Page 65 of Unleashed

“Everything’s here. Take your time reviewing it. Next time, we’ll get you a real office.” He set the envelope on the table with deliberate care. “But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this? They don’t come around often.”

I fingered the edge of the envelope. Other investors existed, sure. But after the Sydney debacle? My marketability wasn’t exactly at a premium. And Malone knew it.

“Creative freedom within network parameters.” The industry-speak rolled off my tongue while my mind spun through scenarios. “That’s quite a tightrope.”

“You’ve shown you can walk it.” His cologne smothered me as he leaned close. “The question is: are you ready to run with the big boys?”

Oh, I’d run alright. Right into another disaster if I wasn’t careful.

“I appreciate the offer.” My smile felt plastic but held steady. “I’ll review the terms and get back to you.”

“I’ll give you a month to decide.” He straightened, adjusting his already perfect tie. “I’m heading back to California soon. We’re on a deadline, Lily. You need to strike while the iron is hot.”

The moment he left, I slumped in my chair, the contract stinging my fingertips like a poison apple.

Three years of scraping by, of rebuilding my reputation piece by piece, and here was everything I’d wanted served up on a silver platter. With just one tiny catch—I’d have to keep mining private struggles for public consumption.

Because nothing said “creative freedom” quite like contractual obligation to manufacture drama.

My thumb found my pulse point as I considered my options. Time to figure out exactly how much of myself I was willing to sacrifice.

Ipower-walkedthroughthepractice facility corridors, Malone’s contract burning a hole in my bag. My heels clicked against the polished concrete, each step marking time with my racing thoughts.

Think. Breathe. Don’t lose it.

No game tonight, but the playoff buzz still hummed around me—equipment managers hauling gear, trainers discussing player stats, social media coordinator planning content strategies. Normal chaos.

A cluster of reporters huddled near the media room—the team scheduled longer press conferences on practice days for Coach Mack—to dissect last night’s game. I caught fragments as I passed.

“—knee definitely looks worse—”

“—career-ending if—”

“—betting pool on when he—”

My stomach churned. If I just signed on the dotted line and sold what remained of my soul, by this time next year, I could have my career back. A little battered, but everyone in the industry had their skeletons. I’d just be one more with a speckled past.

At least Coach’s office—correction, Fred’s tropical paradise—offered sanctuary. I slipped inside, breathing in the humid air heavy with the scent of tropical plants and fresh mulch.

The transformation still amazed me. Someone had started small after the Paddle for Playoffs event—just a heat lamp and smooth rock. But like any good story, it had evolved. The artificial tree came next, then the water feature, UV lighting, and finally a complete climate control system. Coach’s desk huddled in the only remaining corner, surrounded by Fred’s domain.

“Come on, buddy.” Coach’s voice drifted out from behind the desk. “The jersey’s not that bad.”

I rounded the corner to find him on hands and knees, trying to coax Fred from under the desk. I leaned until I could spy the big lizard in the shadowy area.

Fred still wore the tiny Aces jersey from last night—with the number twenty-seven and a “C” stitched on the chest. The same footage I’d tagged for the editing team to use. “Riley’s idea?” I asked, dropping into the one remaining chair not covered in tropical foliage.

“Kid’s determined to make Fred the team mascot.” Coach sighed as Fred decided the artificial tree looked more appealing than human interaction. “Says if he’s going to live in my office, he needs proper team gear.”

We watched Fred scale the trunk with surprising agility for a three-legged reptile.

“Found another UV lamp upgrade this morning.” Coach pointed to a large branch that hung halfway up the wall, a lamp focused on the flattest portion. He settled back against his desk, eyes tracking Fred’s ascent. “Whoever is behind this swapped out my computer for a mister system over the weekend.” His lips twitched. “I’ve taken to watching film in the lounge or the dining room. Team’s waiting for me to snap about it all. I like to keep them on their toes.”

I thought of Malone’s envelope trashing up my bag. “Sometimes the best leadership means understanding when your team needs a distraction?”

“Exactly.” He turned those sharp eyes on me. “Just like sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones that get the most views.”

My pulse skipped. “That obvious, huh?”

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