Page 59 of Unleashed

Killing it with the early numbers. Knew you had it in you.

Bile burned the back of my throat. I groped for the glass of wine on the table.

When exactly did I become this person? This ratings-chasing, trust-breaking, relationship-decimating version of—

“You okay?” Adele twisted around until she could stroke Bright’s back, her eyes skating over my face.

“No.” The word scraped free before I couldprofessionallymask it. “This is horrible. I shouldn’t have—” Deep breath. “When did I become the person who saves her own neck by exposing someone else’s?”

“When you couldn’t get hired for three years, Lils. That’s when.” She sighed. “It’s shit, but it’s a paycheck. And if we didn’t break the news, someone else would.”

“I don’t recognize myself anymore. The Lily Sutton I used to be?” I gave a laugh bordering on hysteria. “She never would have let it get this far. Never would have betrayed someone’s trust. Decided that what she wanted trumped every other consideration.”

Career revival versus personal integrity.

“Hey,” Adele said as she shoved up from the floor to slide onto the loveseat beside me. “That’s not the full story. You didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, Lily.”

“I had the choice when I let it slip to Malone. There’s always a choice.” Jack’s words from yesterday ricocheted through my skull, drowning out Adele’s words. Drowning out the interview playing out on the screen. “I could have walked away. Found another way.”

“And then done what?” Her arm came around my shoulders, pulling me close. My eyes stung. “Lost another three years looking for another door to open?”

On screen, a sweaty Viggy skated into view, blue eyes intense. Words measured as he gave a quick post-game interview to a reporter. Top captain in the league on full display.

That man would have found another way. Without compromising. Without sacrificing his integrity.

The hope that he might understand, might forgive, evaporated like smoke. The hope felt silly, juvenile. Delusions I’d told myself in a dark, bottomless ocean of wishes and lies and hopes and sabotage.

“Turn it off.” The words shredded my throat. Raw. Desperate. Fuck you, Sydney. “I can’t—”

“Nope.” Adele’s grip tightened, rocking me against her side. Bright grumbled a protest from my lap. “We’re watching this. All of it, through to the end. The least we owe everyone.”

Because watching your carefully crafted betrayal stream live hit different than reviewing it in post-production. More immediate, more intimate.

Tonight, more damning.

The segment on screen shifted. Dr. James Harrison, a renowned sports medicine specialist, filled the frame. His credentials—including work with Team USA and multiple NHL franchises—scrolled beneath him.

“What we’re seeing here is deeply concerning.” His authoritative tone carried over slow-motion footage I’d pieced together—every wince, every adjustment in Jack’s skating documented in excruciating detail. “An athlete hiding injury at this level isn’t just risking his own career. He’s potentially compromising his team’s playoff chances.”

Cut to game statistics, the numbers damning when presented without context. Face-off percentages. Shots on goal. Subtle shifts in performance that my research team had pored over records for weeks to find.

“The data doesn’t lie,” Weber’s voice returned, this time over footage from the Seattle game. “Look at this hit—any other player would have reported that as an injury. But Vignier? He’s got the whole team drinking his Kool-Aid, believing their captain is invincible.”

Bright headbutted my chin. I buried my fingers in his fur, letting his purr vibrate against my chest.

Doyle’s face took the next frame, his usual antagonism perfectly suited for the hit piece this had become. “The younger guys, they look up to him, right? What kind of example is he setting?” He leaned forward, exactly as I’d hoped when I’d steered the interview this way. “That it’s okay to lie to medical staff? To put your pride ahead of the team?”

I felt sick. This wasn’t journalism. This wasn’t even storytelling. This was character assassination dressed up as concern.

“God, Lily.” Adele’s voice cracked as she watched. “Doyle is brutal.”

“I know.” The wine burned my throat. “Trust me, I know.”

“It sucks, but the rent’s still due. Sometimes we have to do what we have to do to survive in this business.” She squeezed my shoulder. “It doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

But her attempt at comfort felt hollow as more footage rolled—conversations in empty corridors about pain management, quiet moments in the training room when Jack thought the cameras were off. Every vulnerability I’d uncovered while poring over footage from the last eight months, packaged and presented for maximum impact.

My phone buzzed again. Malone:Twitter’s on fire. You’ve still got it, kid.

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