Page 61 of Unleashed

Christ. Focus.

Coach Mack caught my eye as I hit the bench, his look knowing. Too knowing. Like he saw right through my game face to the war going on beneath. I squared my shoulders, met his gaze head-on.

Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him because he just nodded. “They’re running their top line to start. You ready?”

The familiar weight of responsibility settled over me. This was what I knew. What I lived for. Game time decisions. Strategy. Leading my team.

Not the way my skin prickled, aware of her presence above us. Not the memories of her laugh in my kitchen, or the soft sounds she made when I kissed that spot behind her ear.

“We’re ready.” My voice came out steady. Captain Jack Vignier, reporting for duty.

My head betrayed me during warmups, tilting up before I could stop myself. She leaned forward on the railing, worrying that damn pen between her teeth as she tracked my movements. Hunting for more pieces of me to expose?

My teeth ground together. Used to dream about yanking away that pen, making her focus on me instead of her notes. Now a glance from her tore open barely healed wounds. She’d never really been mine. Never would be.

The signal came to square up at center ice. Game on.

Time to prove I deserved to be here. Prove the episode wrong. Prove to everyone—to her—that I wasn’t done yet.

My knee screamed as I settled into position for the opening face-off. I channeled the pain into focus, let it sharpen my mind instead of clouding it.

Playoffs. My last shot. This was what mattered.

If I repeated it enough times, maybe I’d start believing it.

The puck dropped and everything else faded. Almost. For a blessed few seconds, only hockey existed. The clean snap of my stick connecting with the puck, muscle memory taking over as I won the face-off.

But even as I powered down the ice to set up our first offensive push, I fought the urge to look up toward Lily. Images flashed in my mind. Of her typing away on her laptop. Of her marking my every move, the good, the bad, the ugly. Back when her scent on my sheets meant something, I’d have imagined pulling that computer from her hands, and backing her against the glass just to hear her laugh.

Now I imagined the satisfaction of skating past without a glance, of proving her decimation of me wrong with every shift, every hit, every goddamn breath I took on this ice.

Head in the fucking game, Vignier.

Chicago’s top line crashed through the neutral zone, their center gunning straight for me. Good. I could use the contact. An excuse to focus the rage simmering under my skin on something tangible. The hit connected and pain shot through my knee, but I stayed upright, shoving back harder. Caught his shoulder and sent him sprawling.

Coach signaled a line change and I leapt over the wall and onto the bench. At the top of the tunnel, being where he absolutely had no fucking business being, was Malone. I dug my stick into the floor, channeling the anger into my next shift. Let the vulture watch. Let them speculate. I had a fucking game to win.

As expected, Chicago’s defense targeted Riley. The kid handled the extra pressure like a champ, but something in my chest tightened watching him take hit after hit. The need to protect warred with the knowledge that he had to learn to handle himself on the ice.

Kind of like I had to handle the burning in my knee. The constant throb that meant tomorrow would be hell.

Silver caught my eye from the bench, raised an eyebrow in question. I gave him a sharp nod, one he returned. Message received—he’d keep an eye on Riley while I focused on shutting down Chicago’s scoring chances.

Then it was my turn on the ice again.

My muscles burned, sweat trickling down my spine as I powered through another shift. Each stride on my bad knee sent fire up my leg, but that pain? That was nothing compared to imagining her up there, dissecting my every move. Breaking down my game like she’d broken down my defenses.

Fuck if I’d give her more ammunition.

Silver appeared at my right, calling for the pass. Clean tape-to-tape connection, muscle memory taking over. Just hockey. Simple. Unlike the mess she’d made of everything else.

“Looking good, Cap!” Riley’s voice carried across the ice, that damn puppy enthusiasm of his cutting through my dark thoughts.

I grunted, scanning the defensive setup. Quick shifts between players, reading the game flow—this was what I knew. What I could control. Not the way my skin still prickled with awareness of her watching. Not how my body remembered exactly what that citrus-spice scent of hers did to my head.

The puck shot back my way and I buried it in the back of the net. Top shelf where mama hides the cookies.

The crowd erupted. My teammates crashed into me, celebrating like it wasn’t just another goal in just another game. Like I hadn’t let them all down by hiding my injury. By lettingherexpose our private business to the world.

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