Page 71 of Unleashed

Movement on the ice caught my eye. Jack.Here. Now. Leading warmups like nothing had changed.

I weighted each word in my notes carefully, hyper-aware of Dave hovering at my shoulder. One wrong reaction now could echo through every newsroom in the league. “Just the usual game stats,” I offered, voice steady despite my racing pulse.

The familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cologne filled my nose as he leaned closer. “Have to admit, you have me curious what you’re doing next...”

“Play-offs, like everyone else in here. That’s the focus.”

Or, at least, it would be as long as I had any say in things. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t have any say. To keep the next episode focused on game play, I would have to hide it from Malone. And I would. With the way Del broke down this morning over coffee, I had a feeling she’d be with me, too. And Traver and the rest of the crew… we would manage something. Get us through the last few weeks until the Aces either won the Cup, or ended the season.

The open laptop before me tracked nothing but game stats now. My future as a storyteller didn’t lie in hunting for drama or feeding the endless appetite for behind-the-scenes content. There had to be better stories to tell. Truer ones.

Blue jerseys flowed across the ice below, a protective wall of bodies surrounding Jack during warmups. Their message screamed loud and clear through their positioning—shield the captain from vultures. The industry might be chomping at the bit for dirt, but the team’s closed ranks told the real story.

What’s next? Such a loaded question. Three years I’d fought to hear exactly this kind of industry attention again. Now all I could think about was the way Jack’s eyes had warmed when he laughed at my attempts to cook, or how perfectly we’d fit together during the lull after the season. How feeling him against my back after he’d exhausted me gave me the best sleep I’d had in three long years. Worry free. Happy.

Below, Chicago’s enforcer invaded Jack’s space during warmups. Testing. Probing for weakness I’d handed them on a silver platter. But Jack just adjusted—that fluid power that made everyone else fade into background noise. The subtle shift of muscles I’d once traced in the pre-dawn light of his kitchen. Back when I was just a woman falling in love, not a producer chasing ratings.

My phone buzzed—an LA producer I used to know wanting to discuss my “unique perspective on sports narratives.” He’d ignored my requests for a meeting after the Sydney situation. Blacklisted me along with the rest of them. I turned it face down without reading the rest.

“You’ve got the whole industry’s attention,” Dave noted, his tone carefully neutral, but his question saying he’d seen the name on the incoming call. “Isn’t this when you capitalize on your success?”

My smile felt more genuine this time, though my fingers still found that spot on my wrist. “Maybe it’s time for different kinds of stories.”

He studied me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Right. Stories.” His knowing look hit close to home. “Nothing to do with a certain captain.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “Dave—”

“Hey, no judgment here.” He held up his hands. “But speaking as someone who’s covered this team for fifteen years? That man down there? He’s the real deal. The kind of player—the kind of leader—who comes along once in a generation.” He paused, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Maybe the kind worth knowing as a person, not just content for your big break.”

I bristled slightly at his tone. Dave was decent enough for a sports reporter, and we’d developed a cordial working relationship over the season, but we weren’t friends. He chased headlines while I created content—different ends of the same media circus, maybe, but not the same thing. Still, something in his words hit home.

My throat tightened as I thought of the break before the playoffs. Quiet conversations over midnight grilled cheese, the way Jack’s eyes had crinkled when he really laughed. A few days of moments that had nothing to do with ratings or career comebacks. “I thought I could have both.” The confession came low, a secret in the middle of a group of hungry reporters.

“Maybe.” He shrugged, turning back to his notes like the seasoned reporter he was, already moving on to the next story. “Or maybe it’s time to figure out what success really means to you.”

The truth in his words settled deep in my chest. I’d spent so long trying to claw my way back into the industry’s good graces, I’d forgotten why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place. The real moments. The human connections that couldn’t be captured in carefully edited montages.

The future stretched out before me, full of possibilities that had nothing to do with ratings or industry acclaim. I just had to be brave enough to chase them.

Jack’spressconferenceafterthe game twisted something in my chest. He stood at the podium, spine rigid, answering questions with the kind of measured control that had reporters practically salivating. The same control I’d felt melt away under my touch late at night, when he’d let his guard down to reveal the man behind the captain’s mask.

“Your episode really undermined everything hockey stands for,” muttered Williams from ESPN, disgust clear in her eyes as she invaded my space. “Way to turn playing through pain into some kind of scandal. You clearly don’t understand this sport at all.”

I shifted from one foot to the other, maintaining neutral eye contact while my fingers rolled into a fist. The veteran reporter had twenty years of hockey coverage under her belt. Her condemnation carried weight.

But so did Malone’s ratings demands and my desperation to matter in the entertainment industry again. That combination had turned hockey’s warrior spirit into clickbait, and now I had to own it.

“Just telling the story that was there,” I replied, voice steady despite my churning stomach. Professional mask holding even as shame burned through me.

“Right.” Her tone dripped acid. “Because that’s what hockey needs—another outsider turning toughness into controversy for views.”

My stomach lurched, but I turned my gaze toward the podium Viggy stood behind as yet another reporter drilled him about the episode instead of the game his team had just won.

“Sources suggest the knee injury occurred earlier in the season,” he pressed. “Care to comment on why you didn’t report it then?”

Viggy shifted his weight. I knew that tell—he was hurting, trying to find a comfortable position without showing weakness.

“We’ve covered this,” he said, voice steady despite the edge of exhaustion I could hear. “I’m cleared to play. That’s what matters.”

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