Page 46 of Unleashed

Theperformancecenterhummedwith the sounds of morning practice—skates carving ice, sticks whacking away at pucks, coaches barking instructions the way only hyped-up coaches could. I stood at the edge of the rink in a designated press area for the last open practice before the playoffs began. I blew out a long breath, and tracked Jack’s movements on the ice.

How many times had I watched him from this exact spot, frustrated by his stonewalling, determined to crack his impenetrable facade? Now I knew exactly how soft his voice could be, how gentle his hands could touch me—and I’d thrown it away.

The memory of Jack’s whispers in my ear as I lay in his arms sent a shiver of warmth down my spine—chased quickly by a wave of nausea. Trust was a luxury I’d sworn off after Sydney had taken years of friendship and our work partnership and used it to hang me out to dry. I’d never get over standing in front of the internal review board, defending myself with little hope of success. Little more than my word against Sydney’s.

Jack was different—his integrity ran bone-deep, unlike Sydney with her camera-ready smile and calculated betrayals.

But then again, I was following in her footsteps, not his. I was the one serving him up to the god of ratings, no matter how I tried to dress it up as respectable filmmaking. Malone might be the puppet master, but I’d given him the strings.

“We’re playing great hockey,” he’d whispered this morning, his voice low but excitement coloring every syllable. “We’ve got a real chance at the Cup. I can feel it.”

The matchup already decided, his Aces would be up against the Chicago Ice Foxes, a team they’d beaten twice during the regular season. As long as the Aces stayed focused, we were favored to move on to the second round.

I caught myself thinking in terms of “we” when it came to the Aces. And Jack. I wanted a “we” with him more than I’d ever have thought possible, especially after how we’d started—all sharp edges, barbed words and mutual distrust. Now each “we” felt like both a wish and a lie. I wanted to trust him, wanted his trust, too, which made me the biggest hypocrite to ever walk this earth.

I was putting all my faith in thewishthat maybe he’d see through the fluff to the truth. Understand that my back was against the wall, with Malone closing in. My future at stake.

The unspoken attraction between us, simmering all season, exploded the other night and now I might as well be a teen in the throes of her first crush. Except what I felt for Jack ran deeper, steeped in possibilities. Words like “future” and “forever” dancing through my head.

I darted my eyes across the ice, following the blur of players as they battled through the final minutes of a full-contact practice. Viggy, gliding with the kind of fluid grace that belied any injury. He won the draw with the same precision that had first caught my attention—not as a potential love interest, but as a story. A captain playing through injury, pushing his limits, risking everything for his team. Exactly the kind of story that once made my career. Human, real.

“Looking strong out there, isn’t he?” Mark Malone’s voice cut through my concentration like a blade, triggering the same clench of my fingers and catch in my throat that had haunted me since California. I pulled my fingers from the railing, tapped my thumb against my wrist, willing the calm to come. “That’s him, isn’t it? The one you’re looking at? Our star player, giving it all despite the injury. Can’t even tell he’s hurt, can you? If it wasn’t for that footage you caught…” He paused, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Tomorrow night’s viewers are going to eat this shit up. Better than the episode you did on coma boy, what was his name? Roonie?”

I winced at the mention of Sebastian Roonie, a new player to the Aces this year whose trip back to New York for a bachelor party ended with him in the hospital.

Malone ignored me, if he even noticed my reaction at all. “Bet we get our highest ratings yet.”

My insides twisted at his words. His casual cruelty hit me like a sledgehammer. Had I really sunk this low? The Roonie episode had been light, a fluff piece compared to what the news about Viggy would do to the team, to the fans.

Mark hadn’t flown halfway across the country for giggles. He came to Austin with an agenda; the man calculated every move he made. I may have caved to his demands for drama all season, but I’d done my level best to create something meaningful, too. My Spidey senses tingled as I waited him out.

Mark leaned closer, his eyes glinting. “I’ve got to admit,” he continued, his words wrapped in satisfaction. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Even after our last conversation. I was sure you got me all wound up only to let me down with some watered-down, feel-good story.” He landed a hand on the wall beside my head, cutting off my view of the journalists sitting a few benches away.

“But then your notes, the research, and—damn, woman—the footage? The coup de grace, babe. Perfect episode to keep viewers hooked.” He shoved away from the wall and I sucked in a deep breath. “I have a good feeling about this one. And my gut’s never wrong.”

Out on the ice, Coach Mack blew the whistle, ending practice. The guys swarmed Jack, riding high on pre-playoff energy. His head tipped toward the press area and electricity zinged through me. A secret smile bloomed across his face—the one reserved for quiet moments, for just us—and my knees turned to water even as my stomach twisted into knots. One last precious moment before everything shattered, and he didn’t even know.

“You did well, Lily.”

My spine locked ramrod straight, poison shooting through my veins. Malone’s praise slithered over my skin.

Dragging my attention from Jack, I met Malone’s calculating stare. My lips curved up in a practiced smile, plastic and as fake as the man on the receiving end of it. Another LA survival skill, perfected in the wake of Sydney’s betrayal. “Everything’s on schedule,” I said, my voice strangled in my own ears. “What brought you to town?”

His smile gleamed, soulless and sharp. “Just checking in. Don’t worry.” He leaned closer, expensive cologne choking the air. “No plans to interfere with your show.”

My show. Right.

His strings yanked at my conscience with every episode. He’d manipulated my hiring, orchestrated the show’s creation. Mark Malone never moved without calculating angles, positioning himself to win. He hadn’t abandoned his cushy LA office to play tourist in Austin. Not without a lucrative upside.

I squared my shoulders, channeling every ounce of professional calm I could muster. “The bye-week episode will air in our usual slot. Then we’re back to regular content when playoffs start in the day after.” Focus on facts. Schedule. Safe ground.

He held two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. “Sounds good.”

One of the other journalists in the neighboring benches caught his attention and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Regular content, I’d said. Nothing would beregularafter this thing aired. Not the show. Not my relationship with the team—they’d plow through a wall for their captain. They’d see my actions as a stab in the back. Or worse, they’d feel betrayed by Viggy. There was a reason he was hiding this injury, after all.

I picked up my cup from the ledge, took a sip of the cold coffee, and thought about this morning.

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