Page 72 of Unleashed

“ButUnleashedclearly showed—”

“Next question.”

I knotted my fingers at his sharp tone, irritation prickling under my skin. He should be icing that knee right now, focusing on the next game. Not standing here playing twenty questions with reporters who thought one stupid episode made them experts on his condition. The whole thing was ridiculous—everybody wanting their pound of flesh from a man who’d given seventeen years to this sport.

“Your ice time was down in the third,” someone called out. “Coach limiting your minutes or is the knee worse?”

Jack’s jaw clenched. I’d felt those muscles tense under my fingers once, knew exactly how to soothe them with gentle touches. Now I could only watch as he navigated the minefield I’d created.

“Coach makes the calls he needs to make. I trust Coach Mack to know what’s best for this team.” His gaze swept the room, landing on me for a fraction of a second before moving on. That brief contact stole my breath—not because of lingering attraction, though God knew that hadn’t faded, but because I finally understood what I’d lost when he looked away.

“That’s all for tonight.” The PR director stepped in, ending the feeding frenzy. Jack strode away from the podium, no hitch in his stride, no hesitation to hop down from the elevated dais and leave the reporters to feed on the miniscule sound bites he’d given them.

A face I recognized from TNT touched my arm as the room began to clear. “That episode’s opening doors, Sutton. My network’s very interested in—”

“Excuse me.” I cut him off, gathering my things with trembling hands. Once, network interest would have felt like validation. Now it made my stomach twist.

Maybe I’m done with other people’s plans. The thought blazed through my brain like a meteor. I needed to find new options, a different path.

I had to remember who I was without Malone’s influence. Without the ghost of Sydney. Without the desperate need to prove myself to an industry that’d shut me out years ago.

“Eitheryou’rehavinganexistential crisis, or those cookies I brought aren’t as good as my mom claims.” Adele breezed into our closet-sized production office, two coffee cups in hand and a paper bag tucked under her arm. Her smile softened as she took in my expression. “Ah. The first one then.”

“Your mom’s cookies are perfect.” I accepted the coffee, breathing in the familiar comfort of our morning ritual. The spicy scent of vanilla chai and coffee beans did little to settle the tornado in my stomach. In less than two hours, I’d be trapped on a plane with the entire Aces organization. WithJack.

My thumb found my pulse point, tapping out a frantic rhythm. “Are you sure we need the whole crew?”

“Full coverage through the playoffs.” Adele settled into the room’s other chair, which we’d liberated from a storage closet months ago. “Besides, someone’s got to keep you from spiraling.”

I huffed out a laugh that held zero humor. Because sure, watching Jack ignore me for the entire flight would be a barrel of laughs. At least Malone wouldn’t be there to witness my slow descent into madness. Small mercies.

“Speaking of spiraling...” Adele twisted her coffee cup, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Remember how I mentioned my mom’s getting married again?”

I nodded, grateful for any distraction from thoughts of being trapped in a metal tube at thirty thousand feet with a man who probably wanted to chuck me out the emergency exit. “In Virginia, right? To the guy with the all the kids? Together they should have enough for a whole football team, huh?”

“Pretty nearly.” Adele nodded, picking at the tin of cookies. “Between them they’ve got six—his four plus her two from her second marriage.” Adele poked at the burnt cookies with a spatula. “Mom sent pictures of the venue yesterday. This gorgeous converted barn outside Richland. Got me thinking about home, you know?”

The wistful note in her voice caught my attention. “Del?”

“I haven’t been back in what, ten years? Not since before I moved to LA.” She abandoned the cookies to slump back in her chair. “Remember that documentary series we talked about doing? The one about small-town stories?”

“The one you said would bore people to tears?” I managed a weak smile.

“I may have been wrong about that.” She pulled out her phone, fingers flying over the screen. “Look at this indie company in Savannah. They’re doing these amazing community pieces. Stories that actually matter.”

“Since when are you interested in small market productions?” I studied her face, seeing something beyond her usual frenetic energy.

“Since I realized maybe we’ve been chasing the wrong kind of stories.” Her eyes met mine. “Since I watched my best friend compromise everything she believes in just to get back in the game.”

The simple truth in her words hit harder than Mark’s threats ever could.

“Maybe we could make it work. Something small. Low overhead. We could do most of the production between us. We’d need equipment. No way I’m going to half-ass quality.” She lifted her gaze to meet mine. “But maybe simple, honest stories would be nice for a change.”

My heart kicked against my ribs. Simple stories, beautifully told. The kind of work I’d dreamed of doing before Sydney taught me to compromise. Before I’d turned into exactly the kind of producer I used to despise.

Before I’d hurt Jack.

“You know what’s wild?” Adele’s voice took on that dreamy quality she got when a big idea was brewing. “All these years we’ve been playing by other people’s rules. Fighting for scraps at someone else’s table.”

---