Page 69 of Unleashed

That stopped me cold. “Am I supposed to say congratulations?”

“My own series, my name in the credits. Creative control. Everything I spent three years fighting to get back.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “I’m going to turn it down.”

The urge to reach for her strangled me, automatic and unwanted. Just days ago I’d have pulled her close, let her bury her face against my chest while she worked through whatever was putting the lines of strain on her face. The need to protect her warred with the memory of watching my private struggles play out on screen. Of knowing she’d been cataloging my weakness even while sleeping in my bed, making me think I could have something beyond the game.

“Congratu-fucking-lations.” The words came out harsh, masking how seeing her still twisted me up inside. How walking into my kitchen felt wrong without her perched on the counter, stealing sips of my coffee while grilling me about game strategy. Another thing she’d probably used to dissect my weaknesses for her viewers.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.” She wet her lips, and damn my treacherous body for tracking the movement of her pretty pink tongue. “Your episode opened doors—”

“Can’t tell you how glad I am that I helped your career.” I pushed the words out, razor-sharp and cutting. “Since you’ve made it crystal clear that’s what matters to you.”

The hurt that flashed across her face made my chest ache. She swayed slightly, like my words had physical weight. But then her delicate chin tipped up again, her shoulders squared up, and the moment passed. The vulnerability in her eyes warred with determination—a combination that stripped my defenses as effectively as her lips against my throat in my darkened kitchen. The memory flashed through my mind. Little more than a week with her, and she’d left me more exposed than any injury I’d fought to hide. More vulnerable than any weakness she’d captured on film.

“It’s not that simple.” Her fingers found that spot on her wrist—the tell I’d learned meant she was fighting for control. “I just... I needed you to know.

Something in my chest cracked. The need to protect warring with the memory of limping into the empty weight room, my fist slamming into the wall as the pain in my knee became unbearable. Of sucking in one deep breath after another, silently begging for the pain to stop. A moment of weakness I overcame that night, but that she’d framed up for public consumption. Proof of my weakness. She’d been hunting for weakness even while letting me think—

No. Not going there.

“Fantastic.” I grabbed the tape I needed, desperate to escape before my control slipped. “You got what you wanted. Hope it was worth it.”

But as I turned to leave, her quiet voice stopped me. “Jack, I—”

The raw honesty in her voice hit harder than any shot I’d taken on the ice. My protective instincts screamed to comfort her even as my brain recalled exactly why I couldn’t trust those instincts around her.

“Save it for your next episode.” I kept my voice flat, controlled. “But I’ve got a game to prep for. And you’ve got...” I gestured to her laptop. “Whatever this is.”

Her soft “good luck” followed me into the hall, lodging beneath my ribs like a blade.

I stalked down the hallway, every step a fresh jolt of pain. Physical. Emotional. The whole damn package wrapped up in one limping relic of a hockey player.

Should’ve known better than to think I could have something real with someone like her. Hockey was all I had—all I’d ever have.

At least until that was gone too.

“Cap! Wait up!” Riley’s voice hit my ears a second before his footsteps thundered behind me. I turned around to see the kid burst around the corner at full tilt, arms loaded with gear, practically vibrating with his usual unstoppable energy. A practice jersey dangled from his teeth.

“Mmphh!” He tried to talk around the fabric, lost his grip on a stack of pads, and nearly went down trying to catch them before they hit the floor.

Despite everything, my lips twitched. I grabbed the jersey from his mouth before he could choke himself. “Slow down, Puppy. What’s the rush?”

He bounced on his toes as he straightened, face lighting up like I’d just offered him ice cream. But something flickered beneath the enthusiasm—concern trying to mask itself behind his megawatt grin. “Saw you talking to Sutton.” His eyes darted toward the equipment room, then back to me, head tilted. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” My response came automatically. Captainly.

Complete bullshit.

Riley’s expression said he knew it too, but he couldn’t quite contain the physical energy thrumming through him. He dumped his armload onto a nearby bench, gear clattering to the floor. “Right. Because you always look like you’re ready to put your fist through a wall when you’re ‘fine.” He punctuated this with air quotes, nearly knocking over a water bottle in his enthusiasm.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “You got something to say, kid?”

“Yeah! Actually—” He bounced again, then seemed to remember this was meant to be a serious conversation. He planted his feet deliberately, squared those lanky shoulders of his, and put on what I’d come to think of as his “man look”—though the effect was somewhat ruined by his baby face. “I get why you’re pissed,” he said. “The episode, the timing, all of it. But Cap...” His serious expression lasted about three seconds before a grin broke through. “That stuff about you losing your edge? Like you’re some kind of liability to the playoff run? It’s all bullshit. Everybody knows it.”

“Do they now?” My voice came out harder than intended.

“Yeah!” The word exploded out of him as he went back to talking with his hands. “All that crap about you being stubborn and putting yourself before the team? Anyone who’s played with you knows better.” He gestured toward my knee, then immediately started shadow-boxing the air. “Even Doyle’s interview was edited to make you look bad. He admitted it last night.”

The kid’s loyalty gutted me. “She had no right to expose team business like that.”

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