Page 73 of Unleashed

I studied my friend’s face, seeing past her usual frenetic energy to something deeper. “What are you really saying, Del?”

“I’m saying...” She squared her shoulders. “I’m saying maybe it’s time we built our own table. Start our own production company.” Her words picked up speed, excitement bleeding through. “Think about it—we could tell the stories we want to tell. The real ones, the ones that matter. No more Malones telling us what sells.”

My hand froze halfway to my wrist. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” She leaned forward, eyes bright. “And Virginia... Lily, there are so many untold stories there. Not just sports—though God knows there’s plenty of that between the Norwalk Breakers football and Renegades hockey, if we wanted to go that way. But there are real people’s stories, too. The kind you used to live for telling.”

“Del.” My throat tightened as the magnitude of what she was suggesting hit me. “That’s... that’s a huge risk.”

“Maybe. But who better to take it with than family?” Her smile went soft around the edges. “Because that’s what we are, right? And maybe it’s time for both of us to figure out what that means. Me with my mom’s new Brady Bunch club, and you...” She gestured wildly in the direction of my head. “You finding your voice again. The real one.”

A knock at the door cut through the moment. One of our production assistants stuck his head in. “Car’s here. We should head out if we want to make it through security.”

But Adele’s words had already taken root, offering a possibility I hadn’t let myself consider. A future not built on compromise and manufactured drama, but on the kind of storytelling that had made me fall in love with this career in the first place.

The kind of future that might let me look in the mirror again.

And see myself alone in the mirror. No Jack Vignier. But maybe that was the price of finding myself.

Reality crashed back in. In less than three hours, I’d be sharing the same confined space as Jack. Probably not close—he’d be up front with the team while the crew settled in the back. But close enough that his presence would mess with my head.

Close enough that the scent of his cologne might drift back, the scent sharp, clean. The very essence of him, guaranteed to twist my insides into pretzel shapes.

They say scent triggered memories, and I could confirm. Just imagining his scent…

Three a.m. texts lighting up my phone. Stats and facts and historical what-ifs, each message revealing the hockey nerd he tried so hard to hide behind that stoic captain facade.

Then there was the afternoon I’d come out of my bedroom to find him sprawled across my loveseat. The mighty Jack Vignier, dead to the world, with my supposedly human-hating cat curled on his chest like he belonged there.

But my producer’s brain failed me. No amount of professional distance could protect me from the way these fragments of memory ricocheted through my system, leaving jagged wounds I wasn’t sure would ever heal.

Eight months of working together, two weeks of falling in love, and nothing—not my career, not my carefully constructed walls, not even my understanding of who I was—would ever be the same.

Adele’s words about starting fresh, about building something that was ours, rattled around in my head. The idea held merit—more than merit. It sparked something I hadn’t felt since before Sydney’s betrayal. Hope. Possibility. A chance to do things right.

“Right.” I shoved to my feet, grabbing my go-bag from beside the desk. “Time to face the music.”

“More like time to face the firing squad.” Adele’s eyes sparkled with her usual mischief, but concern lurked beneath. “Want me to create a distraction? Riley’s been hovering around the media room all morning. Poor kid still thinks he can charm me into a date despite our decade-plus age gap. Sweet boy, but...” She shook her head, fond but resolute in her boundaries. “At least his puppy dog routine always lightens the mood.”

“Don’t you dare.” But I smiled, exactly as she’d intended. “Come on. Let’s go document some playoff hockey.”

And I’d try not to think about how Jack’s presence used to steady me. How he’d subtly position himself between me and the chaos, creating an invisible buffer that calmed my nerves without ever touching me in public. A secret shield that no one else noticed, but that grounded me through the most hectic moments.

Or how I’d destroyed any chance of ever feeling that steady again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lily

Hockey Rule #69: Respect the code

Media Rule #69: Break news, break rules

Thesummonstothearena luxury box came fifteen minutes before puck drop for Game Seven of the Second Round against Richland and could have only been from one person.

My heels clicked against polished concrete, each step a metronome counting down to confrontation. The route burned into muscle memory after months of traversing the arena’s warren of corridors, but tonight felt different. Heavy. Final.

Malone lounged in one of the club chairs like a king on his throne, Manhattan in hand, familiar smirk on his face. Beside him sat Traver, the only thing surprising in this encounter. I hadn’t realized the cameraman was so ambitious. But then, he was young. He’d drank Malone’s Kool-Aid, just as I had. My stomach rolled even as I pasted on a neutral expression.

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