Page 19 of Unleashed

The space between us crackled with possibilities, with all the ways this could implode. But standing here, battling between desire and discipline, I couldn’t remember why any of those reasons mattered. Not when every cell in my body screamed to close the distance, to discover if he tasted like rain and lightning and barely leashed power.

Then something shifted in his stance—that same calculated restraint I’d seen him deploy countless times on the ice taking over. His shoulders rolled back, jaw unclenching. The captain’s mask sliding back into place, though the heat in his eyes betrayed just how thin that control ran.

“Nice place.” His voice came out steady, controlled—but the slight roughness beneath his words sent heat to pool in my belly. I shook off the feeling, spun away to catch my breath and offered a half-laugh that sounded almost natural.

“It’s super tiny. But I have what I need. Adele calls it ‘cozy’.” Because my friend lived a glass-half-full kind of life.

I moved deeper into the apartment, hyper-aware of Jack following at a careful distance, like he’d calculated exactly how many steps to maintain between us. A hard swallow did nothing to ease my dry throat. Though I barely spent time here compared to the Aces Performance Center, the apartment’s confines had never bothered me until this moment. Malone’s company paid me a stipend for rent and food. After my forced time off, I needed to pinch pennies in the worst way. I couldn’t afford a fancy apartment; this tiny one bedroom served my purposes.

But with six hundred square feet and not an inch more, it meant limited storage. Meant that the dirty dishes from this morning sitting on the countertop stood out like a sore thumb. The yoga mat laying on the floor—because, surely, if I left it in sight, I would eventually use it, right?—along with the crumpled-up throw blanket and socks I’d left on the loveseat. Normal chaos in my world, but having Jack here made every imperfection stand out like a spotlight had suddenly clicked on.

I needed to get his shirt off him—for purely practical reasons, of course. Toss it and the hoodie in the dryer, just like any friend would offer. Maybe find an umbrella, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used one. Anything to keep my mind off how his rain-dampened t-shirt clung to those broad shoulders, or the way his eyes tracked my movements with predatory focus.

But right now, I couldn’t even bring myself tolookat him.

Bright meowed and I shuddered with relief at having something to do that didn’t start with “Get Jack Naked”. I sat Bright’s pack on the arm of the loveseat, unzipped it, and watched as my feline emerged in a poof of disgruntled, white fluff. He stretched languidly over the throw pillows, before jumping to the back of the little couch. His gaze landed on Viggy, and his ears flattened against his head. With his smooshed-in face and flattened ears, he looked comically round. A grumpy, round fluffball.

“Huh.”

At Viggy’s low grunt, I finally turned to face him. His gaze hung on my cat, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t mind Bright,” I said. “He’s allergic to people.”

Then, as if to mock my words, Bright leapt down to the floor to do figure eights around my feet.

“Not all people.”

I rolled my lips, resisting the urge to grin. “I operate the can opener.”

Viggy chuckled, the sound reverberating through my apartment like a bass drum, easing the knot in my belly. Some of his raw intensity bled away as he glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the single small bookcase, my prizedAmymovie poster that filled the only available wallspace.

Small and pretty bare, all things considered. I refused to feel embarrassed. Viggy probably had one of those swanky condos with floor-to-ceiling windows and a dedicated media room. The kind of place I’d been headed for before Sydney torpedoed my career and sent me into a three-year exile.

No. I squared my shoulders, shoving away the familiar sting of what-ifs. This was my space. I’d carved it out of nothing, just like I was rebuilding my career from scratch.

“Okay.” My voice came out squeaky, and I cleared my throat. “Give me your shirt, Jack.”

He turned to face me, all rippling muscle and rain-damp skin, and my brain short-circuited. Holy mother of—

“Wait!” I threw up my hands like I was directing traffic. “Just... wait right there. Don’t move. Or do move. Whatever’s more comfortable. I’ll get you a towel.” My gaze dropped to his chest, then snapped back up to safer territory. “For your hair. And... you know. Everything else.”

I bolted for the bathroom before I could embarrass myself further, my cheeks burning. Smooth, Sutton. Real smooth. Nothing says “professional distance” like literally running away from a shirtless hockey player.

In the safety of my bathroom, I pressed my forehead against the cool door and tried to remember how to breathe. What kind of masochist was I, inviting temptation incarnate into my apartment? And why did he have to look so damn good wet?

Chapter Eight

Viggy

Hockey Rule #23: Take the hit to make the play

Media Rule #23: Avoid controversy unless it trends

Lilystalkedoutofthe bathroom, a crumpled navy towel clutched tight to her chest. Pink crept up her cheeks, and her blue-green eyes flicked everywhere—anywhere—but toward me. Like looking my way might be a mistake. The towel shifted with each step, swinging in time with the subtle sway of her rounded hips.

Just as she reached me, a flash of white darted off the couch. The cat dashed between her ankles before disappearing around the corner into the hall.

“Bright, no—!”

She tripped, arms windmilling as her balance disappeared and she pitched forward.

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