Page 58 of Unleashed

“One more try.” Metal scraped against metal as she shoved another tray into the oven. “Dammit!”

The sound of Adele angst-baking twisted my already knotted stomach. I needed her with me, even if she made me half crazy. She’d been my rock during my worst times as long as I could remember. But all I really wanted to do was curl up, forget the show and turn some sad music up loud. Loud enough to drown out the voice in my head that insisted on narrating my every move. The good, the bad, and the delusional.

Adele skirted around the island, clutching the mangled log of pre-made dough like a sugary security blanket. “I can’t just sit here, Lily. This is...” She jabbed the raw dough toward the TV. “This is gonna be ugly.”

Duh. My fingers tunneled into Bright’s fur, probably too clingy but he just purred louder. On screen, Viggy led the team onto the ice, that powerful stride of his perfectly synced toUnleashed’ssignature theme song. My body remembered that powerful stride. Remembered everything about him.

God, he was beautiful.

And he hated me.

My chest squeezed until breathing hurt. The man on my screen—commanding, respected, radiating quiet authority—was about to be torn apart, his reputation shredded by my careful editing and strategic story choices. I’d told myself I was just doing my job, that under Malone’s pressure I had no choice.

I’d gone against Jack’s wishes. Revealed secrets he’d wanted kept private. But I’d stayed within the contractual lines, hadn’t I? Kept my paycheck. Stayed in Malone’s good graces.

Surely, it’d be worth it in the end.

The knot in my stomach said otherwise. The memory of Jack’s face when he’d confronted mescreamedotherwise.

Bright headbutted my chin as if sensing my spiral. Right. Breathe. Focus. In less than an hour, the whole hockey world would see my work. Including Jack.

My future hung on the next sixty minutes.

The intro music faded. Marcus Weber’s voice filled my living room—former Aces player turned network analyst—and my stomach did that thing where it tried to crawl up into my throat. Weber had played with Jack five years ago before a bitter trade deadline deal sent him to Toronto.

My inner narrator pointed out the perfect audio balance. The clean transitions between frames.

Sydney’s voice echoed in my head, a memory from our last conversation before my career imploded: “That’s how the game’s played, Lily. You either take your shot or someone takes it for you. Being a professional doesn’t mean playing nice—it means getting the story no matter what.”

I’d spent three years hating her for those words. For the ruthless philosophy behind them. Yet here I sat, watching my own calculated betrayal play out in crystal clear high def.

“Viggy’s always been stubborn as hell,” Weber’s voice carried over footage I’d personally selected—clips of Jack grimacing through practices, staying late for ice baths, limping when he thought no one was watching. “That stubbornness made him great, but it’s also his biggest weakness. He doesn’t know when to quit. Doesn’t know how to put his ego aside and admit when he’s not the best option anymore.”

My thumb found its familiar spot at my wrist. Press. Breathe. Hold it together.

Weber’s words screamed sensationalism, exactly as I’d intended when I’d had my crew insert the soundbite between shots of Jack favoring his knee. Everything technically true, everything carefully crafted to feed Malone’s insistence on controversy. Controversy drove ratings. This kind of character assassination would have horrified the old Lily Sutton.

Stop.

I curled my toes into the couch cushion. Bright shifted in my lap, but settled right back down: steady, constant. Unlike my moral compass.

I clenched my eyes closed, before opening them again and focusing on the technical aspects of the show.

Compelling images: Check.

Story arc: Impeccable.

Soul-crushing guilt: Debilitating.

“It’s work, Lily.” Adele sprawled out on my floor between the couch and coffee table, attacking raw cookie dough with a spoon. “This time next year, we’ll have a real show, one that isn’t about crap or run by someone like Malone.”

That’s the dream, anyway.

On screen, Viggy ran face-off drills with Puppy. Displaying the gruff patience that epitomized the kind of man he was. The same footage I’d been reviewing at that damn patio bar when he’d walked in, all blue eyes and quiet intensity. Memories flooded me—his lips on my neck, his hands in my hair, his voice rough with need and—

Nope. Not going there. I would maintain professional distance. Even in my tiny apartment—an apartment I may never leave again.

My phone chimed with an incoming text. Malone.

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