hard way that not everyone in this business plays by the same rules.” She stroked the cat’s fur, drawing her fingers along his back to the very tip of his white, fluffy tail. “But that’s okay. Lesson learned, right?”

“Sure.” The word came gruffer than intended, but the alternative was asking for more answers I didn’t need to be prying out of her.

“And I’m not giving up.” Pure steel flashed in her eyes. “I’ll deal with all the Mark Malones in the world if it means I get my career back. And this time around, I won’t be fooled.”

The raw determination in her voice triggered an ache in my chest, a pull I couldn’t afford to let sway me. She tucked the cat back into his backpack, movements sharp, deliberate. When she looked up at me over her laptop, her walls were back in place. “Anyway, enough about me. We were talking about Coach Mack.”

“Youwere talking about Mack.” I scrubbed my hand over the scruff along my jaw. Her quick shift back to business should have been a relief. Instead, it left me off-balance, craving the glimpse of vulnerability she’d shown moments ago.

“So.” She leaned forward, eyes locked onto mine like I was footage she needed to unravel. “Has he ever lost his temper?”

“A time or two.”

“I heard about him throwing water bottles once, when he was seriously pissed at Doyle. I’ve heard he can unleash some epic locker room rants, too.” Her lips curved up. “I might even have footage from the night you guys lost to Anaheim. Mack was veryexpressivethat night. Looking at him, you’d never guess he had such a temper.”

“Not fair to call that a temper. He’s passionate about the players and winning. If he thinks you aren’t giving it your all, he’s not afraid to let you know.” And Doyle—the subject of his rant in Anaheim—was a lazy prick who deserved every bit of Mack’s wrath. A first-class idiot who only put forth enough effort to stay on the roster.

“Sounds like a good story to me.”

“This sport isn’t about being good enough. It’s about being the best.” My voice came out hard. “And the best isn’t always pretty.”

“That’s what makes hockey interesting, though, isn’t it?” Her voice dropped low, intimate, as she leaned forward again. The movement made her shirt gape, giving me a glimpse of delicate lace beneath thin fabric. My mouth went dry.

Every muscle in my body tensed with the need to reach for her. To trace that hint of lace, to feel if her skin was as soft as it looked. Her voice continued, but blood roared in my ears, drowning out everything except the primal urge to drag her into my arms.

“The struggles, the sacrifices, through injuries and setbacks, the moments of doubt... coming out on the other side. You’re not the same person anymore, are you? That’s what makes a story real, don’t you think?”

I wrenched my gaze from temptation to meet her eyes. The weight of unspoken truths and hidden agendas pressed between us.

The patio lights flickered overhead, and without another word, she closed her laptop, stowing her tablet in her bag.

Wind gusted through the patio, rattling the furniture. Goosebumps prickled my arms as storm clouds rolled in, matching the turbulence in my gut.

“Did you walk here?”

She glanced up from packing her laptop, hands busy with cords and cases. “I did, yeah.” The wind tugged more hair loose from her bun, dark strands dancing around her face. “Which is why I need to get a move on. Bright’s not a fan of getting caught in the rain.”

The cat yowled his agreement. She stood, shoving her feet into sandals and hauling that ridiculous backpack over her shoulders. Before she could grab her computer bag, I had it in my grip. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Seven

Lily

Hockey Rule #20: Play through the whistle

Media Rule #20: Cut for maximum impact

Thefirstdropsofrain hit as we rounded the corner, still a block away from my apartment. The air crackled with a heady mix of tension and anticipation—and none of it related to the weather.

Beside me, Viggy walked in silence, his long strides eating up the pavement. No sign of the limp from Saturday. Maybe the hitch in his stride had been a fleeting thing, a momentary blip in the life of a hockey player. Or maybe, like so much else in his life, he’d learned to conceal the truth.

I stole a glance at him, my gaze tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones. The sidewalk narrowed, and as we quickened our pace to outrun the rain, his shoulder brushed mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight through me. My pulsewooshedin my ears, as loud as the wind whipping around us.

The reality of the evening slammed into me and I dug my fingers into the straps of Bright’s backpack. Seeing Viggy in the bar, sharing a real conversation with him, might be the highlight of my season. The conversation—unguarded, honest—felt like a turning point. Like our relationship—I silently snorted—had shifted. Turned intimate, real. In a direction we’d carefully avoided all season.

Electricity hummed between us from the moment we’d met, unspoken but undeniable. The feeling thickened tonight. Charged by the storm brewing overhead, or the secrets spoken in the patio bar?

He refused to stay in the little box in my head labeled “Hockey Player”. Instead, fresh facets of his personality—facets that refused categorization, despite my best efforts—drew me in even as I pushed against the attraction.

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