Page 62 of Unleashed

I shoved up from my celly, jaw clenched against the instinct to look toward the press box. To see if she was watching. If she cared.

Didn’t fucking matter if she cared.

“That’s how you do it!” Silver shouted as we headed off the ice.

I dropped onto the bench, gulping water, spraying more from the bottle on my face. Water ran down my neck, setting off another memory of Lily’s lips. When she’d traced a path down my neck—

Christ. Get it together.

Coach signaled my line for the next shift. My knee screamed as I vaulted over the boards, but I channeled the pain into focus. Into drive.

Because that’s what captains did. We pushed through. Led by example. Even when every cell in our body wanted something—someone—we couldn’t have.

Especially then.

By the time the horn sounded for the end of the period, I’d channeled every ounce of rage and hurt into pure hockey. Three more shots on goal, two hits that’d leave bruises, and enough defensive stops to make Chicago think twice about testing my side. Up by one, and we had the momentum. The team’s energy hummed as we filed into the locker room, that electric playoff atmosphere I lived for.

Didn’t matter. None of it mattered except the next period. The next shift. The next chance to prove I wasn’t done yet.

The game. The team. The Cup.

Everything else was just noise.

Or a splinter just under the skin, one I couldn’t quite dig out.

The second period started the way the first ended—with me fighting a war on two fronts. My knee screamed through every stride, but that was nothing compared to the battle of keeping my head in the game when every cell in my body wanted to track Lily.

Chicago’s best face-off player lined up for the puck drop, cocky grin showing under his visor. “Saw your special last night, old man. Time to retire yet?”

The rage that burned through me had nothing to do with his taunt and everything to do with knowing she was up there. That she’d put me in this position. My stick snapped through the draw with brutal efficiency, sending the puck straight to Silver.

Let them think they knew my story. Let them think they had me figured out.

Five minutes in, Riley broke through their defense like it was made of paper. Kid had wheels when he wasn’t overthinking every move. The puck hit my tape like it was meant to be there. The subtle shift of the defender’s weight telegraphing which way he’d commit, the opening he didn’t even know he was giving me.

I threaded the pass through traffic, right to Riley’s waiting stick.

The goal horn screamed as the puck hit the back of the net. The kid’s celebration was pure joy, his teammates mobbing him against the glass. My chest squeezed watching him—proud and aching and fucking furious that even this moment had her fingerprints all over it.

She’d captured dozens of moments like this for her show. Private celebrations turned public entertainment.

The distraction cost me. I saw Chicago’s bruiser coming just a split second too late as I moved toward Riley and the others. Should’ve squared up better, gotten my weight centered. Instead, I took the full force of his late check with my weight on my bad side. My knee twisted as I went down, white-hot pain stabbing up my leg.

“Shit, Cap.” Silver appeared above me, blocking out the lights. He shouted toward the nearest ref, voice enraged. “Late hit! You gonna allow that?”

I shoved up to my feet, pure stubborn will overriding the daggers in my knee. “I’m good.”

A brawl broke out as Riley went from celebrating his goal to tackling a Chicago player. Gloves dropped everywhere, the ice turning into a battlefield of flying fists and shouted curses. Silver had their captain pinned against the boards while Whitney grappled with another player. Even our usually level-headed goalie had left his net, motioning for their goalie to meet him at center ice.

My boys, defending their captain when I should’ve been protecting them. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I grabbed Riley’s jersey, hauling him off the Chicago player before he could do something stupid enough to get suspended.

The refs sorted players out, leaving us with a power play. We nailed home our vengeance with another goal taking the score to 3–0.

The third period brought a whole new level of hell. Every shift felt like skating through concrete, but I’d be damned if I let anyone see it.

With five minutes left, Chicago’s top line caught us in transition. Their sniper’s shot squeezed through traffic, finding the one inch of space above our goalie’s shoulder.

Five minutes was plenty of time for them to steal this game right from under our feet if we let them.

---