Page 63 of Unleashed

The next face-off was in our zone. Coach called a timeout, but I already knew what needed to happen. My knee would fucking hold.

“Coming your way,” I said to Han as I lined up.

The puck dropped. Time slowed. Everything I had—seventeen years of experience, countless hours of practice, pure fucking determination not to let this be how my story ended—channeled into that one moment.

Clean win. Right to Han’s tape. The man didn’t hesitate, finding Rivas streaking through the neutral zone. Three passes later, the puck hit the back of their net.

The crowd exploded. My teammates poured off the bench, but I kept my celebration contained. Captain Jack Vignier, doing his job.

Not a man fighting the urge to search the press box, see if she was watching. See if she understood what this win meant.

The final horn sounded with us up 4–1. Game one in the books.

I’d just finished stripping my gear when Riley bounced over from his locker, Fred the Iguana tucked under his arm. The damn lizard wore a tiny Aces jersey, one with my number, complete with a “C” on the chest.

“Look what I found in the shower!” The kid’s grin could power the arena. “Fred’s officially part of the leadership group now.”

A laugh tore loose—rough, unexpected after the grind of the game. Leave it to the puppy to cut through the bullshit with that wide-eyed optimism of his. Most days, his energy made me want to walk into traffic. But right now? Right now, it worked. For me. For the room.

Thanks to the media circus triggered by theUnleashedepisode, management gave me a free pass to skip the press today. The trainers would be waiting, ice packs and stern lectures at the ready. But for a moment I let myself sink into the simple joy radiating through the room. Let the win matter more than the cost to my body.

Movement in the hallway caught my attention. Lily stood just outside the open door. When our eyes met, the genuine concern in her expression hit harder than any check I’d taken tonight. She turned away fast, but not before I caught the way her fingers pressed against her wrist—that unconscious tell of hers when something got to her.

Fuck.

The memory of those fingers on my skin, burned through my carefully maintained defenses. I should hate her. Should be able to write her off as just another vulture looking for a story.

But as she disappeared from the doorway, memory betrayed me—the silky sweet weight of her against my body as vivid in my mind as if she was still pressed against me in my kitchen. The truth slammed into me with brutal clarity.

She still mattered. Still owned pieces of me.

And that? That was more dangerous than any injury I’d ever hidden. Because a bum knee might end my career, but Lily Sutton? She could break more than just my body.

Chapter Twenty

Lily

Hockey Rule #57: The game deserves your best

Media Rule #57: Give the audience what they want

Thenextday,Itracked Viggy’s movements across my monitor.

Power. Grace. Raw strength.

The way he moved on ice spoke of years of discipline, but I knew so much more about him. Knew exactly how that controlled power translated off the ice. My fingers trembled as I rewound the footage, heat crawling up my neck as I caught his nearly imperceptible hesitation before transferring weight to his left side.

My fingers found their familiar spot on my wrist, pressing into my pulse point as I studied his stride pattern. God, how many hours had I spent dissecting his movements? First as a producer hunting for content, then as a woman who’d mapped those muscles with reverent hands, and now as someone who’d betrayed both roles.

Too much cologne. Way too much. The scent rolled through my tiny office like smog on a late afternoon in LA, triggering every survival instinct I’d ever honed in California. My brain registered the intrusion with brutal efficiency. Mark Malone.

Steady, now.

I inhaled a measured breath, held it for a three-count, released it slowly. Let Lily The Media Maven slide into place with practiced precision—shoulders squared, expression pleasantly neutral, hands relaxed on the desk despite my urge to curl them into fists.

“Quite the game last night.” His voice filled my cramped space, that particular blend of entitlement and condescension unique to men who played gatekeeper. I tracked his movements as he prowled the perimeter of my workspace. “Our captain put on quite a show, didn’t he?”

Ourcaptain.

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