Page 27 of Unleashed

Make it bleed.

The footage on my laptop blurred as I pulled up clips from the Detroit game. The one I’d skipped, let Adele and a skeleton crew handle without me because I was a top tier coward and refused to travel with the team. Jack’s face filled my screen: each grimace, each subtle shift in his stride damned me further. Without meaning to, I’d stockpiled evidence against him, filing away his vulnerabilities even as my heart broke for his pain and determination.

Maybe that’s exactly what I deserved—to sit here drowning in guilt, jumping at every chime of that bell, praying to both see him and avoid him forever.

The bell on the door jangled again.

Not him.

Thank God.

I didn’t need to be daydreaming about a handsome hockey captain.

After that kiss in my apartment before the road trip, after watching him dominate on the ice despite whatever was going on with his knee, after today’s conversation with Mark Malone—I had every reason to steer clear of the captain.

But here I sat. Lying to myself and hoping to see his long strides eat up the distance between door and table. To see his blue eyes warm when they landed on me. To feel that spark of electricity when he settled into the chair beside mine.

My lips burned with the memory of our kiss. How had one simple kiss destroyed me?

What insanity had possessed me to invite him up to my apartment that night? The place barely had room to breathe. Factor in Jack’s six-foot-plus frame and those broad shoulders? He’d consumed all the oxygen, leaving me lightheaded and reckless.

Reckless.

Whatever madness had made me demand his rain-soaked shirt had morphed into full insanity when I’d sat beside him at my kitchen island, his gorgeous chest right there, all that controlled power and muscly goodness on decadent display.

The bell’s harsh jangle snapped me from my spiral. I jerked upright in the wrought iron chair, every muscle protesting as I dragged my focus back to my notes. Back to the betrayal due by morning. Because seriously? Muscly goodness? Was I fifteen?Cool your jets, Lily.

I’d grown up in Hollywood—ground zero for hot men and beautiful faces. I’d spent years surrounded by men crafted by trainers and stylists and carefully curated PR teams.

But Jack? Pure authenticity radiated from his core. No cultivated image or manufactured appeal in that man. His quiet strength and raw presence commanded attention without trying, made those Hollywood leading men look like schoolboys playing dress-up.

The perpetual frown of his still acted as a wall, but I’d started to understand the man behind it. The weight of responsibility he carried, the pressure of his last season, and whatever injury he was hiding beneath that stoic exterior.

I smoothed my fingers over Bright’s fluffy white head. Seemed I had a type.

A chair scraped against concrete and I jerked my head up. Jack—the man consuming my thoughts—settled into the chair beside mine like I’d conjured him out of thin air.

“Sutton,” he rumbled, the sound hitting me low in my belly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I slammed my laptop closed, hiding my notes. “How’s that for luck?”

His presence rattled me. The warmth in his eyes, the unspoken pull between us, the quiet fear that he might see straight through the polish to everything I kept buried. My pulse jumped. I shoved hair from my face, fingers unsteady.

“You done for the day?”

No. I still had to polish my notes into something that would make Malone salivate. His knee brushed mine under the table. A thousand tiny sparks danced across my skin. “Done enough,” I lied. “You? Big week off before the playoffs with Chicago start, right?”

He nodded, his gaze mapping my face until I squirmed. I had no business talking to him, not when I was about to serve him up to Malone.

“What are your plans for the break?”

“Good question. I’m sure I’ll think of something to occupy my time.”

His husky voice skittered across my skin. Images flashed through my mind—his bare chest in my apartment, his mouth devouring mine, the raw need in his eyes before I’d shoved him away. My spine melted at the memory of his hands on my skin. My body screamed to close the distance while my conscience demanded retreat. “Gotcha.”

“How about you? How are you filling the dead week?”

Did he suspect? Blue eyes pierced straight through my defenses. My heart slammed against my ribs. They must have a special place in Hell for people like me. “Not sure yet. Things are still up in the air.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

---